Hardly a shot from the gate we stormed, Under the Moree battlement's shade; Close to the glacis our game was formed, There had the fight been, and there we played. Lightly the demoiselles tittered and leapt, Merrily capered the players all; North, was the garden where Nicholson slept, South, was the sweep of a battered wall. Near me a Musalman, civil and mild, Watched as the shuttlecocks rose and fell; And he said, as he counted his beads and smiled, 'God smite their souls to the depths of hell.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE BELOVED by ALICE MEYNELL A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH A PRAYER by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE QUAKER POET; VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF SO DESIGNATED by BERNARD BARTON PURIFICATION OF YE B. VIRGIN by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE PRINCE OF PEACE by EDWARD HENRY BICKERSTETH LET US REASON TOGETHER by LEVI BISHOP |