The Colas c11.38

c11.38

Of guardian trees in every park around;
They crashing fall and scatter the white sands
Of Ān-poruntham's river cool, where sport
The damsels with their golden bracelets gay;
Thro' town, and all the guarded hall are echoes heard,
And yet their king in pleasure slumbers on!
With bow-armed host, thy war-drum sounding loud,
'Twill shame thee to have fought such feeble foes.