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.
