Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us.
And the dullest remain behind;
Stand! stand! to your glasses! steady!
'Tis all we have left to prize;
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah! for the next that dies.
The Jogi's Address to the Ganges.
Dread power, beside thy sacred wave,
We meet as ever now;
To thee we pray, for thee we lave.
But where, oh where, art thou!
The charmed lamp floats trembling by,
And braves the tempest's burst;
'Tis thus for thee we burn and die,
But let us find thee first.
I've sought thee in the cell of stone
From which thy waters rise;
I've sought thee where thy icy throne
Is lost amid the skies;
And where the sister current meets
Thine own in billowy jar;
In Cashee's ancient dark retreats.
In wild and lone Hurdwar;
I've shouted where thy torrent boiled,
I've slumbered where it slept.
From eager youth, to age o'ertoiled,
I've looked for thee and wept;
Where'er thy sacred wave is drunk,
In every haunted spot,
I've sought thee—till my spirit sunk.
For oh! I found thee not.
