Tremble, Ahura-Mazda! Be thou dumb
Upon thine altars ash’d of ancient fires.
For thou art sick! Nor wast thou ever-young.
Trembling near thy magi-choirs
Keep not death’s chamber holy-still,
Profane they cry, “The deathless and th’ever-strong
Expireth!” Blaspheme through their tears of shame.
Lament Persia! Thy right enough not long!
Thy shahs now rot, thy god hath gray hairs on.

Cry, Ahura-Mazda! And know thou dread.
Become as man, and like a woman wail!
The pangs are come. Let blast thy perfumed head
The agonies of earth where men travail.
Thy godhead sun be sunk in scenes unkind!
(True, lord, where hangs thy throne no twilight spreads
In noon eternal. But the mortal mind,
Thy hazard seat, too frail for glory’s tread,
Broke by Grecian horse, his heart its veil hath shed).

The magus standing at the altar prays.
Before the sacred fire he veils his mouth,
He calls upon his god, he bows and sways,
And though the words he utters were pronounced
By fathers favored by thy dread regard,
In vain he raised his hands and eyes to gaze
Upon thy feathered throne in Paradise,
For life and victory and length of days,
Whence only spoke a silence that betrays.