Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Dove of Dacca
T
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
“If she return, be sure that I fall.”
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
Come and alone to the palace wall.”
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom’s fall!
Slept in the flame of the palace old—
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove—the dove—the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove’s wings.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!