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vol. 3, p. 173
H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks
from Adyar arhives of the International Theosophical Society
vol. 3 (1875-1878)

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Telegrams From the Stars
<continued from page 3-172>

The Coming Pope






A Cry from India

<by Markley, John T.>

Cold gods of fretted stone !
By jungle shade—by Ganges’ holy stream,
Arise! appease, explain, this hell-fringed dream,
That haunts our foodless zone.

Fear’d car of Juggernaut !
Whose worshipp’d wheels, e’en roll so slowly, proud,
O’er quick-kissed ground, where bends the frenzied crowd,
Hast thou no harvest brought ?

Fond fire, unceasing—true !
Eternal light of India’s scented day,—
Oh ! mock us not, for thy rapt flames display
A beauteous, barren view !

Stray clouds, new manna rain !
Sweet mornings, breathe a fruit-creating dew !
With men, O angels! yield an interview,
And soothe this ten-edged pain !

No birds, or cymbal sound,
No boatman’s psalm adown the winding creek
Can call the rose-bloom to the starveling’s cheek,
Whilst men, with thorns, are crowned !

Weak baby-wailings, blend
With mother’s wilder, far-extending cries ;
Quaint, dead-march music, rumbles in the skies :
The famine pains extend !

Great Power ! unseen of man !
Oh ! smile away the plague, and haste to bless :
Raise frightened palm-groves in the wilderness,
Nor purge with harshest fan.

Blow ! spicy, eastern gales !
Call forth the soft rain’s holy overflow :
Oh ! consecrate your whispers—and bestow
Grand speech to friendly sails.

Glide ! ships of Tarshish ! glide,
O’er oceans, hallowed by our flag and fame :
Bear forth rich off’rings in Britannia’s name,
Be charity our pride.

Stay not to test the creed,
Or urge a rude comparison of skin,
The merciful themselves now mercies win,
And golden is the deed.

Bloom ! sable mulberry !
Creep amber shadows ! through the orange plain ;
Take life, O sacred green ! blush fruit again,—
Burst into majesty !

Sad chords of Moslem song,
Steal out in broader love and melody ;
O India ! our love comes laden unto thee !
Tho choice gifts of the strong.

John T. Marklby
3, Crawthorn-street, Peterborough.



Dreams are but interludes which fancy makes;
When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic quakes ;
Confounds a medley of disjointed things –
A court of cobblers, and a mob of kings.

<John Dryden>


A Ghost Story by Wilky Collins



Queen Victoria and the Spiritual Phenomena