was written in Bengal, and was the result of education received therein; and it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that here its oriental character begins and ends. Even the excellence of Michael Dutt lies chiefly in his ability to follow his metrical masters; while most of his successors approach the history of their country as if they had no part in its heritage. In dealing with the intimacies of the Hindu faith, it might be expected that these writers would produce something of unique interest. There are frequent odes on Indian deities and on religious festivals, but none of them are really arresting in their sincerity, or provide anything that is essentially eastern in conception. When Kasiprasad Ghose addresses Saraswati in this manner—
Goddess of every mental grace.
And virtue of the soul,
Which high exalt the human race,
And lead to glory's goal,
'Tis thou who bid'st the infant mind,
Its growing thoughts display,
Which lay within it undefined
In regular array.
—he is merely re-echoing the jingle of such 18th century rhymesters as William Hayley, and fails utterly to reproduce the atmosphere of his own faith. It is reasonable to expect from an eastern poet something that a western cannot give. But the reader of this literature will look in vain for anything that is peculiarly and exclusively oriental. Emerson, in one of his briefest occasional poems, obsessed by the conception of Brahma, has conjured up a whole world of eastern religious mysticism—
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep and pass and turn again.
