With blood of men; for him they bravely fought,
And led by him dire devastation wrought.
When nearly all the land bowed ’neath his sway,
Once more he tried with her to have his way;
By messenger himself would thus demean:
“To Móo, Aac yields, if she will be his queen.”
Could mortal strive to rouse with greater zeal
Fierce hate and pity kill? Her fall, his weal,
He’d thus make one. His queen! O hateful thought!
’Twas plain the war that he ungrateful sought,