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Those fruits were sought, that glowing there

Attract the passing stranger's sight;

In fragrant clusters, ripe and fair

"Do not the humble offerings slight!"

Like her, from many a genial soil

But freshly culled, we offer here
Fruits, flowers, the golden Summer's spoil,
That not less ripe and bright appear.

Accept the gifts; when Summer's past

Her goodliest flowers and fruits decay:

But their enduring tints shall last

While earth-born beauties fade away.

AMONG the many peculiar fruits which have their birth in India—and the qualities of which appear to be admirably adapted to the taste and physical constitution of the residents, may be numbered many which fail to become exotics in other countries, and are, in consequence, almost unknown to the botanical world. What a glow of enthusiasm would Linnæus or Cuvier have experienced, could many of the productions of India have passed before their eyes! How brilliant would they have rendered the Jardin des Plantes, at Paris, or the Zoological Gardens of London! In India, as in Persia, the tinted leaf has a meaning, and the sweet fruits have their office and their moral. As tributes of friendship, they teem with superstitious meaning; and as benefits conferred, transient though they may be, they are treasured as things of value. In the "leafy month of June," a season so rich and beautiful to the eye of the American and the European, parts of India abound with choice and excellent kinds of fruit. Leeches and mangoes, among others, are found in profusion. The first, according to Bishop Heber, is very fine, being a sort of plum, with the flavour of a Frontignac grape; the second, a noble fruit in point of size, being extremely large, and in flavour not unlike an apricot. When not quite ripe, it makes an excellent tart, and is held in much esteem, not alone by the natives, but by foreign residents.

10

PEARLS well become that white and lovely neck
And that transparent brow. Yet need they not
The aid of starry gems and jewelled crown
To show thy queenlike dignity. A grace
Dwells in the neck that spurns the mantle's fold;
Its regal, swanlike bend-the rounded charm
Of that fair form-the glow of that bright cheek-
The clear calm outline of that lofty front-
And the keen glancing of the eagle eye,
That speaks thee one of Nature's princely dames.
Luxury is around thee; the soft couch

Woos thy reclining form; the pomp of towers
And lordly domes that own thy sovereign sway,
Melts in the sunny distance;—those are near
Who at one nod of thine would bound to give
Their life away; who watch the slightest wave
Of that small hand, as if their destinies

Were in its gift, (and so in sooth they are!)
Studious to shield thee from the sun's hot glance,
And the rough insect's wing. Yet not to such
As thou, these trappings which to envied power
Direct the vulgar gaze-give aught of pride.

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Thy looks are in the distance-far along
The mellowed lines of sunset tracing now
Perchance the forms that visit oft thy dreams,
What time the seeds of slumber close the lids
Into the heart, distilling pleasures past.

What see'st thou there? Perhaps thy native hills,
Where like a stately fawn thou grew'st;-where 'neath
The broad Palmyra's shade, or on the brink

Of some cool stream thou wooed'st the noontide sleep;
Or lightly boundedst o'er the flower-wrought sward,
Thy feet like the white lotus, when it glides
Sparkling upon the lake's pure breast-or blooms
From the pomegranate shaken, when the wind

Plays in the spring-crowned branches. Or thy thought
O'er the plain wanders, where at morning oft

By thy brave father's side, the eager steed

Through the thick jungle spurred—a huntress bold,
Thou won'st the trophies of the sylvan chase.

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For thy high nature knows no coward trait

When the wild monarch of the woods, incensed

At bold invasion, from his covert sprang,

And thou didst meet unblanched the advancing death

And visions of a form, as full of grace

As Krishna's self, what time he deigns descend

To sport in palmy grove, dazzling the swains.

With his immortal beauty; yet as stern

As India, when he shakes the echoing hills,
And crowned with thunderbolts, hurls arrowy fire
Athwart the startled sky. He came to save-

He rescued-snatched thee from the monster's jaws,
And vanished, ere the words of thanks were breathed.
Vanished-but with him bore a virgin heart,

Treasured as yet more jealously than e'er

The miser watched his hoard: sought and denied;
Yet now bestowed unsought, with all its wealth
Of high, pure feeling, and of noble thought,
Henceforth all heaped an offering at one shrine.

"T is woman's lot oftimes to love in vain;
To hoard one image in the bosom's depths,
Till it is twined with every lifestring there
Too closely to be severed; to conceal,
Cherishing still the flame that feeds upon
The wrecks of other passions-and doth grow
The fierce destroyer of its own domain.

Hence the wan cheek—the sad and altered mien–

The pale mute vigil-the unconscious gaze

Upon familiar things—the cold reply

Of words half uttered and unheeding sighs,
While floats the spirit in a visioned world,

Vague, shadowy, by one sole sad light illumed,
Like the revealings of a single star

That shows the phantoms sunlight had dispelled.

Not thine such fate, thou queenlike bride! To some
Of passionate nature, love is like the torrent
Bursting impetuous from its mountain bed,

Chainless and measureless-and sweeping down
Aught that impedes its course. "T is like the sun
They worship-flooding earth with his sole light,
Quenching each lesser star, and in each stream
And lake, and fount, but multiplying orbs
That image his own brightness, and that borrow
Their lustre and their beauty from himself.

In others, of a prouder mould, love wears

A different aspect. Happy-'t is the stream
That bears fertility to every plain,

Majestic-while upon its breast serene

The blue heaven descends. "T is like the star

Toward which the seaman turns his doubting eye;

Shining forever motionless above,

While round it beam a glittering train, as fair

And glorious as itself-not like itself
Forever changeless. And such love, if crushed
By fortune's spite, or cold neglect, retires
Deep, deep within itself, unseen, unheard,
Yet living-yet more proudly firm -even as
The yielding clay the all-destroying fire
With stubborn force enduring, doth oppose.

And such was thine, young bride. He who had been

In that dark hour of danger at thy side,

And left thee when delivered, came once more

With princely bearing-with an armed train

To claim thee. Beat thy heart more wildly then,
When waving plumes were bowed before thy glance,
As if they quailed beneath a woman's eye,
Who had reaped crimson fields! When one who ne'er
Before had deigned to sue, did teach his tongue
The unwonted language of a suppliant

Unto the haughty sire, who could bestow

A gem so priceless? Calmly thou didst hear

The prayer, the stern rebuke, the vengeful menace
That he, the hated Rahtore, should have dared

To ask alliance with proud Hara's line;

Calmly didst hear the fierce defiance flung
Back on his head who gave it—while the guest
Thus welcomed, through the courts his steps retraced,
Nor deigned one backward glance. A kindred soul
Thine own discerned, and pledged itself as firmly
In life and death alone that youth to prize,
To yield him faith and truth, although the vow

None heard but heaven, as if attesting thousands

Had ratified the oath. How nobly kept!

Through danger, through contempt. Though all thy kindred
Showered curses and deep scorn upon the foe

Of all thy father's house, though hate pursued
His steps, still, with a calm unaltered mien,

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