Ii

And rede you not aright, Says Nature, still in red Shall History’s tale be writ! For solely thus you lead to light The trailing chapters she must write, And pass my fiery test of dead Or living through the furnace-pit: Dislinked from who the softer hold In grip of brute, and brute remain: Of whom the woeful tale is told, How for one short Sultanic reign, Their bodies lapse to mould, Their souls behowl the plain.