Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/The Bramin
THE BRAMIN.
It is a lovely solitude—the cliff,
Rich with embowering trees, and garlanded
With mantling creepers, towers above the skiff
Moored where the Ganges' sacred waters spread
Their wastes below—and crowning that green height
In graceful beauty, with its marble dome,
And terraced stairs, descending flight by flight,
Appears the holy Bramin's gorgeous home—
His temple, and his dwelling place—and there
He ponders o'er the Vedas day by day,
Passing the silent hours in lonely prayer,
Or shading from the sun's too fervent ray
The flowers he tends to deck the holy shrine,
Or strew the bright pagoda's granite floor;
And while his skilful hands the chaplets twine,
His thoughts above the world's dark confines soar.
At eve he trims the lamp, the beacon light
That beams within the Mhut's rich sculptured cell,
And when the stars announce approaching night,
With silvery sound awakes the vesper bell.
The Bramin's meals are frugal—some fair tree
Yields him its fruitage, and the precious grain
Springing around in rich fertility,
The few and simple wants of life sustain.
A scanty mat upon the pavement spread
Before the temple's threshold, where the sky
Above the tranquil sleeper's humble bed
Has flung its star-enamelled canopy,
Suffices for his resting place—his dress
Betrays not splendour's pomp, nor priestly pride,
Careless, and free from aught of costliness,
The triple thread across the shoulder tied,
Around the waist the muslin's ample fold
Reaching with graceful flow below the knee,
The snow-white turban round the temples rolled
Complete the unpretending drapery.
He asks nor gold nor gems—to him the lore
The Shaster's venerated page affords,
Is dearer far than all the glittering store
That worldly men have purchased with their swords.
Yet is he wealthy—the pomegranate droops
Its ruby blossoms to his gathering hand,
Its richly loaded bough the mango stoops,
And sheds its living gold at his command.
While sweeping round him are a gorgeous train,
Herons, and peacocks, doves, and paroquets;
The bulbul breathes to him its sweetest strain,
And pigeons nestle on the minarets.
While his peculiar care, the mournful bird,
Who when the sun has left the river's breast,
With restless wing and wailing cry is heard
Calling his mate to her deserted nest,
With the bright tribe around him lives unharmed;
There too the moping ape[1] securely dwells,
For the pagoda's dome-crowned height is charmed,
And prayers are potent as magicians' spells.
The Moosaulmaun the Bramin's law reveres,
Nor dyes his weapon in forbidden blood,
And even the Christian, from his sport forbears,
Within the precints of the sacred wood.
Courteous to all—the stranger from the west,
Who moors his budgerow on the strand beneath,
Is welcomed as the Bramin's honoured guest,
And for his hands are twined the brightest wreath.
Oh! who that has approached that holy fane
Can pass unheeding from the blessed spot,
Where peace, and hope, and sweet contentment reign,
Nor sigh with envy at the Bramin's lot,
Who purified and free from worldly care,
In sacred duties all his life employs,
And in earth's sorrows bearing little share,
The dearest, brightest bliss of Heaven enjoys?