There honored he with royal pomp
Their funeral obsequies—
Incense and sandal, drum and tromp.
And solemn sacrifice.
What is the sequel of the tale?
How died the king?—Oh man,
A prophet's words can never fail—
Go, read the Ramayan.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
NEAR HASTINGS
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
We loitered at the time
When ripens on the wall the peach,
The autumn's lovely prime.
Far off—the sea and sky seemed blent,
The day was wholly done,
The distant town its murmurs sent,
Strangers—we were alone.
We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,
Then one of us sat down,
No nature hers, to make complaint;—
The shadows deepened brown.
A lady past—she was not young,
But oh! her gentle face
No painter-poet ever sung,
Or saw such saintlike grace.
She passed us—then she came again,
Observing at a glance
That we were strangers; one, in pain—
Then asked—Were we from France?
We talked awhile—some roses red
That seemed as wet with tears,
She gave my sister, and she said,
God bless you both, my dears!"
Sweet were the roses—sweet and full,
And large as lotus flowers
That in our own wide tanks we cull
To deck our Indian bowers.
But sweeter was the love that gave
Those flowers to one unknown,
I think that He who came to save
The gift a debt will own.