How long your tribes have trembled and obeyed!
How long was Timour’s iron sceptre swayed,[15]
Whose marshalled hosts, the lions of the plain,
From Scythia’s northern mountains to the main,
Raged o’er your plundered shrines and altars bare,
With blazing torch and gory scimitar,—
Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale,
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale!
Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame,
When Brahma’s children perished for his name;