Every heart of us, wild at the sight of them, Beat as it never had beaten before; Every voice of us, choked though it may have been, Broke from huzza to a deafening roar. Proud! were we proud of them? God! they were part of us, Sons of us, brothers, all marching to fight; Swift at their country’s call, ready each man and all, Eager to battle for her and the right. Wide are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- Little they cared as they filed from the barrack-room, Shoulder to shoulder, if need be, to die. Was there one flinched? Not a boy, not a boy of them; Straight on they marched to the dread battle’s brunt-- Fill up your glasses and drink to them, all of them, Canada’s call found them all at the front. _Stuart Livingston._ VI INDIA DUTT CCIV THE HINDU’S ADDRESS TO THE GANGES The waves are dashing proudly down Along thy sounding shore; Lashing, with all the storm of power, The craggy base of mountain tower, Of mosque, and pagod hoar, That darkly o’er thy waters frown, As if their moody spirit’s sway Could hush their wild and boist’rous play! Unconscious roll the surges down, But not unconscious thou, Dread Spirit of the rolling flood, For ages worshipped as a God, And worshipped even now, Worshipped, and not by serf or clown, For sages of the mightiest fame Have paid their homage to thy name. Canst thou forget the glorious past, When mighty as a God, With hands and heart unfettered yet, And eyes with slavish tears unwet, Each sable warrior trod Thy sacred shore, before the blast Of Moslem conquest hurried by, Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh? O’er crumbled thrones thy waters glide, Through scenes of blood and woe; And crown and kingdom, might and sway, The victor’s and the poet’s bay, Ignobly sleep below; Sole remnant of our ancient pride, Thy waves survive the wreck of time, And wanton free as in their prime. Alas, alas, all round how drear, How mangled and how torn! Where are the damsels proud and gay, Where warriors in their dread array, ‘In Freedom’s temple born?’ Can heroes sleep? Can patriots fear? Or is the spark for ever gone, That lights the soul from sire to son? I gaze upon thy current strong Beneath the blaze of day; What conjured visions throng my sight, Of war and carnage, death and flight! Thy waters to the Bay In purple eddies sweep along, And Freedom shrieking leaves the shrine, Alas! no longer now divine. Roll, Gunga, roll in all thy pride Thy hallowed groves among! Still glorious thou in every mood, Thou boast of India’s widowhood, Thou theme of every song! Blent with the murmurs of thy tide The records of far ages lie, And live, for thou canst never die! _Shoshee Chunder Dutt._ LYALL CCV