They led him to the stately hall,
Before the royal throne,
Where, towering in the pomp of power,
The tyrant sat alone;
And knights and nobles stood around,
Elate with haughty pride,
And slaves, in gorgeous tinsel dress'd,
Awaited by their side.
He knelt before the tyrant's throne,
But caught no courtly smile:
The monarch look'd with eye of scorn,
Then darkly gazed awhile;
And minions proud, whose hearts had quail'd
When told his name of fear,
Now mock'd the valiant Sivajee
With cold respect and sneer.
He could not bear their servile scorn—
The scorn of vassals low,
The passions of his stubborn heart
Were gathering on his brow;
His bosom, plough'd with manly scars,
The records of his fame,
Now heaved with all a warrior's wrath:
He was not born to shame.
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