And dim the lustre of her eye,
And blanche her cheek's soft, rosy dye.
But why should warrior come to dwell
Like captive in his lightless cell,
Nor list to charger's neigh so shrill
Re-echoed far from hill to hill,
Nor midst the battle's maddening roar,
Nor on wide plains all bath'd in gore,
Wield his bright blade where foe-men throng
To spare the weak—to crush the strong!
"They say the Crescent's on the gales
Which whisper in our moon-lit vales:
They say that Moslem feet have trod
The fanes of him—the Bramin's God;
And that from western realms afar
Fast flows the tide of furious war,
Like torrent from the mountain glen,
Like lion from his bloody den,
Like eagle from the aery peak
Of skiey mount and high and bleak.
What—must we here on this lone isle
Watch yon pale Goddess' pensive smile,
Like cravens who will shrink to bleed
E'en for the Hero's deathless meed!"
The guards decide to while the weary hours with song; and one of their number, a soldier-minstrel or troubadour, tells the story of the Feast of Victory:—
"The Raja sat in his gorgeous hall
In pomp the proudest earth had known,
While monarchs bow'd them to his thrall,
And knelt them lowly round his throne,
The brightest gems of the South lay there
And the North 's treasures from afar,
