A Panegyric
Methinks the moon of heaven is stricken sore,
And nightly grieveth as it wasteth more.
What late appeared a great, round, silver shield,
Now like a mall-bat enters heaven's field.
The Sahib's horse, you'd think, had galloped by,
And cast one golden horse-shoe in the sky.
And nightly grieveth as it wasteth more.
What late appeared a great, round, silver shield,
Now like a mall-bat enters heaven's field.
The Sahib's horse, you'd think, had galloped by,
And cast one golden horse-shoe in the sky.
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