It was evening when we approached that place; the sun was setting gloriously on the Ganges as we moored our boats in a little bay near the ruins, on one horn of which stood an old grey mosque, partially hidden by tangled shrubs and jungle, and the tapering and feathery bamboo—one, perhaps, of the greatest and most striking ornaments of Indian scenery. “William,” said Miss Belfield, “you must positively remain here to-morrow, for I can never consent to leave all these fine old ruins unsketched behind me.” Her brother willingly consented to her wish, and a delightful day of it we had, rambling, pencil in hand, amongst decaying mosques and dilapidated palaces, where the voice of the imaun, or the sounds of revelry, had long given place to the hootings of that mocker of human vanity, the owl. There are not, in the whole round of the feelings and sensations, any to me so exquisitely, yet sadly pleasing, as those that arise in the mind when we wander amidst the deserted courts of kings, and the monuments of departed power and glory: how strongly do they link us with the past, and how powerfully does the imagination, with such a footing, “body forth” the things that were, but are not! Captain Belfield, who, like his sister, as I afterwards discovered, was somewhat of a poet, though in most things a matter-of-fact man, amused himself, while we were sketching, in composing the following lines:— _Lines on the Ruins of Rajmahal and the Palace of the Sungy Dulaun, some time the Capital of Bengal._ Ye mould’ring corridors and halls, Which o’er the steep your shadows cast; Ye ruins drear, which sad recall The faded glories of the past: Where the lone trav’ller pensive sighs, And light winds pipe at evening hour, Low blending with the lapwing’s cries, The requiems of departed power: How changed your aspect, since of old Gay orient pageants filled your bound, And trumpet and Nagara[36] told Of regal state that reign’d around. Here Sujah,[37] in his happier hour, Poor victim of a brother’s hate! Enjoy’d the transient sweets of power, Bright contrast to his darker fate. Here Heav’n display’d its vengeful ire, And Meerun[38] felt the fatal blow; Here fell the retributive fire, That laid the foul assassin low. Where once the minstrel’s voice was heard, Now nightly sounds the jackal’s yell; There hoots the melancholy bird, Grim cynic of the darksome cell.