Whose foot is on the Brahmin's land?
A foot the country had not borne.
Whose hand is on the soldier brand?
A hand the soldier holds in scorn.
Whose lance is in the country's heart?
A lance more odious than its smart.
Who fill the thrones ye reared of old?
The slaves of slaves, whose God is gold.
Soft Gunga checks her troubled wave,
And slave-like weeps with veiled brow;
'Twas there, 'twas there ye bid us lave,
And will ye, can ye bid us now?
The pomp and pride of native sway,
Our lands, our names have past away.
And will ye never, never aid,
To guard the rights your glory made.
Shades of the mighty, who shall dare
To say ye are not mighty still?
Your whispers breathe in every air.
Your spirits move in every thrill.
Dim—thro' the misty gulf of years—
Dim—thro' the glimmering veil of tears—
I see ye—warriors stern and grey,
I see ye—but no other may.
I breathed it to the rushing flood.
The water's murmuring voice replied;
I breathed it to the waving wood,
The conscious branches bowed and sighed;
I told the rock, I told the cloud,
And they returned it doubly loud;
I spoke it in the haunts of men.
And not a voice was heard again.
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W. F. THOMPSON.