Mourn, poor Bangala, mourn, thy hapless state!
Thy swan, thy warbler's snatched by ruthless fate!
Oh, snatched in prime of life, thy darling child,
Datta who sang in magic numbers wild
Great Megnath—Indra's haughty conquering foe,
Hurled by brave Lakshman to the shades below!
—Hushed is the tuneful voice that thrilled the soul,
Silent the lyre whose swelling notes did roll
In streams of music sweet that did impart
A life—a soul ev'n to the dullest heart!
Ah, poor unhappy land! how sad thy doom,
Thy noblest sons are lost in vigor's bloom!
Oh Death how stern, implacable thou art
To single them out for thy cruel dart!
Ye children of Bangala, o'er his bier
Pour forth your sorrows—shed the grateful tear
To wit and talents due, and genius rare,
Now lost beyond the reach of hope and care!
What though no pageant grand, no funeral show
Followed his hearse in sable garb of woe?
What though no column high, no living bust
Should mark the spot where lies his honoured dust?
He needs not these, though prized by little men;
His works his noblest monument remain!
Oh, crown your poet's grave with flowery wreaths,
The flesh is dead, th' immortal spirit breathes!