The land where Caedmon saw the light,
Where Chaucer shaped his harmonies,
Whose Shakespeare fathom'd all that is,
Whose Milton rose to starry height.
To her whose light shall e'er increase,
Whose might in countless foemen's spite
From land to land shall spread aright,
Whose right to rule shall ne'er decrease,
To her who ever shall be bright,
I, prone to perish, offer these
Decaying, dying melodies,
I, rushing into endless night.
Sir Asutosh Mookerjee.
He rose, a meteor, in the midst of men
To awe the world with splendour: many a star,
That might in other skies have shone afar,
Beside him paled, and swam not into ken.
His lore with glory fill'd the quarters then,
And won him such a name as nought could mar:
He fought, and gain'd success without a scar,
A valiant knight, whose weapon was his pen.
Good-temper'd, even-minded, patient, wise,
He lent his aid wherever he could meet
A man of promise that deserved to rise:
In dealing justice fairly, none could beat
His breadth of view, and none the solemn guise
In which all fine distinctions he would greet.
