I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.
But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea,
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!
AN EVENING WALK IN BENGAL.
OUR task is done! on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And, moor'd beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail and painted side
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslem's savoury supper steams;
While all apart beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
Come walk with me the jungle through.
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds its solitude;
Nor (taught by recent harm to shun
The thunders of the English gun)
A dreadful guest but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venom'd snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake.
Child of the Sun! he loves to lie
'Midst Nature's embers, parch'd and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade;
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe
Fit warder in the gate of Death.
Come on! yet pause! Behold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where gemming oft that sacred gloom
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom*,
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower;
The Ceiba's crimson pomp display'd
O'er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly glade;
While o'er the brake, so wild and fair
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendent train and rushing wings
Aloft the gorgeous peacock springs ;
And he the bird of hundred dyes†,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade, so green a sod
Our English fairies never trod !
Yet who in Indian bowers has stood,
But thought on England's "good greenwood!"
And bless'd, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,
And breath'd a prayer, (how oft in vain!)
To gaze upon her oaks again?
A truce to thought,-the jackal's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry ;
And through the trees yon failing ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark, as fade the upper skies,
* A shrub whose deep scarlet flowers very much resemble the geranium, and thence called the Indian geranium.
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring,
The darkness of the copse exploring.
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass in soften'd hum
Along the breezy alleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum.
Still as we pass, from bush and briar,
The shrill Cigala strikes his lyre;
And, what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
I know that soul-entrancing swell,
It is it must be-Philomel!
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But oh with thankful hearts confess
E'en here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth,—his hope of Heaven!
FELICES Britonum curas, atque addita vitæ Commoda, et inventas artes, bellique triumphos, Expediam: Vos, Angliacæ clarissima gentis Lumina, queis mundi rerumque arcana retexit Ipsa volens Natura; et vos, qui martia passi Vulnera, pro patria justis cecidistis in armis, Magnanimi heroes! vestras date floribus urnas Spargere, nec nostræ conamina temnite musæ !
Sit mihi fas audita loqui, sit facta referre, Tardaque bis denis volventia tempora lustris Respicere; humanæ licet æquora turbida vitæ Musa gemat circumspectans, secumque revolvat Mæsta hominum scelera, et parvo sub pectore fluctus Irarum ingentes, et corda oblita futuri.
Inde graves nasci luctus, et bella per orbem,
Et diræ passim cædes, et mille doloris,
Mille mali facies, fuso Discordia crine
Funeream accendens tædam, insatiata cruore
Vindicta, et desolatas bacchata per urbes
Ambitio, et Culpæ merito comes addita Pœna.
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