Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales

Front matter

ORIENTAL SCENES,

DRAMATIC SKETCHES AND TALES,

WITH

A Scene in the Doaab

ORIENTAL SCENES.

A SCENE IN THE DOAAB.

In tangled depths the jungles spread Around the solitary scene, The lurking panther's sullen tread Marks the wild paths of the ravine;

Here too the fierce hyena prowls, Haunting the dark Jheel's broad lagoon, And here, at eve, the wolf-cub howls, And famished jackalls bay the moon.

Its scorching breath the hot wind pours Along the arid waste; and loud, The storm-fiend of the desert roars, When bursts the sable thunder-cloud,

A crumbling mosque—a ruined fort— Hastening alike to swift decay, Where owls and vampire bats resort, And vultures hide them from the day,

Alone remain to tell the tale Of Moslem power, and Moslem pride, When shouts of conquest filled the gale And swords in native blood were dyed.

They sleep—the slayer and the slain— A lowly grave the victor shares With the weak slave who wore the chain None save a craven spirit wears.

Yet had the deeds which they have done Lived in the poet's deathless song, These nameless spahis would have won All that to valour's hopes belong.

They brought their faith from distant lands, They reared the Moslem badge on high, And swept away with reeking brands The reliques of idolatry.

Where'er they spread their prophet's creed The guilty rites of Brama fled; No longer shrinking victims bleed, Nor sleeps the living with the dead.

The frantic shrieks of widowed brides From burning piles resound no more, Nor Ganges' desecrated tides Bear human offerings from its shore.

Their wreaths have faded—lizards bask Upon the marble pavement, where, 'Twas erst the dark-eyed beauty's task To crown with flowers her raven hair.

Unheeded now the scorpion crawls, And snakes unscathed in silence glide, Where once the bright Zenana's halls To woman's feet were sanctified.

No trace remains of those gay hours When lamps, in golden radiance bright, Streamed o'er these now deserted towers The sunshine of their perfumed light.

The maiden's song, the anklet's bells So sweetly ringing o'er the floor, And eyes as soft as the gazelle's Are heard, and seen, and felt no more.

Now all is silent; the wild cry Of savage beasts alone is heard, Or wrathful tempest hurrying by, Or moanings of some desert bird.

The Bramin

THE BRAMIN.

It is a lovely solitude—the cliff, Rich with embowering trees, and garlanded With mantling creepers, towers above the skiff Moored where the Ganges' sacred waters spread Their wastes below—and crowning that green height In graceful beauty, with its marble dome, And terraced stairs, descending flight by flight, Appears the holy Bramin's gorgeous home— His temple, and his dwelling place—and there He ponders o'er the Vedas day by day, Passing the silent hours in lonely prayer, Or shading from the sun's too fervent ray The flowers he tends to deck the holy shrine, Or strew the bright pagoda's granite floor; And while his skilful hands the chaplets twine, His thoughts above the world's dark confines soar. At eve he trims the lamp, the beacon light That beams within the Mhut's rich sculptured cell, And when the stars announce approaching night, With silvery sound awakes the vesper bell.

The Bramin's meals are frugal—some fair tree Yields him its fruitage, and the precious grain Springing around in rich fertility, The few and simple wants of life sustain. A scanty mat upon the pavement spread Before the temple's threshold, where the sky Above the tranquil sleeper's humble bed Has flung its star-enamelled canopy, Suffices for his resting place—his dress Betrays not splendour's pomp, nor priestly pride, Careless, and free from aught of costliness, The triple thread across the shoulder tied, Around the waist the muslin's ample fold Reaching with graceful flow below the knee, The snow-white turban round the temples rolled Complete the unpretending drapery. He asks nor gold nor gems—to him the lore The Shaster's venerated page affords, Is dearer far than all the glittering store That worldly men have purchased with their swords.

Yet is he wealthy—the pomegranate droops Its ruby blossoms to his gathering hand, Its richly loaded bough the mango stoops, And sheds its living gold at his command. While sweeping round him are a gorgeous train, Herons, and peacocks, doves, and paroquets; The bulbul breathes to him its sweetest strain, And pigeons nestle on the minarets. While his peculiar care, the mournful bird, Who when the sun has left the river's breast, With restless wing and wailing cry is heard Calling his mate to her deserted nest, With the bright tribe around him lives unharmed; There too the moping ape securely dwells, For the pagoda's dome-crowned height is charmed, And prayers are potent as magicians' spells. The Moosaulmaun the Bramin's law reveres, Nor dyes his weapon in forbidden blood, And even the Christian, from his sport forbears, Within the precints of the sacred wood.

Courteous to all—the stranger from the west, Who moors his budgerow on the strand beneath, Is welcomed as the Bramin's honoured guest, And for his hands are twined the brightest wreath. Oh! who that has approached that holy fane Can pass unheeding from the blessed spot, Where peace, and hope, and sweet contentment reign, Nor sigh with envy at the Bramin's lot, Who purified and free from worldly care, In sacred duties all his life employs, And in earth's sorrows bearing little share, The dearest, brightest bliss of Heaven enjoys?

The Taaje Mahal

THE TAAJE MAHAL.

Empress of beauty! must those eyes of light, Stars of my soul, that o'er life's paths have thrown Rays than the sun's beams more serenely bright, Be quenched in darkness; has their lustre flown For ever; and the vermeil of thy lips Sustained a last, immutable eclipse?

Oh! thou wert far more beautiful than those Fair forms of geniï by poets sung, More blooming than thine own Cashmerian rose, O'er thy soft cheek a crimson tint was flung, Like morn's first flushes, or the blush that dyes The glowing sun-sets of our eastern skies.

Fair as thou wert, thy beauty's light was dim To the more holy radiance of thine heart, For thou wert pure as heaven-born seraphim, Thou wert my blessed one—thou art, thou art— Still dost thou live and breathe, and I may strain, Thy form in rapture to my breast again.

It may not be—the faint, the trembling pulse, So like the flutterings of a wounded bird, The painful throes which those pale lips convulse, The sighs, like rose leaves in the night breeze stirred, Tell me thy doom—and I—I see my fate— Queen of my soul, thou leavest me desolate.

Oh! could the treasures of the world restore Thy fading health, beloved one,—Shah Jehan Countless as yon bright river's sands would pour The pearls, and gems, and gold of Hindoostan, And yield his empire o'er the world to be Master of one poor straw-thatched hut—with thee.

But since, nor gems, nor pearls, nor gold can save My peerless beauty, nor my fervent prayer Avail to snatch thee from an envious grave, Since Heaven relents not to my deep despair, And we—(be still, be still my throbbing heart!) We, my life's dearest solace, we must part.

As thy surpassing loveliness has shone Transcendant over all of mortal birth, As thy surpassing excellence has won The tribute homage of admiring earth, So the world's wonder, even as thou, divine, Queen of my soul! shall be thy matchless shrine.

And there in rich and radiant pomp supreme, Within the circle of each ample dome, The gems of every Indian mine shall gleam, And Art's most gifted sons from Greece and Rome The splendid fabric rear, whose gorgeous fanes Hide from these weeping eyes thy loved remains.

And pilgrims there from many a distant clime Pacing with wondering steps the marble halls, Shall as they gaze upon the work sublime, The sculptured splendours of the storied walls, Dream of thy beauty, and instinctive pay The heart's deep homage to thy sainted clay.

