English poem
Xv
by R. D. Blackmore (1825–1900)
Iram, from Pyropus sweeping, As a mower swathes the rye, Caught his love, in terror sleeping, And her light form swings on high.
"Soul of Khons!" Sesostris shouted, Striding down the planks blood-grouted-- Into his beard fell something light, And he spat, and swooned with fright.
What hath made this great king stagger, Reel, and shriek--"unclean, unclean!" Thunderbolt, or flash of dagger? Nay, 'twas but a garden bean.