THE GANGES.
On sweeps the mighty river—calmly flowing,
Through the eternal flowers,
That light the summer hours,
Year after year, perpetual in their blowing.
Over the myriad plains that current ranges,
Itself as clear and bright
As in its earliest light,
And yet the mirror of perpetual changes.
Here must have ceased the echo of those slaughters,
When stopped the onward jar
Of Macedonian war,
Whose murmur only reached thy ancient waters.
Yet have they reddened with the fierce outpouring
Of human blood and life,
When over kingly strife
The vulture on his fated wing was soaring.
How oft its watch, impatient of the morrow,
Hath mortal misery kept,
Beside thy banks, and wept,
Kissing thy quiet night-winds with their sorrow.
Yet thou art on thy course majestic keeping,
Unruffled by the breath
Of man's vain life or death,
Calm as the heaven upon thy bosom sleeping.
Still dost thou keep thy calm and onward motion,
Amid the ancient ranks
Of forests on thy banks,
Till thou hast gained thy home—the mighty ocean.
And thou dost scatter benefits around thee:
Thy silver current yields
Life to the green rice-fields,
That have like an enchanted girdle bound thee.
33
