9
What a host of needy mimes flock round him
From the east-end and the west,
Goddesses of fame and money avid,
Ballerine light of vest—
With an air or pirouette who ponder
All thy diamond shoals to net Golconda,
All thy wealth Benares to enchest.
Prima donnas’ golden heads are running
On a rain of golden posies
In their laps, of topaz, sapphires, rubies,
While the ballet sylph in hose is
Panting for some spark in pearl-sewn turban,
Or with supple thumb prepares suburban
Pinches for proud Brahmins’ august noses.
Scarce the ship, that ark of art, suffices
In its cells to stow away
All that world of lath and plaster fashioned,
Which to India now would stray:
All that medley—boxes, trunks, portmanteaus,
Wardrobes, cases lined with unsold cantos,
Rouge pots, hair dyes, wigs red, black and grey.
Ship of Argonauts—with song resounding,
Boldly plough the furrowy blue!
Hanuman’s new master is thy captain:
At his side, a comrade true,
Bides the ape, oh! how the small eye sparkles
As unfolding free around it darkles nine
Ocean’s boundless zones of azure hue.
