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a web of many textures

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The Brahmin, with his eyes all wet with tears,
Stood still to hear a Christian damn his horse, —
I mean by “Christian” only what one hears
In heathen lands applied to ours, of course! —
He saw the trembling creature cringe to feel
The thong applied with venom to his flank,
The while those curses poured with blistering peal,
And marvelled which it was wherefrom he shrank.
The blows continued, and the storm of words
Rained round the quadruped with equal might;
It moved the Brahmin's sympathetic chords,
Who stretched his hand to stay the cruel fight.
“Look here,” quoth he, “you cursed, cursing file,
Your conduct, let me say, is cursed vile!”