HPB-SB-3-173

T i

vol. 3, p. 173

H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks

from Adyar archives of the International Theosophical Society

vol. 3 (1875-1878)

 

SBT, DT

Legend

• HPB note
• HPB highlighted
• HPB underlined
• HPB crossed out
• <Editors note>
• <Archivist note>
• Lost or unclear
• Restored

<<   ☰   >>

eng • рус

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

...

The Coming Pope

...

<Untitled> (An exchange says a family)

...

A Cry from India

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

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

...