On vengeance he will build his name,
Till rocks aloud resound
The glory of his valiant arms,
And quakes the unconscious ground;
Till e'en the scorner, from his throne,
Shall mark the kindling fire,
And wish that he had never stirr'd
That haughty soul's dark ire.
The Warrior's Return.
When Maharajah Jeswant Singh, being defeated by Aurungzeb, fled for refuge to his own capital, his wife, with Spartan haughtiness, refused him admittance, saying "This man is an impostor, for the brave never return with dishonour. My husband sleeps on the field of battle."
Heard ye that lofty pealing sound
Upon the balmy air,
The exulting shout that best proclaims
The deeds which heroes dare?
In triumph blow their trumpets proud,
The clouds repeat their voice;
Go, greet the laurell'd victors home,
And bid our realms rejoice.
Let poets tune their golden harps,
Let maidens wear their smile,
And young and old their cares lay by,
And cease to mourn awhile.
What! hear'st thou not their joyous din?
Behold, above the vale,
Their haughty plumes and ensigns red
Are fluttering in the gale;
