MANMADIN.
251
Tempest winds rush fierce along,
Bearing yet a sound of song;
Music's on the tempest's wing,
Wafting thee, young Manmadin!
Pillowed on a lotus flower,
Gathered in a summer hour,
Rides he o'er the mountain wave
Which would be a tall ship's grave!
At his back his bow is slung,
Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,—
Bees born with the buds of spring,
Yet with each a deadly sting;—
Grasping in his infant hand
Arrows in their silken band,
Each made of a signal flower,
Emblem of its varied power;
