Classic Poem

He, an old man in prudence, a youth in might;
His sword aye triumphant, his word ever right.
Like A sef in wisdom, the pride of his host;
He needed no vez i r, no mush i r in fight.
His hand was a sabre; a dagger, his tongue;
His finger, an arrow; his arm, a spear bright.
In shortest of time many high deeds he wrought;
Encircle the world did the shade of his might.
The Sun of his Day, but the sun at day's close,
Throwing long shadow, but brief while in sight.
Of throne and of diadem sovereigns boast,
But boasted of him throne and diadem bright.
Delight would his heart in that festival find,
Whither doth sabre's and fife's clang invite.
In feats with the sword, eke at feasts at the board,
On his peer ne'er alight did the aged Sphere's sight;
Sped he to the board's feast — a Sun beaming bright!
Swept he to the sword's field — a Lion of fight!
Whenever the war-cries: Seize! Hold! echo far,
The sword, weeping blood, shall that Lion's fame cite.
Alas! Sultan Sel i m! alas! woe is me!
Let both Pen and Sabre in tears mourn for thee!