But laid ’mid worms to rot,—
His mortal part alone: his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Akhoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground),
And sceptics mock the lowly mound
And say, “He’s now of no Akhoond!”
His soul is in the skies,—
The azure skies that bend above his loved metropolis of Swat;