The mountain-torrent rushing down
Can ne'er its course retrace,
And souls that speed on glory's path
Must ever onward press:
Aye, onward press—to bleed and die,
Triumphant still in death;
Impostor, hence! in other lands
Go draw thy coward breath.
Address to the Ganges.
The waves are dashing proudly down,
Along thy sounding shore;
Lashing, with all the storm of power,
The craggy base of mountain tower,
Of mosque, and pagod hoar,
That darkly o'er thy waters frown;
As if their moody spirits' sway
Could hush thy wild and boist'rous play.
Unconscious roll the surges down,
But not unconscious thou,
Dread spirit of the roaring flood!
For ages worshipp'd as a god,
And worshipp'd even now—
Worshipp'd and not by serf or clown;
For sages of the mightiest fame
Have paid their homage to thy name.
Canst thou forget the glorious past,
When, mighty as a god,
With hands and heart unfetter'd yet,
And eyes with slavish tears unwet,
Each sable warrior trod
Thy sacred shore; before the blast
Of Moslem conquest hurried by;
Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh?
