In all the triumphs, all the joys
Which thy good angel brings,
Forget not to give glory, son,
To God the King of kings.
His blessing crave, his grace implore,
Alike in weal and woe,
Long be thy reign in this fair land,—
I go where all things go.
Sonnet.
INDIA.
O yes! I love thee with a boundless love,
Land of my birth; and while I lisp thy name,
Burns in my soul 'an Aetna of pure flame'
Which none can quench nor aught on earth remove.
Back from the shrouded past, as with a spell,
Thy days of glory memory recalls,
And castles rise, and towers, and flanking walls,
And soldiers live, for thee dear land who fell;
But as from dreams of bliss men wake to mourn,
So mourn I when that vision is no more,
And in poor lays thy widowed fate deplore,
Thy trophies gone, thy beauteous laurels torn,
But Time shall yet be mocked;—though these decay,
I see broad streaks of a still brighter day.
The Rakhi.
Wear, wear this fillet round thy arm,
Thou brave and noble knight,
Thy gallant warhorse paws the ground,
Impatient for the fight.
