Aurangzeb at his Father’s Bier

The monarch lay upon his bier, Censers were burning low As through the lofty arches streamed the setting sun’s red glow, Still grasped he in his hand the blade which well fought fields had won And Aurangzeb beside him knelt; Usurper, proud and son.

Remorse had stricken his false heart and quenched his wonted fire With gloomy brow and look intent he gazed upon his sire, [...] hot tears burst from his eyes As thus his grief found vent in words to the warrior trains surprise

“Father thou were the goodliest king that e’er the scepter swayed, How could I then lift up my hand against thee undismayed? How could I send thee here to pine, usurp the peacock throne O had I perished in the womb that deed were left undone.

Look all is changed that was estranged awake my sire, my king, Look soldiers in their war array thy son in fetters bring, Thy rebel son who will abide thy word whate’er it be And fearless meet the rack or steel; rise up once more and see.

Thou will not hear, thou will not speak; it is the last long sleep. And am I not a king myself what mean these stirrings deep, O foolish eyes what means this rheum, I will not call them tears My heart which nothing ere could daunt is faint with boding fears.

The past appears! a checkered field Of guilt and shame and war, What evil influence ruled my birth, What swart malignant star? Why did I barter peace of mind For royal pomp and state? Mad for the baleful meteor’s gleam With worldly joys elate

Remembered voices speak my name and call me parricide The murdered Dara beckons me, he was thy joy and pride. And thus I fling the dear bought crown but whither can I fly? The awful thought still follows me that even kings will die….