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"The Persian Satrap, and the Tartar Khan    "The temples of your gods shall overthrow, "And all the hundred thrones of Hindostan    "Before the west's pale warriors shall bow, "Crouching where'er the banners of the brave "The silver crescent, and the red cross wave!"

Her song has ceased—but that bright eye Still with prophetic frenzy glares, And struggling with her agony Dries with its fires the springing tears. She waves away the Bramin band And mounts the funeral pile alone; And the Mussaul's enkindling brand Is on the heaped-up fagots thrown— One long wild shriek, amid the crash Of gongs and drums and cymbals, drowned— One burst of flame, a ruddy flash Gilding the green hill's distant mound—