Till her heart beating joins the cry
Of Murad, and of Victory.
City of glories now no more,
His camp extends by Bejapore,*Bejapore.
Where the Mahratta’s haughty race,The Taj Bowlee.
Has won the Moslem conqueror’s place;
A bolder prince now fills the throne,
And he will struggle for his own.
"And yet," he said, "when evening falls
Solemn above those mouldering walls,
Where the mosques† cleave the starry air,Mosque of Mustapha Khan.
Deserted at their hour of prayer,
And rises Ibrahim’s lonely tomb,‡Ibrahim Pudshah’s Tomb.
’Mid weed-grown shrines, and ruined towers,
All marked with that eternal gloom,
Left by the past to present hours.
When human pride and human sway
Have run their circle of decay;
And, mocking—the funereal stone,
Alone attests its builder gone.
Oh! vain such temple, o’er the sleep
Which none remain to watch or weep.
I could not choose but think how vain
The struggle fierce for worthless gain.
And calm and bright the moon looked down
O’er the white shrines of that fair town;
While heavily the cocoa-tree
Drooped o’er the walls its panoply,
6
