Uprear'd on twenty wheels elate,
Huge as a Ship, the bridal car appear'd;
Loud creak its ponderous wheels, as through the gate
A thousand Bramins drag the enormous load.
There thron'd aloft in state,
The image of the seven-headed God
Came forth from his abode; and at his side
Sate Kailyal like a bride;
A bridal statue rather might she seem,
For she regarded all things like a dream,
Having no thought, nor fear, nor will, nor aught
Save hope and faith, that liv'd within her still.
O silent night, how have they startled thee
With the brazen trumpet's blare!
And thou, O Moon! whose quiet light serene
Filleth wide heaven, and bathing hill and wood,
Spreads o'er the peaceful valley like a flood,
How have they dimm'd thee with the torches' glare,
Which round yon moving pageant flame and flare,
As the wild rout, with deafening song and shout,
Fling their long flashes out,
That, like infernal lightnings, fire the air.
A thousand pilgrims strain
Arm, shoulder, breast and thigh, with might and main,
To drag the sacred wain,
And scarce can draw along the enormous load.
Prone fall the frantic votaries in its road,
And, calling on the God,
Their self-devoted bodies there they lay
To pave his chariot-way.
On Jaga-Naut they call,
The ponderous Car rolls on, and crushes all.
Through blood and bones it ploughs its dreadful path,
Groans rise unheard; the dying cry,
And death and agony
Are trodden under foot by yon mad throng,
Who follow close, and thrust the deadly wheels along.
Pale grows the Maid at this accursed sight;
The yells which round her rise
H ve rous'd her with affright,
And fear hath given to her dilated eyes
Where shall those eyes be turn'd? she knows not where! Downward they dare not look, for there
Is death and horror, and despair;
Nor can her patient looks to Heaven repair,
For the huge Idol over her, in air,
Spreads his seven hideous heads, and wide
Extends their snaky necks on every side;
And all around, behind, before,
The bridal Car, is the raging rout,
With frantic shout, and deafening roar,
Tossing the torches' flames about.
And the double double peals of the drum are there,
And the startling burst of the trumpet's blare;
And the gong that seems, with its thunders dread,
To stun the living, and waken the dead.
The ear strings throb as if they were broke,
And the eye-lids drop at the weight of its stroke.'
Fain would the Maid have kept them fast,
But open they start at the crack of the blast.
ES! there are real mourners---I have seen
A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seem'd t'expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;
But when her weary'd parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted Youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,
And sadly sacred held the parting-scene;
Where last for Sea he took his leave---that place
With double interest would she nightly trace:
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,---" This once, and then the day:"
Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,
He drew from pitying Love a full consent.
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort Men at Sea can know,
Was her's to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland saild, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger: dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the Fever in his blood:
His messmates smi'd at flushings in his cheek,
And be too smil'd, but seldomn would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his Friend, and prefac'd with a sigh
A Lover's message---" Thomas, I must die:
"Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
And gazing go!---it not, this trifle take,
And say 'till death I wore it for her sake: "Yes! I must die---blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
"O! give me that, and let me not despair,
"One last fond look---and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish-had more; I will not paint
The Lover's meeting: she beheld him faint,---
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die," and hope for ever fled,
Still long she nurs'd him; tender thoughts meantime
Were interchang'd, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With bim she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Sooth'd the faint heart, and held the aching head:
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sigh'd; alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot,
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so---' perhaps he will not sink.'
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was hear'd ;---
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth and placed him in a chair: • Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favourite few; Nor one that day did he to mind recall, But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people---death has made them dear. He nam'd his Friend, but then his hand she press'd, And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;" ' I go,' he said, but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound; Then gaz'd affrighten'd; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past!
She plac'd a decent Stone his Grave above,
Neatly engrav'd---an offering of her Love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to Duty and the Dead;
She would have griev'd, had friends presum'd to spare
The least assistance---'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if Observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid; nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials: thine are hard,
But short the time and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the Dead, but to the Living, live.
ERE Avarice first, the keen desire of Gain,
Rules in each Heart and works in every Brain;
Alike the Veteran-Dames and Virgins feel,
Nor care what Grey-beards or what Striplings deal;
Sex, Age, and Station, vanish from their view,
And gold, their sov'reign Good, the mingled Crowd pursue.
Hence they are jealous, and as Rivals, keep
A watchful Eye on the beloved Heap;
Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild Good-humour strives with strong Ill-will:
Till Prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their Grief, by their Suspicions known.
"Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
"He'd rave to see you throw your Cards away;
"Not that I care a button---not a pin
"For what I lose; but we had Cards to win :
"A Saint in Heaven would grieve to see such Hand
"Cut up by one who will not understand."
Complain of mel and so you might indeed,
If I had ventur'd on that foolish Lead,
That fatal Heart---but I forgot your Play---
Some Folk have ever thrown their Hearts away.'
"Yes, and their Diamonds: I have heard of one "Who made a Beggar of an only Son."
'Better a Beggar, than to see him tied 'To Art and Spite, to Insolence and Pride.'
"Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite, "Against my nature, for a single Night."
'Against their Nature they might show their Skill • With small Success, who're Maids against their will.'
Is this too much? alas! my bashful Muse Cannot with half their Virulence abuse. And hark! at other tables discord reigns, With feign'd contempt for Losses and for Gains; Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage, In waspish Youth, and in resentful Age; With scraps of Insult---" Sir, when next you play, "Reflect whose Money 'tis you throw away. "No one on Earth can less such things regard, "But when one's Partner doesn't know a Card-"
' I scorn Suspicion, Ma'am, but while you stand 'Behind that Lady, pray keep down your hand.'
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