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, Red as if fused in the burning sky, And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made A bright stream's way thro' each long arcade, Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood, Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood, *From a tale in Forbes' 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, There wandered a noble Moslem boy Thro' the scene of beauty in breathless joy; Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose; And there lay the water, as if enshrin'd For the stag athirst from the noontide chase, For all free things of the wild-wood's race. Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, His mother look'd from her tent the while, Calmly to linger a few brief hours, In the Bramin city's glorious bowers; For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, The red gold of sunset-she lov'd them all. II. The moon rose clear in the splendour given To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; The serpent's glance, thro' the long reeds bright? With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn, eye, And a gash on his bosom-he came to die! "Speak to me !—whence doth the swift blood run? What hath befall'n thee, my child, my son?" The mist of death on his brow lay pale, But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale, And wounds from the children of Brahma born : |