The words of the song were by a Bengali poet, Bankim Chandra Chatterji, who introduced it into his historic novel called “Anandamath,” or “The Abbey of Joy,” a romance upon the rebellion of the austere Sanyasi Order against the decaying rule of the Mohammedans in Eastern Bengal when Warren Hastings was the real power. The best-known translation is by Mr. W. H. Lee, late of the Indian Civil Service. It is fairly close, but English cannot reproduce the compression of the original Sanscrit and Bengali mixed:— “My Motherland, I sing Her splendid streams, her glorious trees, The zephyr from the far-off Vindyan heights, Her fields of waving corn, The rapturous radiance of her moonlit nights, The trees in flower that flame afar, The smiling days that sweetly vocal are, The happy, blessed Motherland. Her will by seventy million throats extolled, Her power twice seventy million arms uphold; Her strength let no man scorn. Thou art my head, thou art my heart, My life and soul art thou, My song, my worship, and my art, Before thy feet I bow. As Durga, scourge of all thy foes, As Lakshmi, bowered in the flower, That in the water grows, As Bani, wisdom, power; The source of all our might, Our every temple doth thy form unfold— Unequalled, tender, happy, pure, Of splendid streams, of glorious trees, My Motherland I sing, The stainless charm that shall endure, And verdant banks and wholesome breeze, That with her praises ring.” It is obviously too tender for a stirring “Marseillaise.” There is not enough march and thunder either in words or tune to enflame the soul of trampling hosts. The thunder comes in the cry of “Bande Mataram!” But the tenderness, the devoted love of country, and the adoration of motherhood are all characteristic of the Indian mind. When this national anthem was finished, the Tamil poet of Madras recited a lament he had written for Lajpat Rai at the time of his deportation. It was the common lament of exiles—the fond memory of home, the deep attachment to the land of childhood, the loneliness of life among strangers and unknown tongues—all very quietly and simply told. Then by a sudden change, the poet turned to satire, and described a dialogue between Mr. John Morley and India, on the subject of Swaraj or Home Rule:— “You are disunited,” says Mr. Morley; “what have you to do with Home Rule? You don’t speak the same language, you haven’t got the same religion; what have you to do with Home Rule? You cannot fight, you are too fond of law, you are the victims of education; what have you to do with Home Rule? You are born slaves, you prostrate yourselves before the Englishman: what have you to do with Home Rule? You are seditious, you are a prairie on fire, you are a barrel of gunpowder, you cry for the moon, you are not fit for a fur coat; what have you to do with Home Rule?”[34]