O, GOLDEN shores, primeval home of man,
How glorious is thy dwelling, Hindostan!
Thine are these smiling valleys, bright with bloom,
Wild woods and sandal-groves, that breathe perfume,
Thine, these fair skies — where morn's returning ray,
Has swept the starry robe of night away,
And gilt each dome, and minaret, and tow'r,
Gemm'd every stream, and tinted every flow'r.
But dark the spirit within thee; — from old time
Still o'er thee rolls the whelming flood of crime,
Still o'er thee broods the curse of guiltless blood,
That shouts for vengeance from thy reeking sod:
Deep-flowing Ganges in his rushy bed
Moans a sad requiem for his children dead,
And, wafted frequent on the passing gale,
Rises the orphan's sigh — the widow's wail.
Hark, 'tis the rolling of the funeral drum,
The white-robed Brahmins see, they come, they come,
Bringing, with frantic shouts, and torch, and trump,
And mingled signs of melancholy pomp,
That livid corpse, brone solemnly on high —
And yon faint trembling victim, doom'd to die.
Still, as with measured step they move along:
With fiercer joy they weave the mystic song:
Eswara, crown'd with forests, thee they praise,
Birmha, to thee the full-toned chorus raise;
To ocean — where the loose sail mariners furl,
And seek in coral caves the virgin pearl,
And to the source of Ganga's sacred streams,
Bright with the gold of Surya's morning beams,
Where on her lotus-throne Varuna sings,
And weeping Peris lave their azure wings:
They shout to Kali, of the red right hand,
Bid Aglys toss on high the kindled brand,
And far from Himalaya's frozen steep,
In whirlwind-car bid dark Pavanah sweep;
They chant of one, whom Azräel waits to guide
O'er the black gulf of death's unfathom'd tide;
Of her, whose spotless life to Seeva giv'n,
Bursts for her lord the golden gates of heav'n,
Of her — who thus in dreadful triumph led,
Dares the unhallowed bridal of the dead!

And there in silent fear she stands alone,
The desolate, unpitied, widowed one:
Too deeply taught in life's sad tale of grief,
In the calm house of death she hopes relief,
For few the pleasures India's daughter knows,
A child of sorrow, nursed in want and woes.
Curst from the womb, how oft a mother's fear
In silence o'er thee dropt the bitter tear,
Lest a stern sire to Ganga's holy wave
Should madly consecrate the life he gave:
Cradled on superstition's sable wing
In joyless gloom passed childhood's early spring,
And still, as budded fair thy youthful mind,
None bade thee seek, none taught thee, truth to find:
Poor child! that never raised the suppliant pray'r,
Nor look'd to heav'n, and saw a Father there,
Untutor'd by religion's gentle sway
To love, believe, be happy, and obey.
Betroth'd in artless infancy to one
Thy warm affections never beam'd upon,
How shouldst thou smile, when ripe in beauty's pride
The haughty Rajah claim'd his destin'd bride?
A trembling slave, and not the loving wife,
Pass'd the short summer of thy hapless life;
And now to deck that bier, that pile to crown;
His fiery sepulchre becomes — thine own.

And must it be, that in a spot so fair
Shall rise the madden'd shriek of wild despair?
The lovely spot, where glows in every part
The smile of nature on the pomp of art;
The banian spreads its hospitable shade,
The bright bird warbles in the leafy glade,
The matted palm, and wild anana's bloom,
The light pagoda, the majestic dome,
With emerald plains, and ocean's distant blue,
Cast their rich tints and shadows o'er the view,
But Murder here must wash his bloody hand,
And Superstition shake the flaming brand,
And Terror cast around an eager eye
To look for one to save — where none is nigh!
Far other incense than the breath of day
From that dark corpse must waft the soul away,
Far other moans than of the muffled drum
Herald the lingering spirit to its home:
Yes — thou must perish: and that gentle frame
Must struggle frantic with the circling flame,
Constant in weal and wo, for death, for life,
The victim widow, as the victim wife.
Hoping, despairing — friendless, and forlorn,
The death she may not fly, she strives to scorn:
Lists to the tale that bright-wing'd Peris wait
To waft her to Kalaisa's crystal gate —
Thinks how her car of fire shall speed along,
Hailed by high praises, and Kinnura's song —
And upward gazing in a speechless trance,
Darts earnestly the keen ecstatic glance,
Till rapt imagination cleaves the sky,
And hope delusive points the way — to die.
Who hath not felt, in some celestial hour,
When fear's dark thunder-clouds have ceased to lour,
When angels beckon on the fluttering soul
To realms of bliss beyond her mortal goal,
When heavenly glories bursting on the sight,
The raptured spirit bathes in seas of light,
And soars aloft upon the seraph's wing, —
How boldly she can brave death's tyrant sting?
Thus the poor girl's enthusiastic mind
Revels in hope of blessings undefin'd,
Roams o'er the flow'rs of earth, the joys of sense,
And frames her paradise of glory thence:
For oft as memory's retrospective eye
Glanced at the blighted joys of days gone by,
How sadly sweet appear'd those smiling hours
When hope had strew'd life's thorny path with flow'rs,
How dark, and shadow'd o'er with fearful gloom,
The unimagined horrors of the tomb!
When she remembered all her joys and pain,
And in a moment lived her life again,
Each sorrow seem'd to smile, that frown'd before —
Her cup of blessing then was running o'er —
Days pass'd in grief, beam'd now in hues of bliss,
Fancy gilt them, but terrors clouded this!
Yet swift her spirit, resolutely proud,
Scorn'd every hope, by mercy disallow'd:
The priests have long invoked their idol god,
The murd'rous pile, his altar, thirsts for blood —
A horrid silence summons to the grave,
All wait for her — and none stands forth to save.
O, shall she tremble now, nor die the same —
Shall she not fearless rush into the flame?
From her dark eye she strikes the rising tear,
And firmly mounts the pile — a widow's bier.
Instant, with furious zeal and willing hands,
Attendant Brahmins ply the ready brands;
And as the flames are raging fierce and high,
And mount in rushing columns to the sky,
Lest those wild shrieks, or pity's soft appeal
Should rouse one hand to save, one heart to feel,
Madly exulting in their victim's doom
They heap with fiendish haste her fiery tomb —
Clash the loud cymbals, wake the trumpet's note,
Roll the deep drum, and raise the deafening shout,
Till in dread discord through the startled air
Rise the mixt yells of triumph and despair!

Britain, whose pitying hand is stretch'd to save
From despot's iron chain the writhing slave;
Where freedom's sons, at wild oppression's shriek,
Feel the hot tear bedew the manly cheek —
Where the kind sympathies of social life
Sweeten the cup to one no more a wife,
Where mis'ry never pray'd nor sigh'd in vain —
Shall India's widow'd daughters bleed again?
Let wreaths more glorious deck Britannia's head
Than theirs, who fiercely fought, or nobly bled,
Wreaths such as happy spirits wear above,
Gemm'd with the tears of gratitude and love,
Where palm and olive, twined with almond bloom,
Tell of triumphant peace and mercy's rich perfume;
And ye, whose young and kindling hearts can feel
The prayer of pity fan the flame of zeal,
Trace the blest path illustrious Heber trod,
And lead the poor idolator to God!
Thus, in that happy land where nature's voice
Sings at her toil, and bids the world rejoice,
No guiltless blood her paradise shall stain,
No demon rites her holy courts profane,
No howl of superstition rend the air,
No widow's cry, no orphan's tear, be there —
India shall cast her idol gods away,
And bless the promise of undying day.