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The ghurrees* are chiming the morning hour, The voice of the priest is heard from the tower, The turrets of Delhi are white in the sun, Alas! that another bright day has begun. Children of earth, ah! how can ye bear This constant awakening to toil and to care? Out upon morning, its hours recall, Earth to its trouble, man to his thrall; Out upon morning, it chases the night, With all the sweet dreams that on slumber alight; Out upon morning, which wakes us to life, With its toil, its repining, its sorrow and strife. And yet there were many in Delhi that day, Who watched the first light, and rejoiced in the ray; They wait their young monarch, who comes from the field With a wreath on his spear, and a dent on his shield. There’s a throng in the east, 'tis the king and his train: And first prance the horsemen, who scarce can restrain Their steeds† that are wild as the wind, and as bold As the riders who curb them with bridles of gold: The elephants follow, and o'er each proud head The chattah that glitters with gems is outspread, Whence the silver bells fall with their musical sound, While the howdah’s‡ red trappings float bright on the ground: