Whose chaplets and whose odours sweet,
Goddess! to thee are offerings meet—
In gladness doth its leaves unfold
Full to the morning's beam of gold,
As if inspired with the love
Of the majestic sun above.
Dreadful river! in thy waves
His length the alligator laves,
And sharks and sea-hogs round him play,
Glad with the hope of human prey.
When summer with the hot sun crowned,
Showers her dazzling splendour round,
And brings forth in our Indian bowers
Refulgent days and lovely flowers.
To a Young Hindu Widow.
Ah, fair one! lone as desert flower,
Whose bloom and beauty are in vain;
How dark was that too fatal hour,
Which brought thee lasting grief and pain!
What is the world to thee forlorn!
Thine every path is desolate,
From all enjoyments rudely torn,
How drear and comfortless thy fate!
What pity, friendless, helpless, poor!
That such should be thine early lot—
Doomed to remain for ever more
As if thou in this world wert not.
And is there none—O! can it be?
None warm or friendly in thy cause?
Has pitiless humanity
Forgot its sacred ties and laws?
