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The king and generals ’neath their tents’ proud pinions
(’Twas but a tent in outline, being restricted
To that side of the cloth on which depicted),
Discussed the campaign’s further prosecution,
And ’twas resolved to wait there in seclusion
Till dusk, then by a night march in three sections
Reduce the rebels, right and left wing wheeling,
Their way round Vindragupta’s quarters feeling,
The rest straight forward, then all join connections,
chain impenetrable round the foe form,
And having him thus snared, at leisure go for him.
While for that march by sleep the host’s preparing,
The king, awake, succumbs to reveries daring,
Now glory, o’er her favourite fondly stooping,
Infuses hopes of deeds immortal, storied,
The rainbow winnowing of her pinions drooping
To fan the fever of his glowing forehead.
So yet he tarried while the night descended,
Phantasmal, and its dragon wings extended,
Far o’er that forest world in shadows blended,
Then woke the camp to roll of drums, and parted
In three, in three directions so light-hearted,
Upon that march of gloom and midnight started.
Straight to the goal the king and centre aiming
Paced gingerly, each step a halt proclaiming
Suspicious sounds to note, without stop or rest,
Or spy about them in the still, dark forest.
And that old wood a dreadful form took on,
The cloak of gloom its arrows fear-compelling
Shot all around, and when the crescent wan
Rained silvery shafts among the tree-tops swelling
All changed its being and weirdly stirred and eddied,
