He stretched his weary limbs along the moss
Under the Banian’s shade, and mourned the loss
Of the sweet-vision on his night-couch damp,
Yet slept at length, nor waked till dewy morn
Closed the full stars and oped the infant buds,
’Rousing the warblers of the Indian woods:
But his bright bird was gone, and he is lorn!
Yet prays, and in a fountain’s cooling waves,
With large ablutions, his hot brow he laves,
Resumes his staff, and seeks his humble home—