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| type = poem | | type = poem | ||
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| author =Markley, John T. | | author = Markley, John T. | ||
| title =A Cry from India | | title = A Cry from India | ||
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... | {{Style P-Poem|poem=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. | |||
|signature=John T. Marklby<br>3, Crawthorn-street, Peterborough.}} | |||
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{{Style P-Poem|poem=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. | |||
|signature={{Style S-HPB SB. Editors note|[https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreams-460/ John Dryden]}}}} | |||
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