Where all extremes of Love and Horror are,Soft Camdeo's lotos bark, grim Moloch's gory car;
Where basks the noonday luminously calm,
O'er eldest grot and immemorial palm;
And in the grot, the Goddess of the Dead
And the couch'd strangler, list the wanderer's tread,
And where the palm leaves stir with breeze-like sigh,
Sports the fell serpent with his deathful eye.
Midst the exuberant life of that fierce zone,
Uncurb'd, self-will'd to man had Morvale grown.
His sire (the offspring of an Indian maid
And English chief), whose orient hues betray'd
The Varna Sankara[C] of the mix'd embrace. Carved by his sword a charter from disgrace; Assumed the father's name, the Christian's life, And his sins cursed him with an English wife: A haughty dame, whose discontented charms That merchant, Hymen, bargain'd to his arms. In war he fell: his wife—the bondage o'er, Loath'd the dark pledge the abhorrèd nuptials bore— Yet young, her face more genial wedlock won, And one bright daughter made more loath'd the son. Widow'd anew, for London's native air, And two tall footmen, sigh'd the jointured fair: Wealth hers, why longer from its use exiled?— She fled the land and the abandon'd child; Yet oft the first-born, 'midst the swarthier race, Gazed round and miss'd the fair unloving face. In vain the coldness, nay, the hate had been, Hate, by the eyes that love, is rarely seen.
Yet more he miss'd the playmate, sister, child,
With looks that ever on his own had smiled;
With rosy lips, caressing and caress'd;
Led by his hand and cradled on his breast:
But, as the cloud conceals and breaks in flame,
The gloom of youth the fire of man became.
Not his the dreams that studious life allows,
"Under the shade of melancholy boughs,"—
Dreams that to lids the Muse anoints belong—
Rocking the passions on soft waves of song:
No poet he; adventure, wandering, strife,
War and the chase, wrung poetry from life.
One day a man, who call'd his father "friend,"
Told o'er his rupees and perceived his end.
Life's business done—a million made—what still
Remain'd on earth? Wealth's last caprice—a Will!
The man was childless—but the world was wide;
He thought on Morvale, made his will—and died.
They sought and found the unsuspecting heir
Crouch'd in the shade that near'd the tiger's lair;
His gun beside, the jungle round him—wild,
Lawless and fierce as Hagar's wandering child:—
To this fresh nature the sleek life deceased
Left the bright plunder of the ravaged East.
Much wealth brings want—that hunger of the heart
Which comes when Nature man deserts for Art:
His northern blood, his English name, create
Strife in the soul, till then resign'd to fate;
The social world with blander falsehood graced,
Smiles on his hopes, and lures him from the waste.
Alas! the taint that sunburnt brow bespeaks,
Divides the Half-Caste from the world he seeks:
In him proud Europe sees the Paria's birth,
And haughty Juno spurns his barren hearth.
Half heathen, and half savage—all estranged
Amidst his kind, the Ishmael roved unchanged.
Small need to track his course from year to year,
Till wearied passion paused in its career:
Youth goads us on to action; lore of men
Brings thought—thought books—books quiet; well, and then?
Alas! we move but in the Hebrews' ring;[D] Our onward steps but back the landmarks bring, Until some few at least escape the thrall, And breathe the space beyond the flaming wall: Feel the large freedom which in faith is given, And poise the wings that shall possess the heaven.
He sought his mother. She, intent to shun,
Closed that last refuge on the homeless son,
Till death approach'd, and Conscience, that sad star,
Which heralds night, and plays but on the bar
Of the Eternal Gate—laid bare the crime,
And woke the soul upon the brink of time.
Haply if close, too closely, we would read
That sibyl page, the motive of the deed,
Remorse for him her life abandon'd, weaves
Fear for the dearer one her death bereaves;
And penitent lines consign'd, with eager prayer,
The lorn Calantha to a brother's care.
Not till long moons had waned in distant skies,
O'er the last mandate wept the Indian's eyes;
But the lost sister lived, the flower of yore
Bloom'd from the grave—and earth was sweet once more;
Fair Florence holds the heart he yearns to meet;
Swift, when heart yearns to heart, how swift the feet!
Well, and those arms have clasp'd a sister now!
Thy tears have fallen on a sister's brow!
Alas! a sister's heart thy doom forbade;
Thy lot as lonely, and thy hearth as sad.
Is that pale shade the Peri-child in truth,
Who shone, like Morning, on
