KASIPRASAD GHOSH.
This young Indian poet is a remarkable instance of the mind's inherent bent developing itself under the most adverse circumstances. It is curious in all its history to observe, that poetry is a flower which is born and flourishes on what would seem its most ungenial soil. Certainly our English verse is the last accomplishment we should have expected in the youthful Hindoo.
Kasiprasad Ghosh is of high Braminical extraction, and of independent fortune. At the age of fourteen he was sent to the Anglo-Indian College, where he made rapid progress. He soon shewed a marked predilection for our literature; indeed, he himself says, "I have composed many songs in Bengalee, but the greater portion of my writing is in English,—and, indeed, have always found it easiest to express my sentiments in that language." An essay that he wrote at a very early period, on Mr. Mills' History of India, attracted much attention; and, since then, he has published a volume of poems called "The Shair," the Indian word for Minstrel.
Our English readers must bear in mind the prejudices which a Bramin had to surmount, in order to appreciate the acquirements of this highly gifted stranger. At Calcutta, Kasiprasad Ghosh is universally beloved and admired: and we cannot but think that a vast field lies before him. His native literature is full of subjects for poetry of the highest order; subjects, however, requiring much fine taste and much judgment, which could only be acquired by a knowledge of European literature. Now our Indian poet has the material, the talent, and the cultivation; what, therefore, may not be expected from him?
The following little poem will give an idea of his fervid imagination and Oriental style.
THE BOATMEN'S SONG TO GANGA.
Gold river! gold river! how gallantly now
Our bark on thy bright breast is lifting her prow.
In the pride of her beauty, how swiftly she flies:
Like a white-winged spirit through topaz-paved skies!
Gold river! gold river! thy bosom is calm,
And o'er thee the breezes are shedding their balm;
And nature beholds her fair features portrayed
In the glass of thy bosom—serenely displayed.
Gold river! gold river! the sun to thy waves,
Is fleeting to rest in thy cool coral caves;
And thence, with his tiar of light, at the morn
He will rise, and the skies with his glory adorn.
Gold river! gold river! how bright is the beam
Which brightens and crimsons thy soft-flowing stream;
Whose waters beneath make a musical clashing,
Whose ripples like dimples in childhood are flashing.
Gold river! gold river! the moon will soon grace
The hall of the stars with her light-shedding face;
The wandering planets her palace will throng,
And seraphs will waken their music and song.
Gold river! gold river! our brief course is done,
And safe in the city our home we have won;
And now, as the bright sun who drops from our view,
So, Ganga, we bid thee a cheerful adieu!
18
