Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/35

Rh  The rigours of a life austere, Followed by every fear and shame, Await thee as thy portion here: What is thy being but a name?

Thou may'st not, dar'st not, must not hope A joy upon the world beneath; But thou must e'er with sorrows cope, Sorrows which only end in death.

And thou art doomed to be at strife For ever with thyself, to quell The very elements of life, And every brighter thought repel.

Is this the all, or should it be The all that here to thee is left? And must the world remain to thee A scene of every charm bereft?  

The mighty demons of the storm have met In battle fierce. Relentless anger fires Their bosoms, proud of desolating power. Their swords in rapid wavings flash; and oft In lightning gleams illume the darkened earth. Hark! how they vaunt in thunder deep and loud, And madly howling, rave athwart the arch Of heaven; convolving Gunga's waters deep; Which wildly running to and fro, dismayed, Or upward bounding high, appear as if They wish to break loose from their beds to fly The tempest's rage. Beneath its headlong speed 