And wounds from the children of Brahma borne
This was the doom for a Moslem found
With a foot profane on their holy ground—
This was for sullying the pure waves, free
Unto them alone—’twas their god’s decree.
A change came o’er his wandering look—
The mother shriek’d not then nor shook:
Breathless she knelt in her son’s young blood,
Rending her mantle to stanch its flood;
But it rush’d like a river which none may stay,