V.

Moore's Poetical Works complete in one volume. London 1843. Longman, Brown, Green& Longmans. Pag. 351.

While thus she mus'd, her pinnions fann'd The air of that sweet Indian land,

Whose air is balm; whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks, and amber beds; Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam Of the warm sun, with diamonds team; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; Whose sandal groves and bow'rs of spice Might be a Peri’s Paradise!

But crimson now her rivers ran. With human blood— the smell of death Came reeking from those spicy bow'rs, And man, the sacrifice of man,

Mingled his taint with ev'ry breath Upwaſted from the'innocent flow'rs.

Land of the Sun! what foot invades

Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades— Thy cavern shrines, and Idol stones,

Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones? „Tis He of Gazna— fierce in wrath He comes, and India's diadems

Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path.—

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, Torn from the violated necks

Of many a young and lov'd Sultana;. Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fane he slaughters, And choaks up with the glitt'ring wrecks Of golden shrines the sacred waters!

J. M. Mitthauo. Als so sie nachsann, weht' ihr Flügel Die Luft von India's Au'n und Hügel, Die Balsam ist, des Meeresflut Auf Bernstein und Korallen ruht; Des Berge, schwanger, vom Erhellen Der Sonne, Diamanten schwellen;