Such hopes as these the stout Telinga cheer, Amid his days of toil: the sire, the wife, Are all intent to earn ; each eager hand
To full employment called, the door is latched, And all the busy family abroad,
Save grandam blind, or sire of silvered hair: Even softest damsels ply the willing thrift, Allured by hopes of home; and eager toil Beneath the mid-day sun in cheerful groupe, While gladdening song recalls the scenes beloved Of native mountains dear, and vallies wild. Such song the traveller stills his pace to hear, But may not gaze-for, like the cuckoo wild, Whose fairy note from prying footstep flies, Their bashful ditty shuns the stranger's gaze, And drops to timid silence. Busier ply The maiden groupe their toil, as traveller charmed, Awaits their syren note, unconscious they Of all the free simplicity of dress
That gives their forms unveiled a softer grace In stranger's eye, and bids his fancy dream Of primal times of innocence and love. But near the bashful groupe of damsels young Some aged matron sits, of mien composed, And careful eye, to awe unlicenced gaze And, haply too, some infant child to guard, Whose new-wed mother plies her customed toil Amid companions yet of maiden life; While oft with fondest care her eye is turned To where her infant sleeps, and lists her ear If chance the sable urchin whimpering wake. But all in careless sleep that infant lies, From slanting poles in airy hammock swung, Secure from speckled snake, and shaded cool By densest leaves of banian's spreading bough→→ And thence at times, with head upraised, he peeps To catch his mother's smile; as high from nest, Amid the rocky steep securely placed, The swallow's youngling eyes its coming dam, And looks with wondering gaze on all the scene Of world as yet untried-where many a wing Thrids swift and strange the airy space below.
Thus thought the youth, but sooth even whilst he thought His purpose all was lost; amidst the words,
Where first his wandering speech had found its theme, His eye had met Phoolranee's gaze of love,
That seemed in anxious grief to scan his thoughts, And know his hidden wish for home beloved, Herself but hindrance felt; and whilst she gazed, Her child, that saw her grief, had left his lap To wipe her starting tear, and kiss her cheek, Inquiring why she wept. The infant's deed Was more than strong reproof; and love like her's What dream of native land could e'er restore? He owned her worth, and bade her terrors cease— 20. Her land was now his home. Old Hubert smiled In sympathy with him, and love to her; Then sought in cheerful tale his son to lead To gladder thoughts; or kindliest sought to tell With what attentive hand his country tries To bless the age of veterans old and worn,
Whose faithful years in her encounters spent,
Have all those hopes of blissful home forgone ałe nd hand That bid the exile mourn,-whose countries far In youth or childhood left, are now estranged,
Nor hold one heart, whose pulse would beat with love, ku To grant the wanderers home. And oft he sought, As came the punctual day of month elapsed That gives such hoary band the stipend due Of age released from toil, his son to lead, To meet their gathered groupe.
To neighbouring wood they speed, whose shadowy depth Is scarcely yet by glimmering dawn illumed, There waits the veteran band their destined meed By British hand dispensed. At distance seen Romantic seems the view like fairy scene, Where walk the forms of strange Arabian tale, In world for genii framed. Amid the grove, Some lean by shadowy banian's rooted bough, With turbaned listeners drawn attentive round; + Whilst some by low enchannelled wall recline, That guides the hoarded rill from neighbouring tank The plantains green to feed ; by naked tree, Whose reddening blossoms deck the leafless branch, One waiting groupe is seen; whilst others walk, In lonely meditation, down the ranks
Of tall columnar palms. Like shadows all In silence gliding dim, with languid step
Of grave-approaching age, and decked with robe Of patriarchal time, they seem the ghosts Of strange Elysian field, to hero shewn Mid regions wild of death. But nearer come, And mingling thro' the crowd, the pictured scene That pleased the idle eye, is sudden lost In living sympathy: appears around In social groupes, a venerable band Of aged men, in every various garb
Of India's hundred tribes, from many a field And many a lengthened war the remnants left Like dropping leaves that clothe December's oak, When all the forest round has long been stripped. They meet and talk; each face recalls to each A thousand gone; and all the ceaseless hum That floats along the breeze from aged tongues In words of former years, and names of men Long dead. The present world of living things Is there forgot; while hoary memory tells Her ghostly tale, and all the ancient groupes Commix their stories wild of other years
The pensioned veterans assemble monthly, from their different villages, at the nearest British station to receive their allowances. The scene presented on such occasions is extremely interesting; as well as the exultation with which these Indians are often heard to contrast the punctual regularity of the British payments with the uncertain and scrambling distributions afforded by the native powers to their dependants
The water is preserved in wells during the dry season, whence it is drawn by many awkward contrivances for the use of the gardens. The buckets are frequently of earthenware. A number of these are attached to a web of ropes, suspended in the well by passing over a revolving cylinder, by which means they are emptied and filled without assistance from the hand. The water flows from thence into a trough leading to certain small aqueducts, made on walls, which are raised about two feet from the ground; and which afford a sufficient descent to carry the water a considerable distance over the inequalities of the fields or gardens.
With none to yield them love, and none to seek With fond caress their soft connubial care,
They droop forlorn: and yet, whate'er the hand Of power can do, the widow's heart to cheer Is here in kindness tried; no bitter fear Of haggard want shall haunt her feeble Eld, And bid her children weep; her husband's lord Is her protector still, and fills her hand With competence: And here perchance she meets With other widowed dame, whose youthful son Has won her daughter's love, and led her forth To share his fate, and like her mother sooth Amid the toil of camps the soldier's cares. How fair the bonds of love! the mothers too Are thus conjoined, and each, in lonely Eld, Finds pleasures new by kindness interchanged, And hopes commingled fond in grandchild born.
But 'mid the veteran bands, one friendlier voice Meets Hubert's ear, and bids his step return :— The aged Nursoo, long his comrade loved In days of war. For Nursoo's faithful years In British warfare many a clime had seen From green Ceylon to Egypt's northern lands; And many a fight the proud medallions told
Had decked his breast. With him the veteran loves Beneath the shadowy grove, where sweet at morn The juicy palm-tree pours her Indian* wine, To scan the wars and intervals of peace
That pleased their youth. Old Nursoo loves to tell Of days of calm amid his native glens, When sent with English arms to guard the vale Where passed his youth, he met her kinsmen old With welcome throned in every brightening eye; And saw the peasants urge their toil secure, Or yield their thanks for his protection given, Where war late raged, and where his youth had seen, Beneath each fieldward tree the ploughman's arms, Who, trembling, strewed his field with hopeless seed, While lurked the plunderers near. Nor less the heart
Of English Hubert loves to trace the time When 'mid those Indian vales his days had passed In sweet respite from war; his sole employ The beaten foe from rocky towers to watch, And guard with Sepoyt band the peaceful vale; While all the love the grateful Indians bore To generous England, centered sole in him, Lone English soldier, mid their wondering crowds. Unblessed their rites of village splendor seemed,
The toddy, or palm-wine, is produced from three species of the palm, the cocoa, the date, and what is called the crab-tree: Those trees from which the juice or wine is drawn, produce no fruit. The juice is received from the stump of the fruit-bearing branches by means of a small earthen pot, into which the end of the branch is fixed; it is removed every morning and evening, but is seldom used by Europeans, except in the morning, the heat of the sun giving it a disagreeable sourness, when it oozes from the tree during the day. Many of the natives, on the contrary, prefer it in its acid state, and prepare from it, by boiling with garlic and spices, a beverage which is perfectly nauseating to European palates, but of which they are very fond. The palm-wine, when kept for a certain time, is also used as vinegar; and when distilled yields an inferior kind of spirituous liquor; when boiled in its fresh state, the residuum is a kind of coarse sugar.
+ Sepoy, (Sipahi, Spahi) is the Arabic word signifying soldier; it is now generally used to signify an Indian soldier in the British service.
In Middle Ind. All these his years have seen And traced in all the fierce Pindarrie's haunt, Yet triumph still in sinews unsubdued. Yon man of stooping age, whose shivering limbs Scarce patient seem the chilly morn to bear, Was once a soldier stout: the Ebon staff, Where press his leaning hands, is trophy ta'en From arbor, loved by old Tippoo Sultaun, In triumph half, and half in pity kept. Yon Moslem old, from earliest childhood bred Amid the British camp, scarce deigns to own A different kindred; flows the English tongue Like native Hindoostanee o'er his speech; And oft with pride the hardy veteran tells How side by side he stood with English bands, To meet on isles of France the Frenchman's sword, t And drive him headlong back. That glory shared Yon dark Hindoo, whose mien, subdued and mild, Seems scarce for soldier meet; yet firm and brave, By Briton's side he met the shock of fight Like Coral-soft amid its native deeps, Yet charmed to firmest strength in upper air. And see where stalks, with folded arms and slow, Yon tall Bungalla: trained to all the skill Of British war, he joined the fierce assault That burst Batavia's iron lines, and tamed, Thro' smoke and blood, Cornelis desperate fort:t A faithful soldier he; yet strict to hold
Each rite of Brahman faith: with proud contempt The newer sects he views, from Indian faith By stranger's arts allured, as traveller sees The crumbling stones by idle Arabs torn From vast Egyptian pyramid, whose heighth, Through countless time, yet unimpaired remains.
Thus through the various groupe the veteran's tale Discursive roved; and oft with grateful heart Would bid his son remark, how through the gloom Of feeblest age each soldier smiled content, And rested gladsome o'er his staff of Eld, Secure in British faith, where waning years For youthful toil with large rewards are paid. And then would Hubert piteous seek the groupe Of soldier's widows near :-Some wandering lone Amid the distant trees, or leaning sad
Beneath the Jaca, laden with giant fruit ;- With orphans some, a mournful burthen, charged, Their hope at once, and grief; and childless some, With no consoler near, save soldier old, Their husband's ancient friend, who oft had shared In wounds with him, and pestilence of camps Their nursing care. Now, silent here and Îone,
• Most readers will know, that Pindarrie, is merely the Hinduwee word signifying Robber. The habits of the predatory race, to whom this name has been latterly restricted, bear a great resemblance to those of the well known Moss-troopers of border song.
The bravery and good conduct of the native troops, under their English officers, both at the capture of the Mauritius and of Batavia, will be long remembered. At both these places, particularly the former, they came immediately into contact with European antagonists, and did not one jot disgrace the character of British soldiers.
The laca is a species of what is called the Bread Fruit-tree; its fruit is considerably larger than an ordinary sized cucumber.
With none to yield them love, and none to seek With fond caress their soft connubial care, They droop forlorn: and yet, whate'er the hand Of power can do, the widow's heart to cheer Is here in kindness tried; no bitter fear Of haggard want shall haunt her feeble Eld, And bid her children weep; her husband's lord Is her protector still, and fills her hand With competence: And here perchance she meets With other widowed dame, whose youthful son Has won her daughter's love, and led her forth To share his fate, and like her mother sooth Amid the toil of camps the soldier's cares. How fair the bonds of love! the mothers too Are thus conjoined, and each, in lonely Eld, Finds pleasures new by kindness interchanged, And hopes commingled fond in grandchild born.
But 'mid the veteran bands, one friendlier voice Meets Hubert's ear, and bids his step return :- The aged Nursoo, long his comrade loved In days of war. For Nursoo's faithful years In British warfare many a clime had seen From green Ceylon to Egypt's northern lands; And many a fight the proud medallions told
Had decked his breast. With him the veteran loves Beneath the shadowy grove, where sweet at morn The juicy palm-tree pours her Indian* wine, To scan the wars and intervals of peace
That pleased their youth, Old Nursoo loves to tell Of days of calm amid his native glens,
When sent with English arms to guard the vale Where passed his youth, he met her kinsmen old With welcome throned in every brightening eye; And saw the peasants urge their toil secure, Or yield their thanks for his protection given, Where war late raged, and where his youth had seen, Beneath each fieldward tree the ploughman's arms, Who, trembling, strewed his field with hopeless seed, While lurked the plunderers near. Nor less the heart
Of English Hubert loves to trace the time When 'mid those Indian vales his days had passed In sweet respite from war; his sole employ The beaten foe from rocky towers to watch, And guard with Sepoyt band the peaceful vale; While all the love the grateful Indians bore To generous England, centered sole in him, Lone English soldier, mid their wondering crowds. Unblessed their rites of village splendor seemed,
*The toddy, or palm-wine, is produced from three species of the palm, the cocoa, the date, and what is called the crab-tree: Those trees from which the juice or wine is drawn, produce no fruit. The juice is received from the stump of the fruit-bearing branches by means of a small earthen pot, into which the end of the branch is fixed; it is removed every morning and evening, but is seldom used by Europeans, except in the morning, the heat of the sun giving it a disagreeable sourness, when it oozes from the tree during the day. Many of the natives, on the contrary, prefer it in its acid state, and prepare from it, by boiling with garlic and spices, a beverage which is perfectly nauseating to European palates, but of which they are very fond. The palm-wine, when kept for a certain time, is also used as vinegar; and when distilled yields an inferior kind of spirituous liquor; when boiled in its fresh state, the residuum is a kind of coarse sugar.
+ Sepoy, (Sipahi, Spahi) is the Arabic word signifying soldier; it is now generally used to signify an Indian soldier in the British service.
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