Thy mighty father joyfully
Look'd from his throne on high;
He mark'd his spirit live in thee,
He smiled to see thee die;
To see thy sabre's last faint sweep
Tinged with a foeman's gore;
To see thee sink to the hero's sleep,
With thy red wounds all before.
The faithful, in their emerald bowers
The toobah-tree beneath,
Have twined thee of unfading flowers,
The martyr's glorious wreath;
And dark-eyed girls of Paradise,
Their jewell'd kerchiefs wave,
To welcome to their crystal skies
The Sultan of the brave.
The Return from India.
I sit beside my lonely hearth.
Long years of toil and exile past.
My life is in its twilight path,
Still I have reached my home at last;
But other hands now cull its flowers,
But other footsteps tread its floor,
That clock still chimes the silver hours,
But those who heard it hear no more.
I am a stranger in my hall,
The hearts which made it glad are cold.
Young voices answer to my call,
But not the tones I loved of old;
With happy looks they bid me tell
Some story of the days gone by.
Or speak of those I loved so well,
I can but answer with a sigh.
