Henry Louis Vivien Derozio

THE HARP OF INDIA

Why hang'st thou lonely on you witheredbough? 
Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; 
Thy music once was sweet-- who hears it now? 
Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain? 
Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain; 
Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou, 
Like ruined monument on desert plain: 
O! many a hand more worthy far than mine 
Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave, 
And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine 
Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel'sgrave: 
Those hands are cold-- but if thy notes divine 
May be by mortal wakened once again, 
Harp of my country, let me strike the strain!

TO MY NATIVE LAND

My country! In thy days of glory past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
Where is thy glory, where the reverence now?
Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last,
And grovelling in the lowly dust art thou,
Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee
Save the sad story of thy misery!
Well—let me dive into the depths of time
And bring from out the ages, that have rolled
A few small fragments of these wrecks sublime 
Which human eye may never more behold
And let the guerdon of my labour be,
My fallen country! One kind wish for thee! 

GOING INTO DARKNESS

"It is that hour when dusky night
Comes gathering o're departing light,
When hue by hue and ray by ray,
Thine eye may watch it waste away,
Until thou canst no more behold
The faded tints of pallid gold
And soft descended the shades of night,
As did those hues so purely bright;
And in the blue sky, star by star,
Shines out, like happiness afar;
A wilderness of worlds! - To well
In one, with those we have loved well
Where bliss indeed! - The waters flow
Gurgling, in darkest hue below,
And 'gainst the shore the ripple breaks
As from its cave, the east wind wakes,
But lo! where Dian's crest on high appears,
Faint as the memory of departing years.