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With tender fronds of palm their helmets crested,
And flowering orchid wreaths their pike tips graced,
And threatening muskets on their shoulders rested;
And flags waved: midst them all, upon a pale,
Reared high,—rare trophy!—Vindragupta’s tail.
That day, too, fell on all, write the recorders,
A copious deluge of cotillon orders.
Long time did patriot bands with harps untired
Chaunt that thrice glorious war in strains inspired,
And pedagogues, with loyal zeal o’erbrimming,
The crême of what came out with judgment skimming
Stuffed into reading books: there essays, odes,
Praised “the great king,” “the great war’s” episodes.
How heaved with patriotic pride the tender
Child breast of infant apes of either gender
To read how that exemplar to all ages,
With his bold army, in a battle gory,
That has no counterpart in History’s pages,
Covered his name with everlasting glory:
How with a charge that shook earth’s broad foundations,
And frightened all the tigers of the grove,
O’er Vindragupta’s dread fortifications,
He boldly raised his flag to heaven above!
VIII.
Thus in glory and contentment
Flourished long the apish State,
But on Hanuman the shadow
Of a shadow often sate.
That still woodland was oppressive,
