25
The ghurrees chime the evening hour,
O'er the red west the sun-beam glances,
And from each arch-way, gate, and tower,
In countless groups a croud advances.
While upon every pinnacle,
Or temple's roof, or pillared screen,
Each tower-embastioned citadel,
To gaze upon the passing scene
The people throng, like clust'ring bees
Swarming around the almond trees.
And all the baths and the bazars
With many coloured cloths are hung,
And flowers as bright as shooting stars
Are from the high verandahs flung;
While slowly through the crowding throng
Which from the streets and temples pour,
A stately pageant moves along,
And winds its way to Ganges' shore.
