I.
SCORNER of the pleading faces,
In the first year of his reign,
From the lean crowd and its traces
Down the open orchard-lane
Walked young Mahmoud in his glory,
In his pomp and his disdain
And beyond all oratory,
Music’s sweetness, ocean’s might,
Fell a voice from branches hoary:
‘He whose heart is at life’s height,
Who has wisdom, love, and riches,
Islam’s greatest, dies this night.’
And he crossed the rampart ditches
Blinded, and confused, and slow;
High in palaced nooks and niches
Clanged his fathers’ shields a-row;
And their turrets triple-jointed
Shook with tempests of his woe.
Long past midnight, disanointed,
Prone upon his breast he lay,
Warring on that hour appointed:
But behold! at break of day,—
As if heaven itself had spoken,—
Blown across the bannered bay,