Who hath not seen thee, fair one, when the day
Urges his coursers o'er the dappled clouds,
Flit o'er the dewsprent lawns in green array?
Who hath not seen thee when the evening shrouds
The landscape hushed, by skirt of forest wide,
Listening transfixed to echoes floating there,
Pale as a statue and as motionless;
Or kneeling by the margin of a stream,
Wherein thine image might be dimly spied,
While the winds dallied with thy bosom bare,
And raised thy robes, and oft in wantonness
Rippled thy mirror, to destroy thy dream?
Who hath not seen thee in his chamber still
At dead of night? For me, I've seen thee oft,
When through the lattice came the moonlight chill,
With incense from the garden borne aloft.
The star of peace flamed ever on thy brow
Just where the hair was parted, and thy face,
That pale and pensive face, was aye serene
As a white lotus on its watery throne:
One hand upheld a verdant cypress bough,
The other on thy lip with artless grace
A finger pressed—while o'er thy head was seen,
Round yet apart, a rainbow-tinted zone.
Yes, I have seen thee many and many a night,
But silent ever, and thine eyes have made
(Those eyes where quiver passion's tear drops bright)
A deep impression on my heart, and laid
A spell upon me that I may not rend—
A spell that half unfits me for the strife
Recurring constant in the work-day world.
Ah! how I long to linger by thy side
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GOVIN CHUNDER DUTT.
