Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1838.pdf/14

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in the azure heavens, ye ancient mountains, Do ye uplift your old ancestral snows, Gathering amid the clouds those icy fountains, Whence many a sunny stream through India flows.

Flows with a lovely and unceasing motion, That only rocks the lotus on its wave; Unknown the various storms that rend the ocean— Ocean, each river’s mighty home and grave.

Lost in a world of undistinguished waters, Where are the lovely memories of the past, The leaves—the flowers—the Brahmin’s dark-eyed daughters, Whose images were on its mirror cast?

All fair humanities behind it leaving: For little knows the sea of human things, Save a few ships their lonely progress cleaving, And the white shadows of the sea-bird’s wings.

’Tis strange how much of this wide world is lonely, Earth hath its trackless forests dark and green, And its wild deserts of the sand, where only The wind, a weary wanderer, hath been.

The desert and the forest, lone and solemn, May know in time the work of mortal hand; There may arise the temple, tower and column, Where only waved the tree, or swept the sand.

But on the ocean never track remaining Attests the progress of the human race; The ship will pass without a wave retaining The lovely likeness mirrored on its face.

And thus, O Time, that hast our world in keeping, So dost thou roll the current of thy years; Away, away, in thy dark waters sweeping, All mortal cares and sorrows, hopes and fears.