THE OPENING OF THE GANGES CANAL.

8th April 1854.

From distant-lying lands,Lone in grey surges of the misty north,The little band came forth,Who meet their God to-day with thankful prayer:The myriads clap their hands,Sons of the soil now desolate and bare,And their glad voices rise upon the morning air.It comes, long-wished-for, comes,The tamed and friendly flood,While blatant arms and rattling drumsSway to the peaceful conquest their unwonted mood.And you, O ancient peaks,Cold-glancing in the early sun!This crowd, in every murmur, speaksYour glory;—now is doneYour lonely age; your true life is begun:Still through the night, from ledge to ledgeThe avalanches fall,Still rears its crag and breathless edgeYour præmemorial wall;Yet may you swell our hymn to-day,Your old reproach is taken away,—Barren no more! Like her who boreIn her white age the lost hope of her prime,Yet heard the Heavenly pledge with glad surprise,Ye, having won your heritage from time,Lift your hoar heads with laughter to the skies.And years to come shall hear your praise,Far other than the fame of demon-gods,Holding their grim abodesOn Meru’s top through fabled sæcular days;Years hence, some aged man may say—Of those who stand to-dayBy the glad baptism of your youngest born;—Where, from his fruit-grove, far aroundHe eyes the green and affluent ground:—“I stood among them on that shining morn,I saw the ruler of the landLet loose the waters with an easy hand;The river, vainly idolised of yore,Now first her servants blessed;The white-topped mountains never boreUs benefit before,Till taught by those wise strangers of the West.One shade alone hung o’er us,To cloud the scene before us,And temper with humility our joy—One mild but earnest voice, though still,Told us of mingled good and ill,And the old moral of the world’s alloy!”Ah!—may our names, like his,[148]be known,When we are passed and grownBut Memories, as Greek and Moghul are,By deeds like these alone,True triumphs, that atone,And vindicate the violence of war.H.G.K.

From distant-lying lands,

Lone in grey surges of the misty north,

The little band came forth,

Who meet their God to-day with thankful prayer:

The myriads clap their hands,

Sons of the soil now desolate and bare,

And their glad voices rise upon the morning air.

It comes, long-wished-for, comes,The tamed and friendly flood,While blatant arms and rattling drumsSway to the peaceful conquest their unwonted mood.

It comes, long-wished-for, comes,

The tamed and friendly flood,

While blatant arms and rattling drums

Sway to the peaceful conquest their unwonted mood.

And you, O ancient peaks,Cold-glancing in the early sun!This crowd, in every murmur, speaksYour glory;—now is doneYour lonely age; your true life is begun:

And you, O ancient peaks,

Cold-glancing in the early sun!

This crowd, in every murmur, speaks

Your glory;—now is done

Your lonely age; your true life is begun:

Still through the night, from ledge to ledgeThe avalanches fall,Still rears its crag and breathless edgeYour præmemorial wall;Yet may you swell our hymn to-day,Your old reproach is taken away,—

Still through the night, from ledge to ledge

The avalanches fall,

Still rears its crag and breathless edge

Your præmemorial wall;

Yet may you swell our hymn to-day,

Your old reproach is taken away,—

Barren no more! Like her who boreIn her white age the lost hope of her prime,Yet heard the Heavenly pledge with glad surprise,Ye, having won your heritage from time,Lift your hoar heads with laughter to the skies.

Barren no more! Like her who bore

In her white age the lost hope of her prime,

Yet heard the Heavenly pledge with glad surprise,

Ye, having won your heritage from time,

Lift your hoar heads with laughter to the skies.

And years to come shall hear your praise,Far other than the fame of demon-gods,Holding their grim abodesOn Meru’s top through fabled sæcular days;Years hence, some aged man may say—Of those who stand to-dayBy the glad baptism of your youngest born;—Where, from his fruit-grove, far aroundHe eyes the green and affluent ground:—“I stood among them on that shining morn,I saw the ruler of the landLet loose the waters with an easy hand;The river, vainly idolised of yore,Now first her servants blessed;The white-topped mountains never boreUs benefit before,Till taught by those wise strangers of the West.

And years to come shall hear your praise,

Far other than the fame of demon-gods,

Holding their grim abodes

On Meru’s top through fabled sæcular days;

Years hence, some aged man may say—

Of those who stand to-day

By the glad baptism of your youngest born;—

Where, from his fruit-grove, far around

He eyes the green and affluent ground:—

“I stood among them on that shining morn,

I saw the ruler of the land

Let loose the waters with an easy hand;

The river, vainly idolised of yore,

Now first her servants blessed;

The white-topped mountains never bore

Us benefit before,

Till taught by those wise strangers of the West.

One shade alone hung o’er us,To cloud the scene before us,And temper with humility our joy—One mild but earnest voice, though still,Told us of mingled good and ill,And the old moral of the world’s alloy!”

One shade alone hung o’er us,

To cloud the scene before us,

And temper with humility our joy—

One mild but earnest voice, though still,

Told us of mingled good and ill,

And the old moral of the world’s alloy!”

Ah!—may our names, like his,[148]be known,When we are passed and grownBut Memories, as Greek and Moghul are,By deeds like these alone,True triumphs, that atone,And vindicate the violence of war.H.G.K.

Ah!—may our names, like his,[148]be known,

When we are passed and grown

But Memories, as Greek and Moghul are,

By deeds like these alone,

True triumphs, that atone,

And vindicate the violence of war.

H.G.K.

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