The fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,
The weary band were throwing by their arms,
And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,
Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earth
Their simple ovens, some set up the tents,
Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turned
Their faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,
And with much prostrate bending, prayed to Him
Who made the morning and the even-tide.
Suddenly came upon them, unawares,