Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/42

 And on from thence to Ispahan,

The gilded garden of the sun,

Whence the long dusty caravan

Brings cedar wood and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool

Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet,

Whose marble tanks are ever full

With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar

A little maid Circassian

Is led, a present from the Czar

Unto some old and bearded khan,—

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,

And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;

But the sad dove, that sits alone

In England—she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean

To greet her love with love-lit eyes:

Down in some treacherous black ravine,

Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see

The lingering wistful children wait

To climb upon their father's knee;

And in each house made desolate 28