Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825.pdf/26



in splendour went down the day On the plain where an Indian City lay, With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, Red as if fused in the burning sky, And its deep groves pierced by the rays that made A bright stream's way through each long arcade, Till the pillard vaults of the banian stood Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood, And the plantain glittered with leaves of gold, As a tree midst the Genii-gardens old, And the cypress pointed a blazing spire, And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.

Many a white pagoda's gleam Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed Its glory forth on their crystal bed. Many a graceful Hindoo maid With the water-vase from the palmy shade, Came gliding light as the Desert's roe, Down marble steps to the Tanks below; And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard, As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd. And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, Told where the Brahmin bow'd in prayer.

There wander'd a noble Moslem boy Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy; He gazed where the stately city rose Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose, He turn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom Of the woods went glancing on starry plume, He track'd the brink of the shining lake, By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake, Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound To the very heart of the holy ground.

And there lay the water as if enshrined In a rocky urn from the sun and wind,