TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY DEAR DAUGHTER
KAMALA.
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.
SEETA AND RAMA—A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE
THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS
CHANDRA—A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIKÓTA
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