Where small white cattle, scattered wide,
Browse from dawn to even-tide-
Where the river-watered soil
Scarce demands the ryot's toil;
And the rice field's emerald light
Outvies Italian meadows bright ;-

Where leaves of every shape and dye,
Blossoms varied as the sky

The fancy kindle; fingers fair

That never closed on aught but air;
Hearts, that never heaved a sigh;
Wings, that never learned to fly;
Cups, that ne'er went table round;
Bells, that never rang with sound;
Golden crowns, of little worth;
Silver stars, that strew the earth;
Filagree fine and curious braid,

Breathed, not labored, grown, not made;
Tresses like the beams of morn,

Without a thought of triumph worn ;

Tongues that prate not; many an eye
Untaught midst hidden things to pry;
Brazen trumpets, long and bright,
That never summoned to the fight;
Shafts, that never pierced a side,

And plumes, that never waved with pride ;-
Scarcely Art a shape may know

But Nature here that shape can show.

Through this soft air, o'er this warm sod,

Stern deadly Winter never trod ;

The woods their pride for centuries wear,

And not a living branch is bare ;
Each field for ever boasts its bowers,
And every season brings its flowers.

Bengala's plains are richly green,
Her azure skies of dazzling sheen,
Her rivers vast, her forests grand,
Her gardens lovely,—but the land,
Though dear to countless eyes it be,
And fair to mine, hath not for me
The charm ineffable of home.
For still I yearn to see the foam
Of wild waves on thy pebbled shore,
Dear Albion! to ascend once more
Thy snowy cliffs; to hear again
The murmur of the circling main—
To stroll down each romantic dale
Beloved in boyhood—to inhale
Fresh life on bare and breezy hills-
To trace the coy retreating rills——
To see the clouds at summer-tide
Dappling all the landscape wide;
To mark the varying gloom and glow
As the seasons come and go-

Again the green meads to behold

Thick strewn with silvery gems and gold,

Where kine, bright-spotted, large and sleek, Browse silently, with aspect meek,

Or motionless in shallow stream

Stand mirror'd, till their twin shapes seem,
Feet linked to feet, forbid to sever,
By some strange magic fixed for ever.

And, oh! once more I fain would see
(Here never seen) a poor man free,
And valuing more an humble name
But stainless than a guilty fame.
How sacred is the simplest cot,
Where Freedom dwells-where she is not
How mean the palace! Where's the spot

She loveth more than thy small isle,

Queen of the sea? Where hath her smile

So stirred man's inmost nature?

Where

Are courage firm, and virtue fair,
And manly pride, so often found
As in rude huts on English ground,
Where e'en the serf who slaves for hire
May kindle with a freeman's fire?

How proud a sight to English eyes
Are England's village families!
The patriarch, with his silver hair,
The matron grave, the maiden fair,
The rose-cheeked boy, the sturdy lad,
On Sabbath day all neatly clad-
Methinks I see them wend their way
On some refulgent morn of May-
By hedgerows trim, of fragrance rare,
Towards the hallowed House of Prayer!

I can love all lovely lands,

But England most; for she commands,
As if she bore a parent's part,
The dearest movements of my heart,
And here I may not breathe her name,
Without a thrill through all my frame.

Never shall this heart be cold

To thee, my country! till the mould (Or thine or this) be o'er it spread,

And form its dark and silent bed:

I never think of bliss below

But thy sweet hills their green heads show,

Of love and beauty never dream,

But English faces round me gleam!

E'en now the charm of English skies
Fancy's wizard glass supplies.

Beneath the visionary light

Familiar scenes grow fresh and bright.

Across the smooth lawn in the sun
I see my own sweet children run;
I see their laughing features fair,
Their soft blue eyes and flaxen hair.
Their distant father's friends of yore
Stand smiling at the cottage door,
With one whose fond but earnest air
Reveals a rapture touched with care;
Thrilled as with a sweet surprise
A mother's heart is in her eyes!

Ah! these are images and dreams

More dear than foreign groves and streams,
Though fair as landscapes bade to shine

Beneath the primal light divine!

WOMAN.

THE day-god sitting on his western throne,
With all his 'gorgeous company of clouds'-
The gentle moon that meekly disenshrouds
Her beauty when the solar glare is gone—
The myriad eyes of night-the pleasant tone
Of truant rills, when o'er the pebbled ground
Their silver voices tremble-the calm sound
Of rustling leaves in noon-tide forests lone-
The cheerful song of birds-the hum of bees-
The zephyr's dance that, like the footing fine
Of moonlight fays, scarce prints the glassy seas,—
Are all enchantments! But oh, what are these
When music, poetry, and love combine

In WOMAN'S voice and lineaments divine!

TO LAHA PENNOO: THE GOD OF WAR.

A KHOOND WAR LYRIC.

I.

GREAT God of Battles! Oh, forgive

(For thou our wants and weakness saw,) If we so long have seemed to live

Regardless of thy glorious law;

Our herds were few, our fields were bare,
Our bravest warriors bowed with care.

II.

But now Fate scowleth on the foe,

And Famine haunts each cot and bower,

And some the fever-blasts lay low

And some the gaunt wild beasts devour;
Unnerved is many a manly limb,

I refer the reader to Captain S. C. Macpherson's Report up on the Khoonds of the districts of Ganjam and Cuttack, and to the interesting articles upon the subject, in the Calcutta Quarterly Review, for curious and valuable information respecting this most singular people. The Khoonds still offer up human sacrifices to one of their deities, (the Earth Goddess) a custom to which the British Indian Government are endeavoring to put a stop by earnest remonstrance and persuasion. There is every reason to believe that this laudable object will be speedily attained, by a continuance of the same mild but steady and determined policy which has hitherto influenced the intercourse of our Political agents with the Khoonds.

This war lyric and the lyric that follows are versified from literal prose translations of genuine Khoond poems.