She pointed where that lord was laid:
They drew him forth, he whined for grace:
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said—
"She whom thou smotest on the face
Had scorn, because she called her king:
Lo! he is come! and dost thou think
To live, who didst this bitter thing
While Mohtasim at peace did drink?"
Flashed the fierce sword—rolled the lord's head;
The wicked blood smoked in the sand.
"Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said.
Lightly he took it in his hand,
As down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laughed,
And cried, "Taiba asshrab alan!
By God! delicious is this draught!"
HINDOO FUNERAL SONG.
Call on Rama! call to Rama!
Oh, my brothers, call on Rama!
For this Dead
Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama.
As we bear him, oh, my brothers,
Call together, very loudly,
That the Bhûts
May be scared;
That his spirit pass in comfort.
Turn his feet now, calling "Rama,"
Calling "Rama," who shall take him
When the flames
Make an end:
Ram! Ram!—oh, call to Rama.