The monarch lay upon his bier,
Censers were burning low,
As through the loft arches streamed
The setting sun's red glow.
Still grasped he in his hand the blade
Which well-fought fields had won,
And Aurungzebe beside him knelt,
Usurper proud and son!
Remorse had stricken his false heart
And quenched his wonted fire,
With gloomy brow and look intent
He gazed upon his sire:
Can tyrant death make him afraid?
Hot tears burst from his eyes
As thus his grief found vent in words
To the warrior-train's surprise
"Father, thou wert the goodliest king
That e'er the sceptre swayed,
How could I then lift up my arm
Against thee undismayed,
How could I send thee here to pine
Usurp the peacock-throne
O had I perished in the womb
That deed were left undone.
See, all is changed that was estranged,
Awake my sire, my king,
See, soldiers in their war array
Thy son in fetters bring!
Thy rebel son who will abide
Thy word whate'er it be,
And fearless meet the wrack or steel
Rise up once more and see!
Thou wilt not hear, thou wilt not speak,
It is the last long sleep.
And am I not a king myself?
What means these stirrings deep?
O foolish eyes, what means this rheum?
I will not call them tears;
My heart that nothing e'er could daunt
Is faint with boding fears.
The past appears! a checkered field
Of guilt and shame and war,
What evil influence ruled my birth,
What swart malignant star?
Why did I barter peace of mind
For royal pomp and state?
Mad for the baleful meteor’s gleam
With worldly joys elate.
Remembered voices speak my name
And call me parricide,
The murdered Dara beckons me -
He was thy joy and pride:
And thus I fling the dear-bought crown,
But whither can I fly?
The awful thought still follows me
That even kings will die.
