The Mahomedan fakeer was a very venerable old man, with a long beard. He was seated on a decked portion of the boat, a tiger skin spread beneath him; a disciple in very good case, rowing the boat. “Mr. Gernon,” said Miss Belfield to me, the next morning, “the scene of yesterday has induced me to try my poetic powers. Here,” said she, handing me a manuscript; “I have courted the Muse with somewhat more success than you did at Plassey. Pray read this, and give me your opinion.” EVENING ON THE GANGES. ’Tis eve! by Ganges palm-clad shore Now lightly sounds the dipping oar, As slow it breaks with sparkling gleam The molten silver of the stream. And list! a song, in fitful notes, Soft o’er the tranquil current floats, Mingling its cadence, as it dies, With the lone hunza’s[41] mournful cries; (Sad cries, which, wafted on the gale, Seem like some pensive spirit’s wail;) The mûllah’s[42] song, ere, toil-oppress’d, He seeks his nook and evening rest. Afar Junghera’s rocky isle, Crown’d by the tapering temple’s pile. On rolls the sacred tide its course Majestic from its mountain-source, Afar in dim and mystic glades— Which nought save pilgrim’s foot invades, ’Midst ice-bound glens, where, cold and lone, Himaleh rears his snowy throne, High over realms chaotic hurled, The monarch of the mountain-world; Whilst, far away, a sheeted throng Of spectral peaks his state prolong; Cold, death-like, mutes on high they stand, Eternal nature’s pageant hand.