The star that rose to cheer our humble life,

And make a little heaven of our home,

Shall rise again—yes, surely rise again

To give us everlasting joy divine.

A poet of my native land has said—

The life the good and virtuous lead on earth

Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East,

Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair.

The eyes may smart and water, but withal

She loves to please them that behold her face.

E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been.

Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine

Have purified, likewise ennobled man.

And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine,

But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep

In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page?

To please and teach the world for two dear ones

You mourned—a friend in youth, a son in age

'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy

To one lone mortal is not lived in vain;

But lives like thine God grants as shining lights

That we in darkness Him aright may see.

Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset

Do shine the more and better teach His ways.

Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one

Obscure—a stranger in a distant land.

Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words

Which do but half express the grief he feels.

It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:—

A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills

That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold

Communion with the changing skies above;

Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys

And wearied peasants in the midday noon;

A lake that shone in lustre clear and bright

Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst

Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs

Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids

With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear

Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale

Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes

Of future plenty and of future joys.

Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys!

In this enchanted hollow that was scooped—

For so it seemed—by God's own mighty hand,

Where Nature shower'd her richest gifts to make

Another paradise, stood Krishnapore

With her two score and seven huts reared by

The patient labour of her simple men.

In this blest hamlet one there was that owned

Its richest lands: beloved by all its men,

Their friend in times of need, their guide in life,

Partaker of their joys and woes as well,

The arbiter of all their petty strifes.

By him his friend the village master lived

That at his door a group of children taught;

A man he was well versed in ancient lore;

And oft at night, when ended was their toil,

The villagers with souls enraptured heard him

In fiery accents speak of Krishna's deeds

And Rama's warlike skill, and wondered that

He knew so well the deities they adored.

One only daughter this schoolmaster had,

And Seeta was her name, the prettiest maid

In all the village, nursed by the fond cares

Of her indulgent sire, and loved with all

The tender feelings that pure love inspires

By the rich villager's only son, the heir

Of all his father's wealth; the best at school,

The boldest of the village youths at play,

And the delight of all those that saw him;

And these seemed such a fitting pair that oft

The secret whisper round the village ran

That Seeta was to wed the rich man's son.

Thus, in this Eden, its blest inmates lived

And passed their days, the villagers at the fields,

Their busy women at the blazing hearths,

The village master at his cottage door,

And Rama and fair Seeta in true love.

Hither a monster came, that slowly sucked

The vigour, the very life of Krishnapore.

The brilliant lustre of the diamond lake,

The emerald greenness of the waving fields,

The shady groves and pleasant cottage grounds,

And all the beauties of the happy vale

Soon vanished imperceptibly, as if

Some unconsuming furnace underneath

Had baked the earth and rendered it all bare,

Until its inmates wandered desolate,

With hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, and haggard faces,

Like walking skeletons pasted o'er with skin.

No more would blooming girls with pitchers laden

Repair to the clear lake while curling smoke

Rose from their cottage roofs; no more at morn

Would Rama be the first at school to see

His Seeta deck her father's house with flowers;

No more at eve the village master pour

From Hindu lore the mighty deeds of gods

To the delighted ears of simple men;

For these have left their lands and their dear homes.

And Seeta with her father left her cot,

And cast behind, with a deep, heavy sigh,

One ling'ring look upon that vale where she

Was born and fondly nursed,—where glided on

Her days in pleasure and pure innocence,—

Where Rama lived and loved her tenderly.

Her father died of hunger on the way,

And the lone creature wandered in the streets

Of towns from door to door, and vainly begged

For food, till some, deep moved by the sad tales

Of the lone straggler, safely lodged her in

A famine camp, where, heavy laden with

A double sorrow (for her lover too,

She thought, had died), her tedious life she spent.

And days and weeks and months thus rolled away,

Until at last her love for the dead youth

Mysterious waned, and, like a shallow lamp,

Burnt in her breast with nothing to feed it.

One day the news went through the famine shed

That a lean youth, plucked from the very arms

Of cruel death, was tenderly nursed there;

And all its inmates hurried to the scene.

Poor Seeta saw the youth, and that sad sight

She ne'er forgot; the youth was in her mind

Too firmly rooted to be rooted out,

Who ev'ry day in strength and beauty grew, till he

Appeared the fairest youth in all the camp.

First pity for the youth, then love for him

Mysterious came to her, until at last

The flick'ring flame shone sudden in her breast.

"This stranger I must wed, for him I love,

I know not how; that pleasant face is like

The face of him I dearly loved; I see

Appearing ev'ry day upon that face,

As if by magic wrought, those beauties that

Were seated on dead Rama's face." Thus mused

This maiden of the camp, and the fair youth

Thus kindled in her breast the hidden flame

Of love and fed it ever with new strength,

Which shone again in all its purity.

As the moon whose effulgence hidden lies

When dimmed by clouds, suddenly blazes forth

And in her wonted beauty shines again

What time she darts into the cloudless vault,

So shone again in lovely Seeta's breast

The lamp of love by clouds of sorrow dimmed.

