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A TALE OF TWO CITIES

HERE the sober-coloured cultivator smiles
On his byles;

Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow
Come and go;

Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,

Hides and ghi;

Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints
In his prints;

Stands a City-Charnock chose it-packed away
Near a Bay-

By the sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer
Made impure,

By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
Moist and damp;

And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
Don't agree.

Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came
Meek and tame.

Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
Till mere trade

Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
South and North.

Till the country from Peshawar to Ceylon

Was his own.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

Thus the mid-day halt of Charnock-more's the pity!
Grew a City.

As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
So it spread-

Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
On the silt-

Palace, byre, hovel-poverty and pride-
Side by side;

And, above the packed and pestilential town,
Death looked down.

But the Rulers in that City by the Sea,
Turned to flee-

Fled, with each returning Spring-tide from its ills
To the Hills.

From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze
Of the days,

From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
Beat retreat;

For the country from Peshawar to Ceylon
Was their own.

But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
For his gain.

Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms, Asks an alms,

And the burden of its lamentation is

Briefly, this:

'Because, for certain months, we boil and stew, So should you.

Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire

In our fire!'

And for answer to the argument, in vain

We explain

That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:-
'All must fry!'

That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain
For his gain.

Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints
In his prints;

And mature-consistent soul-his plan for stealing
To Darjeeling:

Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile, England's isle;

Let the City Charnock pitched on-evil day!—

Go Her way.

Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
Heap their stores,

Though Her enterprise and energy secure
Income sure,

Though 'out-station orders punctually obeyed'
Swell Her trade-

Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,

Simla's best.

IN SPRING TIME

Y garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,

MY

And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,

From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,

And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.

But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil's note is strange;

I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.

Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Spring time range

Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!

Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields blowing chill,

From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the fragrance of the loam,

And the hawk nests on the cliff-side and the jackdaw in

the hill,

And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.

But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,

Ah! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough,

In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell-like speech is

Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?