 | Poems, original and translated |  |
LINES COMPOSED AT THE OLD TEMPLES OF MARALIPOOR.
Speak out your secret, bellowing waves,
That thunder round this temple's door,
And when the lashing tempest raves,
Leap in, and wash the sand-heaped floor!
That thunder round this temple's door,
And when the lashing tempest raves,
Leap in, and wash the sand-heaped floor!
149
What hide ye in your watery tomb?
What treasures snatched ye from the shore,
Ye sullen, restless waves that boom
And thunder round this temple's door?
What treasures snatched ye from the shore,
Ye sullen, restless waves that boom
And thunder round this temple's door?
Say, is it true, as legends tell,
That, ages since, great Bali's town,
O'erwhelmed by your encroaching swell,
With tower and temple, all went down?
That, ages since, great Bali's town,
O'erwhelmed by your encroaching swell,
With tower and temple, all went down?
Speak out, thou stern old sentinel,
That lingerest on the outer rock,
That brav'st the undermining swell,
Defiest the overwhelming shock!
That lingerest on the outer rock,
That brav'st the undermining swell,
Defiest the overwhelming shock!
Lies there a city at thy feet,
Far down beneath the moaning tide?
Say (for thou know'st), the tale repeat:
What secret do these waters hide?
Far down beneath the moaning tide?
Say (for thou know'st), the tale repeat:
What secret do these waters hide?
Ye all are voiceless,—silent stone,
And sounding sea: no word ye speak,—
Nor sculptured shape nor billow's moan
Can give the answer that I seek.
And sounding sea: no word ye speak,—
Nor sculptured shape nor billow's moan
Can give the answer that I seek.
Old Ocean rolls as first he rolled
Majestic on creation's day;
And still their course the waters hold,
While man and all his works decay.
Majestic on creation's day;
And still their course the waters hold,
While man and all his works decay.
150
Yon grim old shapes—not one of all
Wears terror on his stony brow:
Dead sculptures line that rock-hewn wall,
The four-armed god is harmless now.
Wears terror on his stony brow:
Dead sculptures line that rock-hewn wall,
The four-armed god is harmless now.
Yet can I, as I gaze, revere
The faith that thus, though dimly, bore
Its witness to the power that here
Rolls in the billows on the shore.
The faith that thus, though dimly, bore
Its witness to the power that here
Rolls in the billows on the shore.
And this, too, is the self-same sea
That wets my native coast with spray;
And like a child it welcomes me,
As round my feet its waters play.
That wets my native coast with spray;
And like a child it welcomes me,
As round my feet its waters play.
Oh! could I here to idols turn,
No human pile should be my shrine;
But, Ocean! how my heart would yearn
To come and be a child of thine!
No human pile should be my shrine;
But, Ocean! how my heart would yearn
To come and be a child of thine!
| Poems, original and translated | |