Sleep, perturbed spirit, sleep
Within earth's quiet breast!
Thy task of vengeance now is o'er;
Rest, ruthless conqueror, rest!
As speeds the whirlwind o'er the wave
With its resistless might,
The torrent of thy wrath has roll'd
Upon the field of fight.
The world aghast has quaked beneath
The terrors of thy frown;
Thy footsteps, they have trampled o'er
The royal neck and crown.
The burning sand, the fertile vale,
Have groan'd beneath thy tread;
Thy hardy legions follow'd still,
Where thou undaunted led.
From Kabool's rock, thy crimson flag
Stream'd proudly to the air;
Beneath were martial shields and spears,
And sabres red and bare.
The Indus' stormy waters fail'd
To bar the victor's path;
And Delhi's burning towers confest
The awful Scythian's wrath.
A thousand terrors rode along
By Gunga's quaking shore;
And hungry vultures scream'd above
Thy sacred shrine, Hurdwar.
And now he sleeps: rest, conqueror, rest!
Thy vengeful task is o'er:
The trumpet's voice, though loud it speaks,
Will wake thee never more!
The world thy triumphs mark'd with dread;
Sleep, ruthless tyrant, sleep!
That breathless terror now has pass'd,
The world has ceased to weep.
Rest, perturbed spirit, rest!
Rest, thunder-bolt of heaven!
The avenger's rod, the victor's might,
To thee conjoint were given.