Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/100

68 And helmets cleft, and canvas torn, Proclaim the fighting done; And neighing steeds, and bloody spears, Announce the battle won.

Alas! the vision mocks my sight; I see no gallant throng, No trophies meet my longing eyes; Bid cease the joyous song.

That recreant slave is not my lord; Ne'er thus the brave return; Go, bid the city-gates be barr'd, And leave me lone to mourn.

I know him not, I never knew A low, ignoble love; My warrior sleeps upon the moor, His soul hath soar'd above.

Upon the battle-field he lies, His garments stain'd with gore; With sword in hand prepared he sleeps To fight the battle o'er.

His shiver'd shield, his broken spear, Around him scatter'd lie; The iron-breasted Moslems shook To see my hero die.

Where helmets rang, where sabres smote, He found his gory bed; Join, mourners, join, and loudly raise The requiem of the dead.

Expel yon vile impostor hence; I will not trust his tale; Our warriors on the crimson field Their chieftain's loss bewail.