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Th’ imperial apple which I hold in hand,
By this—”
The king looked down, a little flurried,
Then in the purple vainly plunged a finger,
Then round and round with searching glances hurried,
Which now on Bhandragura vaguely linger,
Whose own, belated, toward the ceiling skurried
And the throne’s baldachin, then sank devoted
Earthward before the monarch’s, but alas! his
Had caught already ’mid those silken masses,
And not without embarrassment there noted
The precious sceptre’s tip which like a cockade’s
Peeped out high o’er the baldachin’s rich brocades.
Awhile he paused, then, wrathful, thus continued:
“I vow if to reclaim them Justice hath ways
I will not leave them blinded thus to sin nude,
But turn the traitors back to culture’s pathways.
In name of outraged Progress and Good Manners
And all those priceless Ideals called human
Unfurl, oh! Bhandragura, war’s red banners
And mine heroic army swiftly summon,
To-morrow’s sun, as o’er the world it glances,
Shall blench with fear before our glittering lances,
Before th’ heroic hosts—er—I shall muster
To roll these hardy rebels in the dust—er.”
Now, Muse, to war’s turmoils attune the lyre,
And with a wing enraptured thrill the chords,
That I in fitting numbers may aspire
To chaunt the deeds of those heroic hordes,
As ranked behind their warrior king they thunder,
And war’s dread scourge the woodland rifts asunder.
The valiant infantry ’s already mustered,
