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Skull-chaplet-wearer! whom the blood
 * Of man delights a thousand years,

Than whom no face, by land or flood,
 * More stern and pitiless appears,
 * Thine is the cup of human tears.

For pomp of human sacrifice
 * Cannot the cruel blood suffice
 * Of tigers, which thine island rears?

Not all blue Ganga's mountain-flood.
 * That rolls so proudly round thy fane.

Shall cleanse the tinge of human blood,
 * Nor wash dark Sagur's impious stain

The sailor, journeying on the main, Shall view from far the dreary isle, And curse the ruins of the pile
 * Where Mercy ever sued in vain.