Say, is it that thou loath'st the land
Where pallid Mullicks reign?
Then aid, oh aid, our feeble hands,
Or we shall fight in vain:
For think not that we tamely bow
To be the things we are,
No, they are strong—but Ganges, thou,
Oh! thou art stronger far.
Lost is our sway, our land, our name,
Low—low beneath the yoke,
Our spirits bend in grief and shame.
Oh! haste ere they be broke.
From Himalay to Serendeep,
Ascends one endless prayer.
Thou canst not die—thou canst not sleep,
Then where art thou—oh where?
The Rajpoot's Lament.
Shades of the mighty, mighty dead.
Then have ye lived and died in vain?
And are ye fled, for ever fled.
With all the glories of your reign,
And left the world ye used to bless,
In guilt as deep—in need no less—
Than when ye burst upon its guilt,
And half the blood it bore was spilt?
The Keytrie's pride—the Brahmin's god—
Shall both be trampled and o'erthrown?
And the pure land your footsteps trod.
Stoop to a race to you unknown;
And will ye sleep, for ever sleep,
While good men pray, and brave ones weep,
And native honour's latest gasp.
Is ebbing in the oppressor's grasp?