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And cymbal's clang and trumpet's wail
Are mellowed by the wafting gale.
'Tis Durga's festival, and hers
The rites—and now her worshippers
Bring forth the goddess—to and fro
The bands in solemn pageant row.
Hymning her praises, as they sweep
The populous stream; till in the deep
They clamorous toss at set of sun
The idol—and the rite is done.

Such are the scenes the Ganges shows.
As to the sea it rapid flows:
And all who love the works to scan
Of nature or the thoughts of man,
May here unquestionably find
Pleasure and profit for the mind.