Drona

THY flaunted virgin phalanx cleft a two
By but a stripling, thine own pupil's son
Whose bow abash'd his sire's preceptor! You,
In pain of tortur'd vanity, let run
Thine ire to blind thee to the blackest deed
Besmirch'd the scroll of Aryan Chivalry!
The while thy master's ghoulish hate did feed
And fatten on thy victor's butchery,
Thy father's heart had it bore some pity
For Partha in his dire calamity,
Dread Nemesis had spar'd thine aged brain
The searing, killing agony accrued
Of death of thine own son. Thou didst but drain
The bitter gall thy vanity had brewed!