Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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BUT: A TRUTH IN HINDOSTAN. |
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
185
BUT: A TRUTH IN HINDOSTAN.
The Nabob wakes, and the golden ray,
Upflushing from the kindling day,
Fills him with pride, such pomp to see,
Greeting a nabob grand as he!
But the Light, impartial, seeks, as well,
The burdened sudra's darkened cell,
By Brahma sent, whose tender care
Gives rich and poor an equal share.
Upflushing from the kindling day,
Fills him with pride, such pomp to see,
Greeting a nabob grand as he!
But the Light, impartial, seeks, as well,
The burdened sudra's darkened cell,
By Brahma sent, whose tender care
Gives rich and poor an equal share.
The Nabob feels the breezes blow,
Cool from the Himalayan snow,
And bares his brow, in his vision dim,
Deeming the blessing all for him!
But the Air, on loving mission, seeks
The swart-browed laborer's burning cheeks,
And sports and plays with Poverty's child,
As if rare gems around it smiled.
Cool from the Himalayan snow,
And bares his brow, in his vision dim,
Deeming the blessing all for him!
But the Air, on loving mission, seeks
The swart-browed laborer's burning cheeks,
And sports and plays with Poverty's child,
As if rare gems around it smiled.
The Nabob walks in the burning sun,
And marks his shadow before him run;
Lifting his head, with pride, to see
Reflected his rich pomposity!
But the Sun as kindly scatters down
His beams for him in the beggar's gown,
And the turban coarse and the turban fine
Reflect the same in his lavish shine.
And marks his shadow before him run;
Lifting his head, with pride, to see
Reflected his rich pomposity!
186
His beams for him in the beggar's gown,
And the turban coarse and the turban fine
Reflect the same in his lavish shine.
The Nabob loves with a warmer glow
Than pulses of common blood can know;
Rare gifts, rare offerings, attest
His love to be, over all, the best!
But the Heart with equal fervor teems,
If high or low, with tender dreams,
And all that wealth has e'er confest
Is felt the same in the humblest breast.
Than pulses of common blood can know;
Rare gifts, rare offerings, attest
His love to be, over all, the best!
But the Heart with equal fervor teems,
If high or low, with tender dreams,
And all that wealth has e'er confest
Is felt the same in the humblest breast.
The Nabob dies, and what parade
Above his prostrate form is made!
Sure, earth is honored to hold in trust
The treasure of such distinguished dust!
But the Grave—the Grave—no favor shows
To rich or poor—to friends or foes—
And the lowliest dust in flowers may spring,
As fair as though it had formed a king.
Above his prostrate form is made!
Sure, earth is honored to hold in trust
The treasure of such distinguished dust!
But the Grave—the Grave—no favor shows
To rich or poor—to friends or foes—
And the lowliest dust in flowers may spring,
As fair as though it had formed a king.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |