Yet 'twas not might of foreign foe
That laid yon ruined fortress low!
Our slender bark makes little way
Striving against the current's flight,
And soon the sun's fast fading ray
Will melt into the shades of night.
Come—I will tell the tale to thee,
While our small pinnace lazily
Glides to its place of destined rest;
And while on Jumna's roseate breast
The beautiful reflection glows
Of turret tall and arching port,
And on its liquid mirror shews
The outline of the crumbling fort.
Then winding through yon steep defile
We'll leave these lowly scenes[1] a while,
And wandering o'er the teeming plains
White with the cotton's bursting pod,
Or through the clustering sugar canes,
The crested parrot's sweet abode,
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