The rigours of a life austere,
Followed by every fear and shame,
Await thee as thy portion here:
What is thy being but a name?
Thou may'st not, dar'st not, must not hope
A joy upon the world beneath;
But thou must e'er with sorrows cope,
Sorrows which only end in death.
And thou art doomed to be at strife
For ever with thyself, to quell
The very elements of life,
And every brighter thought repel.
Is this the all, or should it be
The all that here to thee is left?
And must the world remain to thee
A scene of every charm bereft?
Storm and Rain.
The mighty demons of the storm have met
In battle fierce. Relentless anger fires
Their bosoms, proud of desolating power.
Their swords in rapid wavings flash; and oft
In lightning gleams illume the darkened earth.
Hark! how they vaunt in thunder deep and loud,
And madly howling, rave athwart the arch
Of heaven; convolving Gunga's waters deep;
Which wildly running to and fro, dismayed,
Or upward bounding high, appear as if
They wish to break loose from their beds to fly
The tempest's rage. Beneath its headlong speed
