And they bear one o’er the field path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother slowly—
Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid good Christian men rejoice!
High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
As at home the Christmas Day is breaking wan,
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!