Whose iron-coast a frozen girdle clasps,
Came Islam’s foes, and this rich city grand
Is the creation of the Infidel—
The haughty lords of radiant Indian land—
A tale most sad for Moslem lips to tell!”
A hundred years had fled since he had chased
The spirit-bird, swift as a dream effaced;
And that sweet warbler was a sainted sprite,
Sent from its rest, to lead so good a man
To Christian light—for so the legend ran