Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/51

Which rolls, a golden lava-stream,
And darts full many a lightning beam;
A glittering crown is on his brow
Of beauty,—tho' all pallid now,
And in his hand a broken blade
Bath'd in red gore but lately shed!
He looks him round with dauntless eye,
As one who never fears to die!
'⁠Farewell!—Death's but a short-liv'd pain,
'⁠I Live not for a captive's chain;
'⁠And now, ye gods who love the brave,
'⁠Smile o'er a warrior's fiery grave!'
He paus'd—they look'd —'oh! he is gone,
'⁠His last, his boldest deed is done,
'⁠Husteena see thy hope expire,
'⁠Upon yon pile of blazing fire!'
 
But, hark! there is a shriek,—a cry,
Of wild, controlless agony!
How fearfully around it rung,
As one burst thro' that weeping throng,
And plung'd into that flaming pyre,
And clove awhile the column'd fire!
They look'd—they knew—yes, it was she,
The bride of him whose spirit there
Had burst its prison, joyously
To fly far to the realms of air!

Go,—ope the portals far and wide,
And let the over-whelming tide
Of foe-men like an ocean glide;
What boots it now, since they must sheathe
Their blades in hearts have ceas'd to breathe,
And Conquest in proud triumph tread
A lone, wide city of the dead!