Timour's Councils

Emirs and Khans, in long array,
To Timour's council bent their way
The lordly Tartar, vaunting high,
The Persian with dejected eye,
The vassal Russ, and, lured from far,
Circassia's mercenary war.

But one there came, uncalled and last,
The spirit of the wintry blast!
He marked, while wrapt in mist he stood,
The purposed track of spoil and blood;
He marked, unmoved by mortal woe,
That old man's eye of swarthy glow;
That restless soul, whose single pride
Was cause enough that millions died;
He heard, he saw, till envy woke,
And thus the voice of thunder spoke: —
"And hopest thou thus, in pride unfurled,
To bear those banners through the world?

Can time nor space thy toils defy?
O king, thy fellow-demon I!
Servants of Death, alike we sweep
The wasted earth or shrinking deep;
And on the land, and o'er the wave,
We reap the harvest of the grave.
But thickest then that harvest lies,
And wildest sorrows rend the skies,
In darker cloud the vultures sail,
And richer carnage taints the gale,
And few the mourners that remain,
When winter leagues with Tamerlane!
But on, to work our lord's decree;
Then, tyrant, turn, and cope with me!
And learn, though far thy trophies shine,
How deadlier are my blasts than thine.
Nor cities burnt, nor blood of men,
Nor thine own pride shall warm thee then!
Forth to thy task! We meet again
On wild Chabanga's frozen plain."