16
THE DYING HINDOO.
He lies beside the sacred river,
His heart has lost life's ruddy glow,
His sighs are faint, his pulses quiver,
And death's chill damps are on his brow.
Within yon green and bowery glade
Whose path the smile of sunshine wears,
Beneath the lofty palm tree's shade
His loved though lowly hut appears.
And near him well known sounds arise
With joyous songs and laughter fraught,
And now his glazed and languid eyes
Are turned towards the village-ghaut.
There all is cheerful, as of yore,
When with the sun's declining beam
He too had sought the Ganges' shore,
And bathed within its hallowed stream.
