I trod in blood, and heard the mortal gasp
Of foes my scimitar struck down to hell,
I suffered nothing to approach my soul
But what might too be hers. Sala is stern,
Men say, and register my actions bluntly
To common qualities,—I serve my age
In such a tedious practice,—but in truth
Sala is gentle as the tend’rest plant
That noonday withers, or the night frosts pinch.
I tell thee what I would not dare tell any,