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| | 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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| }} | | }} |
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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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| {{HPB-SB-item | | {{HPB-SB-item |
| | volume = 3 | | | volume = 3 |
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| | 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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| ... | | ... |
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| {{HPB-SB-item | | {{HPB-SB-item |
| | volume = 3 | | | volume = 3 |