The Hindu skeptic tells us that ever since mankind began their race on this earth they have been seeking for the "signs and steps of a God;" and that in mystical India, where the deities hover and swarm, and a million shrines stand open, with their myriad idols and, legions of muttering priests, mankind are still groping in darkness; still listening, and as yet vainly hoping for a message that shall tell what the wonders of creation mean, and whither they tend; ever vainly seeking for a refuge from the ills of life, and a rest beyond for the weary and heavy-laden, He turns to the deified heroes of his race, and though long he watches and worships for a solution of the mysteries of life, he waits in vain for an answer, for their marble features never relax in response to his prayers and entreaties; and he says, mournfully, "Alas! for the gods are dumb." The darts of death still fall as surely as ever, hurled by a Power unseen and a hand unknown; and beyond the veil all is obscurity and gloom. I. All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod, Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God? Westward across the ocean, and northward beyond the snow, Do they all stand gazing, as ever? and what do the wisest know? II. Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm; In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen, Yet we all say, "Whence is the message--and what may the wonders mean?" III. A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings, As they bow to a mystic symbol or the figures of ancient kings; And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry Of those who are heavy-laden, and of cowards loath to die. IV. For the destiny drives us together like deer in a pass of the hills: Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the shot that kills. Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown, We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone. V. The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim, And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim; And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest-- Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest? VI. The path--ah, who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide? The haven--ah, who has known it? for steep is the mountain-side. For ever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death! VII. Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the first of an ancient name-- Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame. They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race: Ever I watch and worship--they sit with a marble face. VIII.