8
Thou, mighty Sovran! o’er whose lofty reign the rising Sun rains earliest smile of light; sees it from middle firmamental plain; and sights it sinking on the breast of Night:
Thou, whom we hope to hail the blight, the bane of the dishonour’d Ishmaëlitish knight; and Orient Turk, and Gentoo-misbeliever that drinks the liquor of the Sacred River: