Deep ran the holy Ganges, for the rain Had swollen it from Thibet to the sea. Its flow was turbid; and, as if the winds Were not forgotten by the multitude Of its strange waters, they were leaping up, And with a wonderous glory gathering The mantle of the sunset over them. How frequently these living passages Of nature’s book are opened, and how few Are the high hearts that know them, and can feel Their eloquence and beauty! Meina stood Upon the breathing carpet of the shore, Gazing on sky and river. There was much In the dark features of the young Hindoo, That should have won a gentler history. She had the Eastern eye, with its dark fringe And shadowy depth of lustre; but, beyond The elements of beauty, there was writ A something that the wounded roe would trust For shelter from its hunters. Her closed lips Were delicate as the tinted pencilling Of veins upon a flower; and on her cheek The timid blood had faintly melted through, Like something that was half afraid of light. There was no slighter print upon the grass Than her elastic step; and in her frame There was a perfect symmetry, that seemed Aerial as a bird’s. It was the hour For worship in her land; and she had come, With the religion of a high, pure heart, To bow herself in prayer. A darker mind Might pray at such an hour; but she had caught The spirit of the scene; and, as her eye Followed the coursing of the golden waves, Or rested on the clouds that slept above, Like isles upon the bosom of the sea, Her soul was swept to music like a harp, And she knelt down in her deep blessedness To worship the High Maker. As she prayed, Her beautiful young boy--a very dream, As he might be, of infant loveliness, With his dark hair upon the summer wind, And the sweet laugh of a delighted child Like music on his lips--came leaping by, And, flinging a light wreath upon her brow, Sprang onward like a bounding antelope. She turned a moment--might she not, for him? Him, whom she cradled in the whispering tree, And gathered to her bosom in the hush Of the still night?--to know if he was there. Twas but a moment, and she bowed again; And, as the murmur of her silver tone Stole out upon the wind, her images Of majesty came back, and she was filled, Like a deep channel by the whirlwind swept, Again with the rich rushing of her prayer. The shadows of the stealthy evening came Silently on; but she was up, in thought, Among the crystal palaces of light; And a still prompting came to her, to pray That the poor spirit of a passing world, With all its fond, but frail idolatries, Might on the altar of her God be flung. She breathed it, and along the holy shore She heard the whisper of the waters creep: