thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!
If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.
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 or 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 meads,
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!
THE BURMANS AND THEIR MISSIONARY.
THERE is a cry in Burmah, and a rush
Of thousand footsteps from the distant bound Of watery Siam and the rich Cathay. From the far northern frontier, pilgrims meet The central dwellers in the forest-shades, And on they press together. Eager hope Sits in their eye, and on their lips the warmth
Of strong request. Is it for bread they seek,
Like the dense multitude which fainting hung
Upon the Saviour's words, till the third day
Closed in and left them hungering?
Not for food
Or raiment ask they. Simply girding on
The scanty garment o'er the weary limb,
They pass unmarked the lofty domes of wealth
Inquiring for a stranger. There he stands;
The mark of foreign climes is on his brow;
He hath no power, no costly gifts to deal
Among the people, and his lore perchance
The earth-bowed worldling with his scales of gold
Accounteth folly. Yet to him is raised
Each straining eyeball, "Tell us of the Christ!" And like the far-off murmur of the sea
Lashed by the tempest, swelled their blended tone, "Sir, we would hear of Christ. Give us a scroll Bearing his name.”
And there that teacher stood, Far from his native land, amid the graves
Of his lost infants, and of her he loved
More than his life, yes, there he stood alone,
And with a simple, saint-like eloquence
Spake his Redeemer's word. Forgot was all,
Home, boyhood, Christian-fellowship, the tone
Of his sweet babes, his partner's dying strife,
Chains, perils, Burman dungeons, — all forgot,
Save the deep danger of the heathen's soul,
And God's salvation. And methought that earth
In all she vaunts of majesty, or tricks
With silk and purple, or the baubled pride
Of throne and sceptre, or the blood-red pomp,
Of the stern hero, had not aught to boast
So truly great, so touching, so sublime,
As that lone Missionary, shaking off
All links and films and trappings of the world,
And in his chastened nakedness of soul
Rising to bear the embassy of Heaven.
Carlee (Carli).
THE CAVERNS OF CARLI.
NEE! where those caverns yawn on Carli's steep;
SED. where those caverns yan aos Chee's
That yon lone Hindoo creeps with stealthy tread,
Hies down the hill, nor dares to turn his head?
So old these grots, so silent, and so drear,
E'en Brahmins view them with a solemn fear.
Wild rocks above, a lengthening vale below,
Through which at night the breezes wail like woe;
Huge sculptures, forms of gods e'en strangers grown,
Along the walls a writing now unknown;
The lions on their pillar, calm and still,
Watching for sumless ages on that hill,
These throw o'er Carli's shrines an awe and gloom,
Which less befit the temple than the tomb.
THE VALE OF KASHMEER.
AIL to the city from whose bowers-
The glowing paradise of flowers!
Soft zephyrs waft the rose's breath,
By moonlit night and blushing morn,
Even to the ruby, hid beneath
The golden hills of Badakhshân !
Whose gale with perfume-laden wing,
O'er Arab deserts hovering,
A tint as radiant can bestow
As beams that in the emerald glow.
Upon thy mountains fresh and green
The velvet turf is scarcely seen,
So close the jasmines twine around,
And strew, with star-like flowers, the ground..
The ruddy glow of sunset lies
Within thy rich pomegranate's eyes;
And flashing midst the tulip-beds,
A blaze of glory round them sheds.
Night dwells amidst thy spicy groves:
Thy saffron fields the star of morning loves;
Thy violets have tales of eyes as fair;
Thy hyacinths of waving, dusky hair;
Thy glittering sunflowers make the year all spring;
Thy bees their stores are ever gathering;
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