2
A crumbling mosque—a ruined fort—
Hastening alike to swift decay,
Where owls and vampire bats resort,
And vultures hide them from the day,
Alone remain to tell the tale
Of Moslem power, and Moslem pride,
When shouts of conquest filled the gale
And swords in native blood were dyed.
They sleep—the slayer and the slain—
A lowly grave the victor shares
With the weak slave who wore the chain
None save a craven spirit wears.
Yet had the deeds which they have done
Lived in the poet's deathless song,
These nameless spahis would have won
All that to valour's hopes belong.