* * * * * * * * *

A hundred years have winged their flight O'er princely Agra's lofty towers, A hundred years of sunshine bright Have revelled through its summer bowers— Those circling suns have seen the ray Of Moslem glory fade away. And where the crescent reared on high Its badge of golden blazonry, And turbaned monarchs proudly gave Their laws to each obedient slave, The warriors of the western world The red cross banner have unfurled. Mingled with mosques and minarets, O'er Christian spires the sun's beam sets, And strangers from a foreign strand Rule unopposed the conquered land. Yet still where Jumna's chrystal tide In many a breeze-curled wave meanders, And where its sparkling currents glide Through clustering tufts of Oleanders,

Where yonder stately garden shews The crimson beauty of the rose, The glittering baubool drops its gold, And baylas perfumed buds unfold Their crests of snow, o'er the pink bed With the broad lotus thickly spread. Untouched by time, unscathed by war Lonely and bright as eve's first star, The splendid mausoleum greets The stranger's rapt and dazzled eye, And to his throbbing heart repeats A tale of love's idolatry. Of precious marbles richly blent Shines the imperial monument; A gorgeous fabric spreading wide Its glittering pomp of colonnades, Fit palace for the peerless bride Reposing in its hallowed shades. Too beautiful for mortal hands, Its clustering cupolas and towers

Seem the bright work of fairy wands, And fashioned out of pearls and flowers. And as o'er these fair spires and domes The stranger's eye enchanted roams, Lost in delight, he almost deems That wrought by some fantastic spell, 'Twill vanish like his summer dreams, Or cloud-encircled citadel, Floating along the moon-lit sky, In evanescent pageantry.

Beside the alabaster tomb! All richly wreathed with glittering gems, And shining like the jewelled plume O'er eastern monarch's diadems, Fond lovers kneel—and as they gaze Upon each ingot's brilliant blaze, The bright mosaic of the floor Where many coloured agates vie With onyx thickly scattered o'er Turquoise, and lapis lazuli;

They dash away the rising tear, They fear no change nor falsehood here. Oh! every flower-enamelled gem Is worth a mine of gold to them; It tells of love divinely pure— The record that a monarch gave, That strong affection may endure In human hearts beyond the grave.

The Dying Hindoo

THE DYING HINDOO.

He lies beside the sacred river, His heart has lost life's ruddy glow, His sighs are faint, his pulses quiver, And death's chill damps are on his brow.

Within yon green and bowery glade Whose path the smile of sunshine wears, Beneath the lofty palm tree's shade His loved though lowly hut appears.

And near him well known sounds arise With joyous songs and laughter fraught, And now his glazed and languid eyes Are turned towards the village-ghaut.

There all is cheerful, as of yore, When with the sun's declining beam He too had sought the Ganges' shore, And bathed within its hallowed stream.

In crouds his early friends repair To the chabouta's esplanade, Her graceful ghurrah filling there, Stoops to the brink his dark-eyed maid.

They heed him not—no fond farewells Attest their grief, no tears are shed, No sigh the heart's deep anguish tells; He to the living world is dead.

One pang has shot across his breast— One human pang—but it is gone, And tranquilly he sinks to rest, As the eternal wave flows on.

His eye the blushing wreath has caught Which floats along the sacred wave, And to his parting soul has brought Hopes of bright lands beyond the grave.

Soon shall the form o'er that pure tide Which now to earth so fondly clings, Freed from each grovelling trammel glide, And mingle with its holy springs.

The red crown of the lotus wreath Upon the molten silver blushes, And a dark, lifeless form beneath With the stream's headlong current rushes.

The corse, the flower are seen no more, For ever lost in yon bright river, The echoes of the lonely shore In mournful tones repeat—for ever!

The North-Wester

THE NORTH-WESTER.

Evening approaches, and the tropic sun The western arch of ruddy heaven has won, And yielding to the balmy close of day, Its scorching heat, its most oppressive ray, Now mid ten thousand swiftly fading dyes Looks smiling down from yonder roseate skies. How beautiful, how placid, fair, and bright, The gorgeous scene that greets its parting light! The stately river's calm and waveless tide In its deep slumber scarce is seen to glide; So tranquil is the stream, the lotus crown By some fond maid, or anxious lover thrown— A bark of hope—unstirred upon its breast In lingering tenderness appears to rest; The idle golier from his flower-wreathed prow With careless eye surveys the flood below; And all the hundred oars that proudly sweep The polished surface of the glassy deep, Mocked by the lazy currents, vainly seek To urge their shallops round yon woody creek,

Its marble wings up springing from the shade By the dark peepul's glossy foliage made, The waving niem, the willow-like bamboo, And shrubs of fragrant scent and brilliant hue, The Nazim's regal palace proudly gleams In pearl-like splendour in the evening beams; While each surrounding crag and sun-kissed slope Crowned with the bright luxuriant mango tope, Each vagrant creeper with its starry wreath, Are softly mirrored in the stream beneath.