The smothered passion suddenly blazed forth

In brighter lustre, and to her returned

With double force, as when the flaming fire

Is smothered when more fuel is on it thrown,

And straightway flames and gives a brighter light.

At last the monster left the land, the camp

Was broke, its inmates left it for their homes.

England, would that one of thy sons were there

To hear what words, what blessings now burst from

Their inward hearts for nursing them when they

From all estranged had poured into thine arms!

Poor Seeta hastened to the youth she loved,

And to him with a gladdened heart thus spake:—

Her rosy lips, just oped to speak, were like

A half-blown rosebud blossoming all at once;

Such magic was wrought on her ere she spake:

"Kind stranger, whither goest thou? I am

A lonely maiden, and friends I have none;

And thee alone I trust as my safe guide

To Krishnapore.""Dear maid! thy sorrows cease;

My way now lies through Krishnapore: fear not,

I shall restore thee to thy home and friends;

Trust me as your safe guide and dearest friend."

She, overjoyed, recounted to the youth

Her tale—how she, her father's only hope

And pride, reluctant left their native vale

And cottage home; how he died on the way,

And she, a lonely creature, wandered in

The streets from door to door and begged for food;

How she was taken to the famine camp;

How he, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes,

Was brought one day and there nursed tenderly;

And how in beauty ev'ry day he grew

Until like her dead Rama he appeared.

The village youth, unable any more

Now to suppress him, suddenly exclaimed,

"Look here, whose name is on this arm tattooed?"

"O Rama, Krishna, Govinda, and all

Ye Gods that I adore, ye have blest me;

This is the happiest moment in my life,

And this the happiest spot in all the earth,

For now my long-lost Rama I have found."

So saying, she intently gazed on him.

As a rich mine pours forth its hidden wealth

To the delight of those that day and night

Court eagerly its treasures them t' enrich;

So from this lovely pair's deep mine of feelings,

What honeyed words escaped now through their lips

To their intense joy, better far than all

The treasures any ample mine bestows!

With sweet talk they beguiled their tedious way;

The verdant hills sublime rose to the view;

The broad lake glittered diamond-like again;

And wreathing smoke curled from the cottage roofs;

The lovely vale became the lovely vale

Again, and all the long forgotten scenes

In quick succession flowed before them both;

And never was a happier marriage seen

In all that happy vale of Krishnapore.

It was the month of May, and glorious rose

The sun on Jinji, bathing in his light

Her lofty hills, her ancient walls and towers,

Her battlements, and all the glittering scene

That bade the stranger tell—"here lives a prince;"

And greeting late, as if too long he slept

Upon his ocean bed, the eager crowd

That in their best attire at early dawn

Fast gathered from their hamlets far and wide,

And like a hive swarmed on the castled hills.

Perhaps some village poet waited there,

Who day and night toiled hard in metres rare

To sing the deeds and virtues of his prince

And trace them on the leaves of that lone palm

Which stood close by his humble cottage home.

Perhaps with faces that bespoke deep grief

A troop of farmers there had come to tell

To their sport-loving prince the havoc wrought

Upon their toiling cattle by wild beasts

That nightly from their hill abodes came down

To feast on them. And in that motley crowd

Were servants of the state and many more

Who long had waited merely for a glimpse

Of their just ruler Désing holding court.

But soon there echoed through the lofty hills

The sound of th' Indian bugle and the drum

Proclaiming the arrival of the prince;

And often, as the new flood rushing down

With the still waters of a sleeping stream,

Leaves nought behind, and all is vacancy,

Or as the dim light of a shallow lamp

Suddenly blazes forth and soon is quenched,

So louder rose the clamour of the crowd

At the sound of the bugle and the drum,

Then straightway in deep silence died away,

And perfect stillness reigned everywhere.

Upon his gorgeous throne sat Jinji's prince

With servants fanning him on either side;

And in a place of honour sate in that

Capacious hall his holy Brahmin priest,

The master of his well-trained army there,

The chief and trusted min'ster of the state,

The aged poet that his praises sang,

The sage that, versed in all the starry lore,

His royal master's fortunes daily told;

The painter that adorned those ancient walls,

And countless other servants of the prince

There gathered each in his accustomed seat.

Then from the gate approached a trusty page,

And said with folded hands and trembling lips—

"O royal master, at the gate there waits

A man of noble mien from the far north

Requesting audience on affairs of state."

"Conduct him to our presence," said the prince.

The stranger came,—upon the floor he knelt

And said—"Thou mighty prince of these fair lands,

I come from Arcot, and the Nabob sent

His humble servant to demand of thee

Thy dues which these five years thou hast not paid.

Know, then, if these are not now duly paid,

From thee he will these broad dominions wrest,

And give them those who will his rule obey."

The angry prince made answer—"Go and tell

Your master that his vain threats move us not,

Say we will gladly meet him on the