Midst the exuberant life of that fierce zone, Uncurb'd, self-will'd to man had Morvale grown. His sire (the offspring of an Indian maid And English chief), whose orient hues betray'd The Varna Sankara[C] of the mix'd embrace. Carved by his sword a charter from disgrace; Assumed the father's name, the Christian's life, And his sins cursed him with an English wife: A haughty dame, whose discontented charms That merchant, Hymen, bargain'd to his arms. In war he fell: his wife--the bondage o'er, Loath'd the dark pledge the abhorred nuptials bore-- Yet young, her face more genial wedlock won, And one bright daughter made more loath'd the son. Widow'd anew, for London's native air, And two tall footmen, sigh'd the jointured fair: Wealth hers, why longer from its use exiled?-- She fled the land and the abandon'd child; Yet oft the first-born, 'midst the swarthier race, Gazed round and miss'd the fair unloving face. In vain the coldness, nay, the hate had been, Hate, by the eyes that love, is rarely seen. Yet more he miss'd the playmate, sister, child, With looks that ever on his own had smiled; With rosy lips, caressing and caress'd; Led by his hand and cradled on his breast: But, as the cloud conceals and breaks in flame, The gloom of youth the fire of man became. Not his the dreams that studious life allows, "Under the shade of melancholy boughs,"-- Dreams that to lids the Muse anoints belong,-- Rocking the passions on soft waves of song: No poet he; adventure, wandering, strife, War and the chase, wrung poetry from life. One day a man, who call'd his father "friend," Told o'er his rupees and perceived his end. Life's business done--a million made--what still Remain'd on earth? Wealth's last caprice--a Will! The man was childless--but the world was wide; He thought on Morvale, made his will,--and died. They sought and found the unsuspecting heir Crouch'd in the shade that near'd the tiger's lair; His gun beside, the jungle round him--wild, Lawless and fierce as Hagar's wandering child:-- To this fresh nature the sleek life deceased Left the bright plunder of the ravaged East. Much wealth brings want,--that hunger of the heart Which comes when Nature man deserts for Art: His northern blood, his English name, create Strife in the soul, till then resign'd to fate; The social world with blander falsehood graced, Smiles on his hopes, and lures him from the waste. Alas! the taint that sunburnt brow bespeaks, Divides the Half-Caste from the world he seeks: In him proud Europe sees the Paria's birth, And haughty Juno spurns his barren hearth. Half heathen, and half savage,--all estranged Amidst his kind, the Ishmael roved unchanged.