Who in the pride and pomp of state
Hath ever found his spirit's rest?
In Glory's thraldom who was blest?
What is there in a pageant's blaze
To cheer a monarch's eye?
And why should flattery's voice subdue,
Or why should dazzling trinkets woo,
Or vests of purple dye,
That soul which God has deign'd to raise
Above the reach of vulgar pain,
And fortune's frown, and pride's disdain?
I scorn the applause of servile men,
The wicked passions shun;
Nor would I barter for renown,
A richer jewel than my crown,
The feelings which I own:
I seek the poor in every den;
The rustic's cheerful hearth is mine,
I laugh with him—with him repine.
The friends with whom my footsteps ranged
O'er barren rock and hill.
To them with haughtiness to speak,
This faithful heart would surely break,
And be for ever still:
I find my feelings are unchanged,
Or I these royal robes would scorn,
And be again what I was born.
When I was low I ne'er repined,
Nor cursed my humble lot;
I never ask'd for wealth or pride,
Ne'er turn'd from poverty aside,
My duty ne'er forgot;
Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/105
SHOSHEE CHUNDER DUTT.
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