57
A wardrobe poor enough already scatter
’Midst rebels in fictitious destitution—
Why, every day will have its revolution.
The week’s end find my shelves with scarce a tatter,
No, I’ll not vilely cringe, my power restrict or
Ever issue from this war except as victor.
“But victory’s twofold, moral and material,
The second’s royal: but the first’s imperial.
I choose it: but before our every deed it
Behoves us well to mark if now or ever
In other cultured States the act had credit,
Ne’er from the tracks of precedent to sever,
Only do just what Europeans have erst,
And shun the roads that others have not traversed.
Once Ziska, glorious chief, prepared to ravage
Perfidious Prague, exacting vengeance savage,
When, all but sacrificed to flail and gun,
That queen of cities moved him to compassion,
The blood of brothers curbed his wrath, and won
His iron palm in reconciliation.
Like Ziska—to whose greatness I aspire—
I, too, would curb the force of my just ire;
The fairest laurels o’er my brow shall waver:
Those of self-conquest. Pity vengeance smothers:
Those yonder, though misled, they are our brothers,
And fratricide my sword shall sully never.”
Trembled his voice, salt tears his cheek bedewed,
Melt e’en the features of those warriors rude,
So to announce his grace sublime he pushes,
Crowned with his chieftains, through the tamarind bushes.
But Vindragupta greeted him with scorn:
“For a new peppering dost so soon return?
