For her the dismal pathway must be trod,
The hall of Padalon, the dark, the dread,
Is yawning for its dead,

And the relentless god

Frowns with his moody eyebrows. Naught avail
With those unpitying seers her terrors meek,
Her soft-toned prayers, her cheek

So eloquently pale!

Hark to the cymbal, and the bellowing drum! "Farewell, farewell!" she whispers. It is past;" And round her, thick and fast,

The stifling flashes come.

Away, away! they fly, those sights of death.
Now fiercer echoes scare my shuddering ear!
Hear'st thou? I hear, I hear,

Upon the wild wind's breath,

The thunder of the chariot wheels, the shout
Of mighty multitudes, that cheer or chide,
The charger's voice of pride!

Hurriedly thronging out

From street and grove the human flood is poured; Mothers and sons and maidens whose white hands

Wave wide the blazing brands :

And He, the mighty Lord,

The thousand-headed Serpent, sits the while,
Sceptred and crowned, upon his rolling throne,

Writhing his lips of stone

Into a fearful smile.

Beneath the creaking axle the red flood
Gushes unceasing; scattered on the stones
Lie crushed and mangled bones;

Through slaughter and through blood

The chariot of the god - the dark god-reels;

And laughter-shrill, unnatural laughter — rings As each mad victim springs

To meet the murderous wheels.

And still the cry goes up, "Begin the song,
Begin! Behold him on his golden seat,
The terrible! 't is meet,

Thus as he rides along,

"To worship him, the Lord, whose slaves we are! Yea, yea, we worship, hymning now the hymn, And dancing round the grim

And flower-encircled car!"

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

0

THE SUTTEES.

GOLDEN shores, primeval home of man,
How glorious is thy dwelling, Hindostan!

Thine are these smiling valleys bright with bloom,
Wild woods and sandal-groves, that breathe perfume,

Thine, these fair skies, where morn's returning ray
Has swept the starry robe of night away,
And gilt each dome and minaret and tower,
Gemmed every stream and tinted every flower.
But dark the spirit within thee; - from old time
Still o'er thee rolls the wheeling flood of crime,
Still o'er thee broods the curse of guiltless blood,
That shouts for vengeance from thy reeking sod;
Deep-flowing Ganges in his rushy bed

Moans a sad requiem for his children dead,
And, wafted frequent on the passing gale,
Rises the orphan's sigh, the widow's wail.
Hark! 't is the rolling of the funeral drum,
The white-robed Brahmins see, they come, they come,
Bringing, with frantic shouts and torch and trump,
And mingled signs of melancholy pomp,

That livid corpse, borne solemnly on high, -
And yon faint trembling victim, doomed to die.

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

THE TIGER.

GER! Tiger! burning bright,
in the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?

Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,

In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake.

E

EVENING IN INDIA.

VENING comes on: arising from the stream, Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; And where he sails athwart the setting beam, His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. The watchman, at the wished approach of night, Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day, To scare the wingéd plunderers from their prey, With shout and sling, on yonder clay-built height, Hath borne the sultry ray.

Hark! at the Golden Palaces

The Brahmin strikes the hour.

For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound Rolls through the stillness of departing day, Like thunder far away.

Robert Southey.

THE BANIAN-TREE.

"WAS a fair scene wherein they stood,
A green and sunny glade amid the wood,
And in the midst an aged Banian grew.
It was a goodly sight to see
That venerable tree,

For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread,
Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head
And many a long depending shoot,
Seeking to strike its root,

Straight like a plummet, grew towards the ground.
Some on the lower boughs which crost their way,
Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round,
With many a ring and wild contortion wound;
Some to the passing wind at times, with sway
Of gentle motion swung;

Others of younger growth, unmoved, were hung Like stone-drops from the cavern's fretted height; Beneath was smooth and fair to sight,

Nor weeds nor briars deformed the natural floor,
And through the leafy cope which bowered it o'er
Came gleams of checkered light.

So like a temple did it seem, that there
A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer.
Robert Southey.