NIGHT ON THE GANGES.
How calm, how lovely is the soft repose
Of nature sleeping in the summer night;
How sweet, how lullingly the current flows
Beneath the stream of melted chrysolite,
Where Ganges spreads its floods,—reflecting o'er
Its silvery surface, with those countless stars
The ingot gems of Heaven's cerulean floor,
Mosques, groves, and cliffs, and pinnacled minars.
The air is fresh, and yet the evening breeze
Has died away; so hushed, 'tis scarcely heard
To breathe amid the clustering lemon trees,
Whose snowy blossoms, by its faint sighs stirred,
Give out their perfume; and the bulbul's notes
Awake the echoes of the balmy clime;
While from yon marble-domed pagoda floats
The music of its bell's soft, silvery chime.