Where'er the wandering eyes delighted roam From groves embowering peeps the graceful dome Of some small mosque, or holy Bramin's cell, Where the lamp glances, and the silvery bell Makes gentle music in the balmy air; No other sounds the listening echoes bear On this calm eve, save snatches of sweet song Which rise at intervals from yonder throng Assembled on the terraced ghaut, and fling O'er Ganges' wave each flowery offering.

Sudden the fierce north-west breaks loose—and while Half the bright landscape still is seen to smile, The sultry air grows thick, the skies are dark, The river swells, and now the struggling bark Along the rushing wave is wildly driven, And thunder bursts from every gate of heaven; O'er tower and palace, hut, and holy fane In frantic madness sweeps the hurricane; And trees uprooted strew the earth; and air Is filled with yells, and shrieks of wild despair.

The sun sinks down in splendour to the west, The skies are in their richest colours drest; And where a blackened wreck was seen to float, A lamp within the palm nut's fragile boat Glides tranquilly—the stars shine forth—the vale Is vocal with the Bulbul's sweetest tale; The air is gemmed with fire-flies; and the breeze Is filled with perfume from the lemon trees: The storm has passed—and now the sparkling river Runs calm, and smooth, and beautiful as ever.

Moorshedabad, Aug. 1828.

The Rajah's Obsequies

THE RAJAH'S OBSEQUIES.

A fairer scene to spell-bound eyes The smiling earth could scarce unfold— There's not a cloud o'er those blue skies; And from its founts of living gold The sun pours down a flood of light Upon the river's sparkling wave, Where the swift current speeds its flight, Or lingers wooingly to lave Some bright pagoda's jutting walls, Or ripples on in gentle falls, Where all of shining granite wrought Spreads the broad terrace of the ghaut. And there majestic banians fling Their green luxuriance beside The lofty minarets that spring With upward flight in towering pride; As though to their bold spires 'twere given To pierce the azure vaults of heaven.

The boast of India's sunny land Mid fertile plains and waving woods, In shining pomp sublimely grand, Where Ganges spreads its sacred floods— The holy city's temples glow Reflected in the stream below. A mass of cupolas and towers, Arches, and pillared colonnades, And flat-roofed palaces, where flowers Are clust'ring round the balustrades. And there from the Zenana's halls, Stealing when eve reveals its stars, The dark-eyed maids hold festivals, And listen to the soft sitars, Hymning those sweet and gentle themes Which young hearts picture in their dreams.

Oh bright, Benares! are thy domes, And beautiful thy sacred groves, Where ring-doves make their blissful homes And the white bull unfettered roves;

Where with his frugal meal content, And hands of slaughter innocent, Milk, and some vegetable root, The golden dal, the silvery rice, The plantain's, or the mango's fruit, The Hindoo's simple wants suffice. Oh! who that sees the meanest thing Endued with life, the Bramin's care, Can fancy human suffering, And human sacrifices, where 'Twould be a crime to crush the snake That sheds its venom o'er the brake? Yet here the river's crystal flood With living victims is prophaned, And here with streams of human blood The temple's reeking courts are stained, While blackening o'er the fair blue skies The smoke's polluted volumes rise, From those impure, unhallowed fires, Where by a living corse's side, In fierce and torturing pangs expires, Untimely doomed, the shrinking bride.

The ghurrees chime the evening hour, O'er the red west the sun-beam glances, And from each arch-way, gate, and tower, In countless groups a croud advances. While upon every pinnacle, Or temple's roof, or pillared screen, Each tower-embastioned citadel, To gaze upon the passing scene The people throng, like clust'ring bees Swarming around the almond trees. And all the baths and the bazars With many coloured cloths are hung, And flowers as bright as shooting stars Are from the high verandahs flung; While slowly through the crowding throng Which from the streets and temples pour, A stately pageant moves along, And winds its way to Ganges' shore.

