I
Loudly the midnight tempest sang,
Ah! it was thy dirge, fair Liberty!
And clouds in thundering accents roar’d
Unheeded warning from on high;
The rain in darksome torrents fell,
Hydaspes’ waves did onward sweep,
Like fiery Passion’s headlong flow,
To meet th’ awaken’d calling deep;
The lighting flashed bright— dazzling,like
Fair women’s glance from ‘neath her veil;’
And on the heaving, troubled air,
There was a moaning sound of wail
But, Ind! thy unsuspecting sons
Did heedless slumber,— while the foe
Came in stealthy step of death,—
Came as the tiger, noiseless, slow,
To close at once its victim’s breath!
Alas! they knew not ‘midst this gloom’
This war of elements was burst,—
Like to an earthquake in the womb
Of a volcano,— deep and low—
A deadlier storm—on them to burst!
II
‘Twas morn; the Lord of Day
From gold Sumero’s palace bright,
Look’d his own sweet dime,
But lo! the glorious flag,
To which the world in awe once bow’d,
There in defiance waved
On India’s gales— triumphant—proud!—
Then, rose the dreadful yell,—
Then lion-like, each warrior brave
Rushed on the coming foe,
To strike for freedom—or the grave!
Oh Death! upon thy gory altar
What blood-libations freely flow’d!
Oh Earth! on that bright morn, what thousands
Rendered to thee the dust they ow’d!
But ‘fore the Macedonians driven’
Fell India’s hardy sons,—
Proud mountain oaks by thunders riven,—
That for their country’s freedom bled—
And made on gore their glorious bed!
III
But dauntlessly there stood
King Porus, towering ‘midst the foe’
Like a Himala-peak
With its eternal crown of snow:
And on his brow did shine
The jewell’d regal diadem.
His milk-white elephant
Was deck’d with many a brilliant gem.
He reck’d not of the phalanx
That ‘round him closed—but nobly fought’
And like the angry winds that blow
And lofty mountain pines lay low,
Amidst them dreadful havoc wrought,
And thinn’d his crown and country’s foe!
The hardiest warriors, at his deeds,
Awe—struck quail’d like wind-shaken reeds:
They dared not look upon his face,
They shrank before his burning gaze,
For in his eye the hero shone
That feared not death;—but high—alone
A being as if of lightning made,
That scorch’d all that is gazed upon—
Trampling the living with the dead.
IV
Th’ immortal Thund’rer’s son,
Astonish’d eyed the heroic king;
He saw him bravely charge
Like his dread father,— fulmining:—
Tho’ thousands’ round him closed,
He stood—as stand the ocean rock
Amdist the lashing billows
Unmoved at their fierce thoundering shock.
But when th’ Emathian conqueror
Saw that with gaping wounds he bled,
‘Desist—desist!’—he cried—
‘Such noble blood should not be shed!’
Then a herald was sent
Where bleeding and faint,
Stood, ‘midst the dying’ and the dead,
King Porus,— boldly, undismayed:
‘Hail, brave and warlike prince!’
Thy generous rival bids thee cease—
Behold! there flies the flag,
That lulls dread war, and wakens peace!’
V
Like to a lion chain’d,
That tho’ faint—bleeding—stands in pride—
With eyes, where unsubdued
Yet flash’d the fire—looks that defied;
King Porus boldly went
Where ‘midst the gay and flittering crowd’
Sat god-like Alexander;
While ‘round’ Earth’s mightiest monarchs bow’d.
King Porus was no slave;
he stooped not—bent not there his knee,—
But stood, as stands an oak,
In Himalayan majesty.
‘The mighty king of Macedon:’
‘Ev’n as a King,’ replied
In royal pride, Ind’s haughty son.
The conqu’ror pleas’d,
Him forth releas’d:
Thus India’s crown was lost and won.
VI
But where, Oh! where is Porus now?
And where the noble hearts that bled
For freedom—with the herioc glow
In patriot bosoms nourished—
—Hearts, eagle-like that recked not death,
But shrank before foul Thraldom’s breath?
And where art thou—fair Freedom!—thou
Once goodness of Ind’s sunny clime
When glory’s halo round her brow
Shone radiant, and she rose sublime,
Like her own towering Himalye
To kiss blue clouds thron’d on high!
Clime of the sun!—How like a Dream—
How like bright sun-beams on a stream
That melt beneath gray twilight’s eye—
That glory hath now flitted by!
The crown that once did deck thy brow
Is tramped down—and thou sunk low;
Thy pearl, thy diamond and thy mine
Of glistening gold no more is thine.
Alas!—each conquering tyrant’s lust
Has robb’d thee of thy very dust!
Thou standest like a lofty tree
Shorn of fruits — blossoms — leaves and all—
Of every gale the sport to be.
Despised and scorned e’en in thy fall?