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To India.
by Francis William Lauderdale AdamsO India, India, O my lovely land -
At whose sweet throat the greedy English snake,
With fangs and lips that suck and never slake,
Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band,
The loathsome shape twists, chaining foot and hand -
O from this death-swoon must thou never wake,
From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake,
And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand?
Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes wherein there stays
The patience of that august faith that scorns
The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze
Where, not within the timeless East and haze,
The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns,
There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!