Their silver maces waving high, The Chobedar band in front appear; And all around with shout and cry, Tulwar, and scimitar, and spear, Peons and Chuprassies clear the way, Swelling the pomp and the parade, Where shining in their bright array, In files a glittering cavalcade Of mounted nobles lead the van, The flower and boast of Hindoostan. Their chargers' tails of scarlet dye, Their silver housings ringing clear, Flash on the gazer's dazzled eye, And strike in music on his ear. Behind them in more humble guise, Proud only of the triple thread, Gracing the Rajah's obsequies, The Bramins pace with solemn tread. And next in mournful pageantry All guarded by a troop of horse,

Beneath a gilded canopy, Appears the fast decaying corse. And there the sultry air is stirred With silver handled Chowries wrought With the rich plume of some rare bird, Or those more precious cow-tails brought From glad Kathay's far distant wall, Or the steep hills of the Nepaul.

Behind, a thick promiscuous troop Of veiled and turbaned heads is seen, And in the centre of the group, Each in an open palanquin The Rajah's wives are borne—a pair Of brighter forms have never blest The eye of man—both are so fair, None can say which is loveliest— She who so stately and so proud With lofty mien and eyes of light, Receives the homage of the croud

As though it were her beauty's right; Or the sweet trembler by her side Shrinking abashed with modest grace, And striving all in vain to hide The blush upon her unveiled face. Their muslin robes are wrought with gold, The Syah's hem beset with spangles, And bright the Ornee's shining fold, And richly gemmed the glittering Bangles. Benares' far-famed webs have vied With Persia's rarest, finest loom; And for the last time each fair bride Has gazed upon her beauty's bloom In fitting pomp arrayed—too soon Their fleet career of life must fly; Ere they have reached their summer's noon, This lovely pair are doomed to die— Each soft chime from their anklets' bells Is ringing out their funeral knells.

The air is musical with song, And lotus wreaths are strewed around, The deep toned dhole, and brazen gong, With cittaras and with flutes resound. Perfumes are burning all the while; And they have reached the Ganges flood, And heaped upon the funeral pile Cedar, and rose, and sandal wood. The last red kisses of the sun Are blushing on the river's breast, And from his amaranthine throne The flaming orb sinks down to rest. And all is now accomplished—save The final and the dismal rite, Which on the brink of that clear wave Must be performed, ere the pink light With all its rainbow coloured dyes Has faded from the sapphire skies.

First from her maiden's circling arms The youngest (and perchance the bride Preferred for her retiring charms) Has lightly sprung, and flung aside Her ornaments—and those rich pearls, The diamonds, and the ruby studs, She showers among the weeping girls Blithely, as when her garden's buds She scattered in those blissful hours, When life itself seemed made of flowers The croud is hushed to silence—now Her spirit soars on bird-like wings, A slight flush lights her gentle brow, And with a voice divine she sings.

I love, I love my native vales! The sighing of their perfumed gales To me is sweet, and sweeter still The music of the bubbling rill.

Few are my years, but they have fled In joy and sunshine o'er my head, Happy my transient life has been, And happier still life's closing scene.

Lord of my soul! I yield my breath To snatch thee from the chains of death; I claim the privilege divine, Which makes thee more than ever mine!

Yes, to my thrice blessed hands 'tis given ⠀ To ope the saffron gates of heaven; I bring beloved a boon to thee, A pure and bright eternity.

Yon dazzling orb has golden courts, And there the heaven-born loory sports, And thou with spirits blessed shalt dwell Mid fragrant fields of asphodel.

My soul shall pass to happy things, With dainty plumes and glittering wings; A Peri bird, I'll build my nest On the chumayla's odorous breast.

