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Sudden the fierce north-west breaks loose—and while Half the bright landscape still is seen to smile, The sultry air grows thick, the skies are dark, The river swells, and now the struggling bark Along the rushing wave is wildly driven, And thunder bursts from every gate of heaven; O'er tower and palace, hut, and holy fane In frantic madness sweeps the hurricane; And trees uprooted strew the earth; and air Is filled with yells, and shrieks of wild despair.

The sun sinks down in splendour to the west, The skies are in their richest colours drest; And where a blackened wreck was seen to float, A lamp within the palm nut's fragile boat Glides tranquilly—the stars shine forth—the vale Is vocal with the Bulbul's sweetest tale; The air is gemmed with fire-flies; and the breeze Is filled with perfume from the lemon trees: The storm has passed—and now the sparkling river Runs calm, and smooth, and beautiful as ever. Moorshedabad, Aug. 1828.