Bankim Chandra Chatterji
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How hast thou lost, O month of honey and flowers, The voice that was thy soul! Creative showers, The cuckoo's daylong cry and moan of bees, Zephyrs and streams and softly-blossoming trees And murmuring laughter and heart-easing tears And tender thoughts and great and the compeers Of lily and jasmine and melodious birds, All these thy children into lovely words He changed at will and made soul-moving books From hearts of men and women's honied looks. O master of delicious words! the bloom Of chompuk and the breath of king-perfume Have made each musical sentence with the noise Of women's ornaments and sweet household joys And laughter tender as the voice of leaves Playing with vernal winds. The eye receives That reads these lines an image of delight, A world with shapes of spring and summer, noon and night; All nature in a page, no pleasing show But men more real than the friends we know. O plains, O hills, O rivers of sweet Bengal, O land of love and flowers, the spring-bird's call And southern wind are sweet among your trees: Your poet's words are sweeter far than these. Your heart was this man's heart. Subtly he knew The beauty and divinity in you. His nature kingly was and as a god In large serenity and light he trod His daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowers Wreathing a hero's sword, ruled all his hours. Thus moving in these iron times and drear, Barren of bliss and robbed of golden cheer, He sowed the desert with ruddy-hearted rose, The sweetest voice that ever spoke in prose. Page-25 |