I

He harried lions up the peaks. In blood and moss and snow they died. He wore a cloak of lions’ manes To satisfy his curious pride. Men saw it, trimmed with emerald bands, Flash on the crested battle-tide.

Where Bagdad stands, he hunted kings, Burned them alive, his soul to cool. Yet in his veins god Ormadz wrought To make a just man of a fool. He spoke the rigid truth, and rode, And drew the bow, by Persian rule.