The waves are dashing proudly down
Along thy sounding shore;
Lashing, with all the storm of power,
The craggy base of mountain tower,
Of mosque, and pagod hoar,
That darkly o’er thy waters frown,
As if their moody spirit’s sway
Could hush their wild and boist’rous play!
Unconscious roll the surges down,
But not unconscious thou,
Dread Spirit of the rolling flood,
For ages worshipped as a God,
And worshipped even now,
Worshipped, and not by serf or clown,
For sages of the mightiest fame
Have paid their homage to thy name.
Canst thou forget the glorious past,
When mighty as a God,
With hands and heart unfettered yet,
And eyes with slavish tears unwet,
Each sable warrior trod
Thy sacred shore, before the blast
Of Moslem conquest hurried by,
Ere yet the Mogul spear was nigh?
O’er crumbled thrones thy waters glide,
Through scenes of blood and woe;
And crown and kingdom, might and sway,
The victor’s and the poet’s bay,
Ignobly sleep below;
Sole remnant of our ancient pride,
Thy waves survive the wreck of time,
And wanton free as in their prime.
Alas, alas, all round how drear,
How mangled and how torn!
Where are the damsels proud and gay,
Where warriors in their dread array,
‘In Freedom’s temple born?’
Can heroes sleep? Can patriots fear?
Or is the spark for ever gone,
That lights the soul from sire to son?
I gaze upon thy current strong
Beneath the blaze of day;
What conjured visions throng my sight,
Of war and carnage, death and flight!
Thy waters to the Bay
In purple eddies sweep along,
And Freedom shrieking leaves the shrine,
Alas! no longer now divine.
Roll, Gunga, roll in all thy pride
Thy hallowed groves among!
Still glorious thou in every mood,
Thou boast of India’s widowhood,
Thou theme of every song!
Blent with the murmurs of thy tide
The records of far ages lie,
And live, for thou canst never die!
Shoshee Chunder Dutt.
