The largeness of the primitive world is thine:
The everlasting handiwork remains,

In the high mountain ranges, the broad plains,
The wastes, and vast, impenetrable woods,
(Oppressive solitudes

Where no man was!) the multitudinous rivers
The gods were generous givers,

If from the heavenly summit of Meru,

Beyond all height, they sent the Ganges down;
Or is it, Goddess, from thy mountained crown,
Far lifted in the inaccessible blue,

Its waters, rising in perpetual snow,
Come in swift torrents, swollen in their flow
By larger rivers, others swelling them,
All veins to this long stem

Of thy great leaf of verdure? Sacred River,
That from Gangotri goest to the Sea,

Past temples, cities, peoples-Holy Stream,
Whom but to hear of, wish for, see, or touch,
Bathe in, or sing old hymns to day by day,
Whom but to name a hundred leagues away,
Was to atone for all the sins committed
In three past lives (for Vishnu so permitted)
O Ganges! would the Powers could re-deliver
Thy virtues lost, or we renew the dream:

We can restore so much,

India, we cannot yet relinquish Thee!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

INDIA.

Agra.

AGRA.

AGRA slept,

By the long light of sunset overswept :
The river flowing through a level land,
By mango-groves and banks of yellow sand,
Skirted with lime and olive, gay kiosks,
Fountains at play, tall minarets of mosques,
Fair pleasure-gardens with their flowering trees
Relieved against the mournful cypresses;
And, air-poised, lightly as the blown sea-foam,
The marble wonder of some holy dome
Hung a white moonrise over the still wood,
Glassing its beauty in a stiller flood.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

PALACE-TOMB OF TAJ MAHAL.

HIS lovely and beautiful tomb

THIS

Is like those in the time of Kais, A place for lovers to slumber.

The floor is sweet with amber,
As in the seventh heaven,
Or a temple built in Paradise.
The air is hung with fragrance,
And houris fan its corridors
With shadow-drooping eyelashes.

Its walls and portals are set with jewels,
And pure is its air and sweet its water,
Which its architect lured from the Chusma-i-Faiz.
Continually from clouds of mercy

Falls the rain on its lofty dome.

Should any one enter its holy precinct,
And ask a boon of the One High God,
Allah will bear and grant the favor.
Every one here is hospitable.

One might imagine the gentle breezes
Left this place receiving nothing.

But are they not laden with the aroma

Breathed by the plant called the Flower of Generosity? The blossoms laugh, but hide their faces.

The clouds rain, but it is the rain of compassion.
When any sinner here seeks protection,

His sins are forgiven as though he were in heaven,
The buds of the trees burst with smothered laughter,
Unannoyed by the breathings of the zephyr,
While the blushing blossoms expand and sweeten,
The modest breezes hide behind the curtain,
Knowing that here reclines a spotless beauty.
All who seek protection here will find it,
Since to Allah the place is consecrated.
Even should the wicked dare to creep hither,

The pages kept by the Recording Angel

Will be washed clean, and sparkle pure and spotless.
When the sun and moon see this mausoleum
Their eyes grow full with the tears of compassion.
In this place, crowned with heaven's azure,
The sun himself is a recipient of favors.
And as soon as he retires the moon emerges,
Glowing with anxiety to receive an equal bounty,
And adding to the constant expectancy of heaven.
Life here is pleasant, being full of loving-kindness
For the poor and alien, the pilgrim and the stranger.
Until now, was there ever an eternity?
Hath not Death himself removed his presence?
Surely not of earth could have been the builder,
Since the design was furnished him by heaven.
Firm are the foundations as the creed of the Faithful.
I know not where the colors were captured;
Possibly they came here to live forever.

When the builder made it, peace was his intention, —
Peace everlasting and a place of security.

When eternity laid its foundations,

The winter time of the year fled afar to the jungles."

WITH

THE TAJ MAHAL.

ITH minarets of marble rising stately from a sea Of the dark-leaved mango's foliage streaked by the jaman tree,

Up to the empyrean where the crescent glitters bright,

Calm and unchanged still shining through the fall of Moslem might,

One majesty of whiteness the Taj of Agra stands, Like no work of human builder, but a care of angel

hands.

Look down the entrance vista through the lofty sandstone door;

How near it seems, though distant five hundred yards

or more.

So down the shadowy vista of twice one hundred years The past becomes the present, and the distant near appears,

And in a vision rises before the raptured eye

The splendor of the monarch who ruled in days gone by, When 'neath the shade of snow-white domes, with pinnacles of gold,

In royal state, surrounded by pomp and wealth untold, He sat dispensing justice, or discussed affairs of weight, With councillors and princes of many a subject state; Or when summoned to the conflict with a vast array he spurred,

To wreak upon Golconda the vengeance long deferred.

But see!

-the sinking sun the fort in strong relief has brought,

Whose lengthening shadow forward creeps, as though it fondly thought

To reach the Taj and converse hold of glories passed

away,

To hear the deeds of Shah Jahan and tell of Akbar's

sway.