Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/142

110  In the caricature of other men— Their style, their bearing,—while we shouted, yell'd Frog-like with swollen throat in our dark well, O, in what vast remoteness wert thou then? Where didst thou spread thy hush'd and lonely mat— Thy mat of meditation? Thou, thy mind Curdling into calm gravity, didst plunge In thy great quest after the viewless ray, Beyond the utmost borders of this world Of visible form, there where the Rishis old Oped, and passed in beyond the lion-gates Of the Manifold and stood before the One, Silent in awe and wonder, with joined hands! O Hermit, call thou in the authentic words Of that old hymn called Sama; "Rise! Awake!" Call to the man who boasts his Sastric lore From vain pedantic wranglings profitless, Call to that foolish braggart to come forth Out on the face of Nature, this broad earth. Send forth this call unto thy scholar band; Together round thy sacrifice of fire Let them all gather. So may our India, Our ancient land, unto herself return. O once again return to steadfast work, To duty and devotion, to her trance Of earnest meditation; let her sit Once more unruffled, greedless, strifeless, pure O once again upon her lofty seat And platform, teacher of all other lands.

 

Farewell, sweetest country; out of my heart, you roses, Wayside roses, nodding the slow traveller to keep. Too long have I drowsed alone in the meadows deep, Too long alone endured the silence Nature espouses. 