And that sweet state of being o'er, Beside the Ganges' much loved shore I'll spread my shining fins, and glide A spark of silver on the tide.

The second transmigration past, I'll reach my brightest, and my last— Shoot with my fire-fly lamp on high, A star along the summer sky.

Then to the palace gleaming bright, Turquoise, and pearl, and chrysolite, My heavenly home ascend, and stray For ever through the realms of day.

She ceased; and round the funeral pile The seven-fold circuit she has made, And with a sweet seraphic smile She gently droops her radiant head Beside the ghastly corse—so calm, So saint-like are those placid eyes, So softly breathes the lip's rich balm, So faint and indistinct her sighs, In some blest trance she seems to be, Or day's delicious reverie.

Darting a scornful glance on all, And flinging down with conscious pride (As if her limbs disdained their thrall) Her costly gems—the elder bride, Like an offended goddess stands, With glowing cheeks, and flashing eyes, And clasping both her out-stretched hands, Revolting at the sacrifice—

Her troubled spirit nearly wrought To madness, finds relief in song, And with her heart's deep anguish fraught The lay indignant bursts along.

"Think not, accursed priests, that I will lend "My sanction to these most unholy rites; "And though yon funeral pile I may ascend, "It is not that your stern command affrights "My lofty soul—it is because these hands "Are all too weak to break my sex's bands.

"I, from my earliest infancy, have bowed "A helpless slave to lordly man's controul, "No hope of liberty, no choice allowed, "Unheeded all the struggles of my soul; "Compelled by brutal force to link my fate "With one who best deserved my scorn and hate.

"Oh! better far it is to mount yon pile, "And stretch my shuddering form beside the dead, "Than with a torturing effort strive to smile, "And hide the bitter tears in silence shed— "That state of loathed existence now is o'er, "And I shall shrink from his embrace no more.

"The tyrant sleeps death's last and endless sleep, "Yet does his power beyond the grave extend, "And I this most unholy law must keep, "And to the priest's unrighteous mandate bend, "Or live an outcast—reft of queenly state— "A beggar lost, despised, and desolate.

"Daughter and heiress of a princely line, "From my proud birth-right I disdain to stoop; "Better it is to die, than inly pine, "And feel the soul, the towering spirit, droop "Beneath the cruel toil, the years of pain, "The lost, degraded widow must sustain.

"But could these weak arms wield a soldier's brand, "Could these too fragile limbs sustain the fight, "Even to the death, Mitala would withstand "This cruel custom, and uphold the right "Of woman to her share of gold and gems, "Sceptres and sway, and regal diadems.

"Oh! is there none—not one amid the throng "Pressing to view a deed by Heaven abhorred, "Whose brave heart, burning to avenge the wrong, "Will, at my adjuration draw the sword, "And god-like in an injured woman's cause "Crush at a blow foul superstition's laws?

"Silent and moveless all!—Oh craven race "Not long shall this fair land endure your sway; "Shame and defeat, and capture and disgrace "Await the closing of a blood-stained day: "I see, I see the thickly gathering bands "Crouding in conquering ranks from distant lands!

"The Persian Satrap, and the Tartar Khan "The temples of your gods shall overthrow, "And all the hundred thrones of Hindostan "Before the west's pale warriors shall bow, "Crouching where'er the banners of the brave "The silver crescent, and the red cross wave!"

Her song has ceased—but that bright eye Still with prophetic frenzy glares, And struggling with her agony Dries with its fires the springing tears. She waves away the Bramin band And mounts the funeral pile alone; And the Mussaul's enkindling brand Is on the heaped-up fagots thrown— One long wild shriek, amid the crash Of gongs and drums and cymbals, drowned— One burst of flame, a ruddy flash Gilding the green hill's distant mound—

One smoky column, whose dark veil Obscures the fast declining sun— A cloud of ashes on the gale— And these unhallowed rites are done!

Night on the Ganges

NIGHT ON THE GANGES.

