The mossy grave thy tears have wet, Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, Midst flowers-not such as die. The shadow from thy brow shall melt, The sorrow from thy strain, But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, Our hearts shall thirst in vain. Dim will our cabin be, and lone, When thou, its light, art fled; Yet hath thy step the pathway shown Unto the happy dead. And we will follow thee, our guide! And join that shining band; Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side Go to the better land!" THE INDIAN CITY.* What deep wounds ever clos'd without a scar? Childe Harold. I. ROYAL in splendour went down the day On the plain where an Indian city lay, With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made *From a tale in Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold, As a tree midst the genii-gardens old, And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. Many a white pagoda's gleam Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed Its glory forth on their crystal bed. Many a graceful Hindoo maid, With the water-vase from the palmy shade, Came gliding light as the desert's roe, There wandered a noble Moslem boy Thro' the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose; By the tall canes feathered in tuft and brake, And there lay the water, as if enshrin'd |