Fakeer of Jungheera 1.22
As moonlight on a heath-clad hill;
No insect's wing is heard to whirr,
The very air has ceased to stir,
And expectation breathless bends
To watch the pile that grief ascends.
But hark ! a voice in thunder cries,
"Redeem th' unoffered sacrifice—
Come, like the tempest gathering on." —
The crowd is broke, the victim won!
Quick through the thronging group they rushed
As if a stream from mountain gushed,
Or wild North-wester from its cave
Broke loose in madness there to rave !—
Each horseman couched his battle-lance
To check the headlong foe's advance,
'Twas all in vain, the craftier foe
With tempered sabre wards the blow—
The holy bands in terror fly,
The brave, the young, resisting, die;
The women weep,—for in her fears
Woman has nothing left but tears;
Disorder reigns :—the yell, the shout,
The dying gasp, the groan, the rout,
Alas ! have marred the solemn scene
Where late mysterious rites had been—
But there Nuleeni's angel form
Beams like a rainbow in the storm!