Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/The North-Wester
THE NORTH-WESTER.
Evening approaches, and the tropic sun
The western arch of ruddy heaven has won,
And yielding to the balmy close of day,
Its scorching heat, its most oppressive ray,
Now mid ten thousand swiftly fading dyes
Looks smiling down from yonder roseate skies.
How beautiful, how placid, fair, and bright,
The gorgeous scene that greets its parting light!
The stately river's calm and waveless tide
In its deep slumber scarce is seen to glide;
So tranquil is the stream, the lotus crown
By some fond maid, or anxious lover thrown—
A bark of hope—unstirred upon its breast
In lingering tenderness appears to rest;
The idle golier from his flower-wreathed prow
With careless eye surveys the flood below;
And all the hundred oars that proudly sweep
The polished surface of the glassy deep,
Mocked by the lazy currents, vainly seek
To urge their shallops round yon woody creek,
Its marble wings up springing from the shade
By the dark peepul's glossy foliage made,
The waving niem, the willow-like bamboo,
And shrubs of fragrant scent and brilliant hue,
The Nazim's regal palace proudly gleams
In pearl-like splendour in the evening beams;
While each surrounding crag and sun-kissed slope
Crowned with the bright luxuriant mango tope,
Each vagrant creeper with its starry wreath,
Are softly mirrored in the stream beneath.
Where'er the wandering eyes delighted roam
From groves embowering peeps the graceful dome
Of some small mosque, or holy Bramin's cell,
Where the lamp glances, and the silvery bell
Makes gentle music in the balmy air;
No other sounds the listening echoes bear
On this calm eve, save snatches of sweet song
Which rise at intervals from yonder throng
Assembled on the terraced ghaut, and fling[1]
O'er Ganges' wave each flowery offering.
Sudden the fierce north-west breaks loose—and while
Half the bright landscape still is seen to smile,
The sultry air grows thick, the skies are dark,
The river swells, and now the struggling bark
Along the rushing wave is wildly driven,
And thunder bursts from every gate of heaven;
O'er tower and palace, hut, and holy fane
In frantic madness sweeps the hurricane;
And trees uprooted strew the earth; and air
Is filled with yells, and shrieks of wild despair.
The sun sinks down in splendour to the west,
The skies are in their richest colours drest;
And where a blackened wreck was seen to float,
A lamp within the palm nut's fragile boat
Glides tranquilly—the stars shine forth—the vale
Is vocal with the Bulbul's sweetest tale;
The air is gemmed with fire-flies; and the breeze
Is filled with perfume from the lemon trees:
The storm has passed—and now the sparkling river
Runs calm, and smooth, and beautiful as ever.
Moorshedabad, Aug. 1828.