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Not till yon city, in ruins rent, Be piled for its victim's monument. —Cover his dust! bear it on before! It shall visit those temple-gates once more."

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd, The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd; And the Bramin groves in the starlight smil'd, As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child.

III. Hark! a wild sound of the desert's horn Thro' the woods round the Indian city borne, A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar— War! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war! The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers— He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers; And the lake that flash'd through the plantain shade, As the light of the lances along it play'd;