Yet not in pity only, but in hope,
    Spring the hot tears the brave for thee may shed: 
  Thy chain shall prove but a sand-woven rope;
    But sleep thou still:  the sky is not yet red.

  Sleep till the mighty helmsman of the world,
    By the Almighty set at Fortune’s wheel,
  Steers toward thy freedom, and, once more unfurled,
    The banner of St. Mark the sun shall feel.

  Then wake, then rise, then hurl away thy yoke,
    Then dye with crimson that pale livery,
  Whose ghastly white has been the jailer’s cloak
    For years flung o’er thy shame and misery!

  Rise with a shout that down thy Giants’ Stair
    Shall thy old giants bring with thundering tread—­
  The blind crusader standing stony there,
    And him, the latest of thy mighty dead.

  Whose patriot heart broke at the Austrian’s foot,
    Whose ashes under the black marble lie,
  From whose dry dust, stirred by the voice, shall shoot
    The glorious growth of living liberty.

  FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

SKETCHES OF INDIA.

I.

“Come,” says my Hindu friend, “let us do Bombay.”

The name of my Hindu friend is Bhima Gandharva.  At the same time, his name is not Bhima Gandharva.  But—­for what is life worth if one may not have one’s little riddle?—­in respect that he is not so named let him be so called, for thus will a pretty contradiction be accomplished, thus shall I secure at once his privacy and his publicity, and reveal and conceal him in a breath.

It is eight o’clock in the morning.  We have met—­Bhima Gandharva and I—­in “The Fort.”  The Fort is to Bombay much as the Levee, with its adjacent quarters, is to New Orleans; only it is—­one may say Hibernice—­a great deal more so.  It is on the inner or harbor side of the island of Bombay.  Instead of the low-banked Mississippi, the waters of a tranquil and charming haven smile welcome out yonder from between wooded island-peaks.  Here Bombay has its counting-houses, its warehouses, its exchange, its “Cotton Green,” its docks.  But not its dwellings.  This part of the Fort where we have met is, one may say, only inhabited for six hours in the day—­from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon.  At the former hour Bombay is to be found here engaged at trade:  at the latter it rushes back into the various quarters outside the Fort which go to make up this many-citied city.  So that at this particular hour of eight in the morning one must expect to find little here that is alive, except either a philosopher, a stranger, a policeman or a rat.

“Well, then,” I said as Bhima Gandharva finished communicating this information to me, “we are all here.”

“How?”

“There stand you, a philosopher; here I, a stranger; yonder, the policeman; and, heavens and earth! what a rat!” I accompanied this exclamation by shooing a big musky fellow from behind a bale of cotton whither I had just seen him run.