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.
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