56
The king heard out his speech, morose, unmoving,
Then fixed on him a look of stern reproving.
“Oh! Bhandragura, woe! that from thy lip
I e’er should hear such counsel, to the shame of
My cultured realm—for Europe to make game of:
We’re here to challenge nudeness; shall we strip
And, nude ourselves, the recreants’ nudeness chastise?
For what, then, arms and uniforms? oh! cast eyes
On History’s page, and say if it appears
That in the cultivated races’ combats
The Regulars, or even Volunteers—
Oh horror! ever scratched and bit like wombats.
That you escape your words’ just penalty
Is only due to your past loyalty.”
Off to a mat crawled Bhandragura, moaning,
And fear long sealed the lips like counsels owning,
Until, at last, another chief, intrepid
In all but arms, now warmed to counsels tepid:
“The tree will ne’er be stormed, and yonder cattle
Will scarce come down and match us in fair battle
As modern war and precedent require:
Diplomatists, in such straits, take the threads up,
Humanitarian heroes hold their heads up,
And swords before the olive branch retire.
I hold a bran new calmuck each would quiet
The clowns at once and promptly quell the riot.
And for a scarlet frock or so that dangles
Within your clothes-room, all gold lace and spangles,
E’en Vindragupta—I know that old Daniel—
Would let himself be docked like any spaniel.”
“Enough!” the king exclaimed, “fine counsels truly,
So I must always yield to mob unruly;