How calm, how lovely is the soft repose Of nature sleeping in the summer night; How sweet, how lullingly the current flows Beneath the stream of melted chrysolite, Where Ganges spreads its floods,—reflecting o'er Its silvery surface, with those countless stars The ingot gems of Heaven's cerulean floor, Mosques, groves, and cliffs, and pinnacled minars.

The air is fresh, and yet the evening breeze Has died away; so hushed, 'tis scarcely heard To breathe amid the clustering lemon trees, Whose snowy blossoms, by its faint sighs stirred, Give out their perfume; and the bulbul's notes Awake the echoes of the balmy clime; While from yon marble-domed pagoda floats The music of its bell's soft, silvery chime.

Mildly, yet with resplendent beauty, shines The scene around, although the stars alone, From the bright treasures of their gleaming mines A tender radiance o'er the earth have thrown. Oh! far more lovely are those gentle rays With their undazzling lustre, than the beam The sun pours down in his meridian blaze, Lighting with diamond pomp the sparkling stream.

Each tint its vivid colouring receives: There is the glossy peepul—the bamboo Flings down its rich redundancy of leaves, And trailing plants their wandering course pursue, In hues as bright as if the sun revealed The mantling foliage of the woody glade; Nor is yon lone sequestered hut concealed Sleeping within the green hill's deepest shade.

With snowy vases crowned, the lily springs In queen-like beauty by the river's brink; And o'er the wave the broad-leaved lotus flings Its roseate flowers in many a knotted link. Oh! when the sultry sun has sunk to rest, When evening's soft and tender shadows rise, How sweet the scene upon the river's breast, Beneath the starlight of these tropic skies!

The Land Storm

THE LAND STORM.

The heavens are cloudless, and the sunny plain Rich with its fertile tracts of sugar-cane, Its fleecy crops of cotton, corn, and oil, And all the myriad plants that gem the soil, Yielding their precious juice in costly dyes Bright as the rain-bow tints of their own skies, Smile in the golden light—a wide expanse Of varied landscape where the sun-beams glance O'er dotting mango topes, and snow white mhuts, Which peep beside the peasants' straw-thatched huts. Beyond, in eastern splendour beaming bright The city stands upon a wooded height; Its tall pagodas, and its broad Serais, Shining, like pearls amid the noon-tide, blaze; While from each terrace shooting up afar Gleams the proud mosque, and pinnacled minar Surmounted by those graceful coronals, The palm tree flings above the sculptured walls Its drooping foliage, beautifully blent, With tower and spire, and marble pediment.

The air is still—there's not the faintest sigh Breathed from a vagrant zephyr wandering by; The panting buffalo, oppressed with heat, Roams o'er the plain to seek some cool retreat; The fainting bullocks drop upon the roads, And weary camels sink beneath their loads. The sultriness encreases—soaring high, Rending the air with shriek and doleful cry, The startled birds from jungle, jheel, and brake, Their native haunts instinctively forsake; Yet one small cloud of darkest blue alone Appears above the distant horizon; And all around is calm—now rushing forth In billowy masses from the smoking earth, Volumes of sand in wild confusion rise And lift their summits to the darkening skies; A lurid veil the city's pomp enshrouds, And now in wrathful guise the sable clouds Come rolling on—yet still throughout the plain No breath of air precedes the hurricane,

And a thick darkness falls, and blinding dust, Till suddenly in one tempestuous gust The whirl-wind bursts—drowning the stunning sound Of pealing thunder crashing all around. Unheeded mid the horrid dissonance And smothering sand, the forked lightnings dance; Yet the storm gathers strength, and each wild blast Seems armed with fiercer madness than the last. And still the raging elements contend; And urges on the strife the tempest fiend, Deepening the gloom, and yelling o'er the fanes Where whirl-winds roar, and chaos madly reigns; At length the darkness yields; an awful ray, Of fiery light denotes returning day. And now in flashing torrents o'er the plain Descends like cataracts the tropic rain; The air is cooled, by gentle breezes fanned— The dust disperses, and a zephyr bland, Where late the tempest raged, with wooing breath Draws perfume from each freshly flowering wreath;