IV.

All praise to the First Sultan, Mahmood the Ghaznavide! His wars are o'er, but not the more His sovereign cares subside: From morn to noontide daily In his superb Divan He sits dispensing justice Alike to man and man. What though earth heaves beneath him With ingot, gem, and urn, Though in his halls a thousand thrones Of vanquish'd monarchs burn; Though at his footstool ever Four hundred princes stay; Though in his jasper vestibules Four hundred bloodhounds bay-- Each prince's sabre hafted With the carbuncle's gem, Each bloodhound's collar fashion'd From a rajah's diadem?-- Though none may live beholding The anger of his brow, Yet his justice ever shineth To the lofty and the low; O'er his many-nation'd empire Shines his justice far and wide-- All praise to the First Sultan, Mahmood the Ghaznavide!