That made thee rival of thy father’s fame?
That thou didst death defy? Doth not a beast the same?
Where Timour pulverized in days of yore
Whole hecatombs of foes at Samarcand,
The loose sand whirls in eddies as before.
Nor of that triumph doth one record stand:
The meadows still display their emerald sheen,
Forgetful of the day, when frantic war
With streams of blood incarnadined the green;
No longer now the traveller’s vision scare