The Bengali Book of English Verse/To Lord Canning (Govin Chunder Dutt)
To Lord Canning.
Though a thousand pens condemned thee, mine still should write thy praise;
Though a thousand tongues reviled thee, mine still should pæans raise;
For factious clamours heeding not, that only call for blood,
True to thy duty and thy race, Lord Canning, thou hast stood.
What is the meed of thy deserts? Let history blush to tell!
A foul memorial of recall sent o'er the ocean's swell;
And from the press—a press, alas! long held in honour too—
The daily sneer for justice done, as God hath taught to do!
Is this the meed of thy deserts? No, no, it cannot be!
All England's best and noblest are heart and soul with thee!
And India's swarthy children, from hill and field and town,
Lift up the voice with one acclaim, and blessings summon down.
And the next age—shall it not hear, with wonder and with awe,
How amidst rancour, hate, and strife, thou sternly gavest law?
'He governed all alike'—'twill say—'all races and all creeds,
He judged not men by skin or faith, he judged them by their deeds.'
And the next life? Is there not one when God shall judge us all,
The peasant from his cottage and the ruler from his hall?
Then who shall justified appear, and who shall win the crown?
The man that strove for duty, or the man that sought renown?
All that a bold wise heart can do—all that a righteous may,
Was done the bursting storm to quell in India's evil day!
But a heavy task is still on hand, for an omniscient God
Hath women's blood and children's seen run reeking on the sod.
Yes, a heavy task remains behind—a burden's laid on thee,
Thou hast been chosen Minister—such is thy destiny;
Oh, pray—for highest counsel pray!— of such shalt thou have need,
For vengeance is a fearful thing—and vengeance is decreed.
Strike thou and home, but not in wrath fulfil a high command;
Avenging angels weep to smite a sin-o'erburdened land;
Strike, mourning, at the word of God, and hold at His behest
These words in water are not writ—'The merciful are blest.'
It is not for her trampled flag that England bares her sword;
It is not for a just revenge upon a murderous horde;
It is to prove to blood-stained men, self-blinded of their sight,
That evil hath no chance with good or darkness with the light.
But guiltless blood, where'er it flows, in black or white men's veins
Is precious in the sight of Him who trieth heart and reins;
Oh, watch it be not shed in vain!—Oh, act as heretofore!
And let a wreath-encircled name one priceless wreath have more.