Difference between revisions of "HPB-SB-3-173"

Revision as of 11:14, 22 April 2022

T i

vol. 3, p. 173

H. P. Blavatsky Scrapbooks

from Adyar archives of the International Theosophical Society

vol. 3 (1875-1878)

<< ☰ >>

eng • рус

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

^[1]

The Coming Pope

...

^[2]

<Untitled>

...

^[3]

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.

^[4]

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.

...

^[5]

A Ghost Story by Wilky Collins

...

^[6]

Queen Victoria and the Spiritual Phenomena

...

↑ The Coming Pope by unknown author
↑ notice by unknown author
↑ A Cry from India by Markley, John T.
↑ Dreams by unknown author
↑ A Ghost Story by Wilky Collins by unknown author
↑ Queen Victoria and the Spiritual Phenomena by unknown author

[1] The Coming Pope by unknown author

[2] tice by unknown author

[3] A Cry from India by Markley, John T.

[4] Dreams by unknown author

[5] A Ghost Story by Wilky Collins by unknown author

[6] Queen Victoria and the Spiritual Phenomena by unknown author

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[5]

[6]

@@ Line 50: / Line 50: @@
 ...
 {{HPB-SB-item
@@ Line 56: / Line 57: @@
   | item =3
   | type = poem
-  | status = wanted
+  | status = ok
   | continues =
-  | author =Markley, John T.
+  | author = Markley, John T.
-  | title =A Cry from India
+  | title = A Cry from India
   | subtitle =
   | untitled =
@@ Line 70: / Line 71: @@
 }}
-...
+{{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
   | volume = 3
@@ Line 89: / Line 151: @@
   | 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]}}}}
 ...
 {{HPB-SB-item
   | volume = 3