H

COROMANDEL.

I.

ERE be it mine, when India's flame-breathed day

Hath parched the bones, and fevered all the blood,
To push forth in my shallop on the flood,
Supine on deck, while the sea-breezes play
Cool on the brow, what time the sun's last ray
Shoots up long lines of green and gold that stud
The western sky, all crimson else as blood.
Then, as the gorgeous vision fades away,

Mid the sole sounds, the paddle's tuneful plash,
And the far surf-roll of the waves that dash
Lazily on the Coromandel shore,

To watch the white moon don her silver dress,
While, one by one, the shy stars evermore
Come sparkling forth, like fireflies numberless.

II.

HERE on this isle, where none beside me dwells,
Let me, the while my lonely leisure flies,
Fathom all past and present histories;

Reading the World's tale from the sea-worn shells,
Time's medals, on whose face he marks and tells
Creation-dates through countless centuries:
And be it mine, with calm, clear, piercing eyes,
Here, where no bias turns, no passion swells,

Or head or heart, the present acts of man
To view; as from some promontoried steep
The peerer through the glassy-surfaced wave,
Which on a summer noon no breezes fan,
A thousand fathom downward in their grave,
Surveys the buried cities of the deep.

John Bruce Norton.

Coorg.

HARVEST SONG.

"THE Word Coorg is a corruption of the native name Kodagu, and belongs to the country lying on the summit of a plateau on the western Ghauts. Kodagu, from Kodi, means a hill, and the name as a proper noun is therefore The Hilly Country. This is by no means inapplicable, for the whole land is a series of ridges rising from the body of the Ghauts. Between the lines of hills are charming valleys, watered perfectly by the clouds from the Indian Ocean which impinge upon the Ghauts. Perennial verdure clothes every hollow, and giant forest-trees cover the hillslopes. Every dale is constantly receiving fresh stores of the fertilizing soil washed down from the hillsides by the monsoon rains."-GOVER, Folk-Songs of Southern India.

UN and moon the seasons make,

SUN

Rule o'er all the sky they take.
God is Lord of heaven and earth.

All the joyous earnest toil
Happy ryots give the soil,

Our rich land is fully worth.

Famous Jambudwipa's bounds
Circle many fertile grounds;

Which among them is the best?

Far above the highest hill,
Mahameru's snows are still

Showing where the saints are blest.

Midst the beauteous forest-trees
Brightest to the eye that sees
Is the brilliant Sampigè.
Sweeter than the sweetest rose,
Purer than the mountain snows,
Better than mere words may say;

Thus is Coorg the noblest land,
Rich and bright as golden band
On the neck where youth doth stay.
In this happy lovely realm

No misfortunes overwhelm.

Live and prosper while you may!

Now my friends with one accord,
Joyous on the verdant sward,

Sing we our dear country's praise.
Tell us then, from first to last,
All the wondrous glories past,
Trolling out a hundred lays.

Like a robe of precious silk,
Green or golden, white as milk,

Like the image in a glass,
Bright as shines the sun at noon,
Or at night the silver moon,-

Sweet as fields with flowers and grass,

--

Thus in happiness and peace,
Riches knowing no decrease,
Apparandra lived at ease.
In this glorious land he dwelt,
Forest-girt as with a belt,

Coorg the blesséd, green with trees.

Soon he said within his heart, -
"Now's the time to do our part,
For the tilling of the field.
Sow we must, and speed the plough,
Dig and plant, spare no toil now,
Harvest then the ground will yield."

Thus he said, to Mysore went,
To her fairs his steps he bent,

Where the country met the town.
Thirty-six great bulls he bought

Of the best and largest sort;

White and black, and some red-brown.

Nandi, Mudda were one pair,

Bullocks both of beauty rare.

Yoked together were two more; Choma, Kicha were they called. With them was their leader stalled, Kale, best among two score.

Then did Apparandra say,-
"All my bulls will useless stay

If I give not tools and plough.

Know ye why they worked so well?
No? then listen as I tell

How he made those we have now.

Choosing sago for the pole,

At the end he made a hole;

Pushed the palm-wood handle through. Sampige was for the share,

On its edge he placed with care
Iron plates to make the shoe.

Sharp as tiger's claws the nail
Fixing to the share its mail.

Yoke and pins he made of teak.
Strongly tied the whole with cane
Strong and lithe as any chain;

Other strings would be too weak.

When, in June, the early rain
Poured upon the earth and main,
Sweet as honey from the bee,
All the fields became as mud,
Fit for plough and hoe and spud,
Far as e'er the eye could see.

Then before the break of day,
Ere the cock began his say,

Or the sun had gilt the sky,

In the morning still and calm,

Twelve stout slaves who tilled the farm,

Roused the bullocks tethered nigh.