Seated on a bank of green, Gazing on an Indian scene, I have dreams the mind to cheer, And a feast for eye and ear. At my feet a river flows, And its broad face richly glows With the glory of the sun, Whose proud race is nearly run
Ne'er before did sea or stream Kindle thus beneath his beam, Ne'er did miser's eye behold Such a glittering mass of gold 'Gainst the gorgeous radiance float Darkly, many a sloop and boat, While in each the figures seem Like the shadows of a dream Swiftly, passively, they glide As sliders on a frozen tide.
Sinks the sun--the sudden night Falls, yet still the scene is bright Now the fire-fly's living spark Glances through the foliage dark, And along the dusky stream Myriad lamps with ruddy gleam On the small waves float and quiver, As if upon the favored river, And to mark the sacred hour, Stars had fallen in a shower.
For many a mile is either shore Illumined with a countless store Of lustres ranged in glittering rows, Each a golden column throws To light the dim depths of the tide, And the moon in all her pride Though beauteously her regions glow, Views a scene as fair below
Mrs. Carshore alludes, I suppose to the above lines, or the following sonnet, or both perhaps, when she speaks of my erroneous Orientalism--
The shades of evening veil the lofty spires Of proud Benares' fanes! A thickening haze Hangs o'er the stream. The weary boatmen raise Along the dusky shore their crimson fires That tinge the circling groups. Now hope inspires Yon Hindu maid, whose heart true passion sways, To launch on Gungas flood the glimmering rays Of Love's frail lamp,--but, lo the light expires! Alas! what sudden sorrow fills her breast! No charm of life remains. Her tears deplore A lover lost and never, never more Shall hope's sweet vision yield her spirit rest! The cold wave quenched the flame--an omen dread That telleth of the faithless--_or the dead_!
Horace Hayman Wilson, a high authority on all Oriental customs, clearly alludes in the following lines to the launching of floating lamps by _Hindu_ females.
Grave in the tide the Brahmin stands, And folds his cord or twists his hands, And tells his beads, and all unheard Mutters a solemn mystic word With reverence the Sudra dips, And fervently the current sips, That to his humbler hope conveys A future life of happier days. But chief do India's simple daughters Assemble in these hallowed waters, With vase of classic model laden Like Grecian girl or Tuscan maiden, Collecting thus their urns to fill From gushing fount or trickling rill, And still with pious fervour they To Gunga veneration pay And with pretenceless rite prefer, The wishes of their hearts to her The maid or matron, as she throws _Champae_ or lotus, _Bel_ or rose, Or sends the quivering light afloat In shallow cup or paper boat, Prays for a parent's peace and wealth Prays for a child's success and health, For a fond husband breathes a prayer, For progeny their loves to share, For what of good on earth is given To lowly life, or hoped in heaven,