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{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| item =3
| item =3
| type = poem
| type = poem
| status = wanted
| status = ok
| continues =
| continues =
| author =Markley, John T.
| author = Markley, John T.
| title =A Cry from India
| title = A Cry from India
| subtitle =
| subtitle =
| untitled =
| untitled =
}}
}}
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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.}}
{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| volume = 3
| volume = 3
| categories =
| categories =
}}
}}
{{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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{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| volume = 3
| volume = 3