India

Save Europe's Southern shores, what clime like this,
Luxurious, beautiful, and formed for bliss?
True, burning suns may wither central plains,
But on the airy hills Spring's freshness reigns,
And tank and nollah cool the forest-glade,
And zephyr plays beneath the banian's shade.
Match me, ye rivers! with that stream which flows,
A silver line, from distant Tibet's snows,
Then bursts its bounds, and pours its giant tide
By pagod, tower, and city of old pride,
Watering a vale whose dwellers number more
Than all who people Gaul, and Albion's shore.
Match me, ye hills! with Himmaleh's vast forms,
Where ice-bound Winter sits above the storms,
Sees through the gloom the bolt of thunder glow,
And frowns on Summer laughing far below.
Match me, ye gems! with those so pure that shine,
Like earth-born stars, in famed Golconda's mine.
Match me, ye Northern deserts! with that brute,
So huge, yet gentle — eloquent, though mute,
King of the woods, where, aged as their trees.
He walks his life of circling centuries!
Match me, ye seas! with those that roll and roar,
From Ganges' mouths, to Scindia's rock-girt shore,
Deep as the grave, and blue as skies above,
Now glassing heaven, and whispering as in love,
Now breathing stormy music, that might seem
The voice of Brahm awaking from his dream,
When calling Nature from the abyss of night,
And framing worlds of loveliness and light!

And this is India — soul and eye, spell-bound,
Might muse and gaze, such glories blazing round;
And still, despite all War's red bolts have riven,
And Time hath crushed, her sun is high in heaven.
Yes, since the day when Pella's conqueror came,
Bursting from Persia's hills with sword of flame,
And rajahs fled, and vanquished Porus sighed,
And Hindoo blood the deep Hydaspes dyed,
Ages small change have wrought; on hills and plains
Old customs live, the primal race remains.
The Hindoo mind still superstition sways,
Still to his Triune God the Brahmin prays;
The laws of "caste" each generous hope restrain,
And bind all mental powers with palsying chain.
Still lives that old belief the Samian taught —
Insects and brutes with human souls are fraught —
Souls doomed to wander for uncounted years,
Till, pure from earthly dross, they seek the spheres.