Whose faithful years in her encounters spent, Have all those hopes of blissful home forgone That bid the exile mourn,-whose countries far In youth or childhood left, are now estranged, Nor hold one heart, whose pulse would beat with love, To grant the wanderers home. And oft he sought, As came the punctual day of month elapsed That gives such hoary band the stipend due Of age released from toil, his son to lead,
To meet their gathered groupe. * O'er village plain To neighbouring wood they speed, whose shadowy depth Is scarcely yet by glimmering dawn illumed, There waits the veteran band their destined meed By British hand dispensed. At distance seen Romantic seems the view like fairy scene, Where walk the forms of strange Arabian tale, In world for genii framed. Amid the grove, Some lean by shadowy banian's rooted bough, With turbaned listeners drawn attentive round; † Whilst some by low enchannelled wall recline, That guides the hoarded rill from neighbouring tank The plantains green to feed; by naked tree, Whose reddening blossoms deck the leafless branch, One waiting groupe is seen; whilst others walk, In lonely meditation, down the ranks
Of tall columnar palms. Like shadows all In silence gliding dim, with languid step Of grave-approaching age, and decked with robe Of patriarchal time, they seem the ghosts Of strange Elysian field, to hero shewn Mid regions wild of death. But nearer come, And mingling thro' the crowd, the pictured scene That pleased the idle eye, is sudden lost In living sympathy: appears around In social groupes, a venerable band Of aged men, in every various garb
Of India's hundred tribes, from many a field And many a lengthened war the remnants left; Like dropping leaves that clothe December's oak, When all the forest round has long been stripped. They meet and talk; each face recalls to each A thousand gone; and all the ceaseless hum That floats along the breeze from aged tongues In words of former years, and names of men Long dead. The present world of living things Is there forgot; while hoary memory tells Her ghostly tale, and all the ancient groupes Commix their stories wild of other years
"The pensioned veterans assemble monthly, from their different villages, at the nearest British station to receive their allowances. The scene presented on such occasions is extremely interesting; as well as the exultation with which these Indians are often heard to contrast the punctual regularity of the British payments with the uncertain and scrambling distributions afforded by the native powers to their dependants.
The water is preserved in wells during the dry season, whence it is drawn by many awkward contrivances for the use of the gardens. The buckets are frequently of earthenware. A number of these are attached to a web of ropes, suspended in the well by passing over a revolving cylinder, by which means they are emptied and filled without assistance from the hand. The water flows from thence into a trough leading to certain small aqueducts, made on walls, which are raised about two feet from the ground; and which afford a sufficient descent to carry the water a considerable distance over the inequalities of the fields or gardens.
And generations gone. Old Hubert sees In each an ancient friend, and passing reads In every face a history, where else,
As strangers see in armies ranged for shew, Were merely pictures dumb. His ready tale Thus bids his son the various soldiers know That pass around. Yon dark Telinga old, Whose ebon cheek is decked with silvery beard, Like glade of snow 'mid hill of wintry pines, Has o'er Malayan seas and Bornean Gulf, Through every lurking bay and islet wild, The pirate chaced. There, leaning o'er his staff, He boasts to listening crowds, that now secure, Protected safe by ship where he has fought, The weak Chinese may steer his crowded bark With curious riches fraught, thro' every strait Where savage Buggis haunted once the creeks, And darted plundering forth. Of lighter tints Yon tall Mahratta seems, on upland plains A mountain soldier bred; his veteran eye, Tho' dimmed by age, yet glows with parting fire, Like beacon shining far amid the gray Approach of cloudy morn; his ardent youth On Ras-ol-Khyma, den of pirates, saw The British thunder burst. See, both are met, Their tales to interchange of British war On China's Yellow Seas, or Yemen's Red, From orient Timor's far and wildest bound To Afric's haunted shore, where ocean's width Of pirate bands was cleared. See, lonely stalks Yon Rajahpoot, on northern mountains bred, By age not lessening strength released from toil, Whose tribe's whole craft is arms,-whose fathers passed Their unrewarded lives amid the bands
Of Indian prince :-he boasts his better fate, That rose in British camp to rank and wealth, And now in honoured age enjoys the meed To faith and valour due; his children, called To join the war where late their father fought, Await, like him, the soldier's fair reward, Or wealth, or honoured death (the prospect sole Their tribe requires) nor desperate need to join, As wont their sires of old, the lawless chief, Whose hated bands were fed to savage strength For plundering war. One veteran walks apart, Whose cheek in thinner garment careless wrapped, Scarce heeds the chilling morn; he smiles to mark His shivering comrades muffled close from air, With turbands folded thick, and mantles drawn Around their heads.-Observe his fairer hue, That tells his mountain birth, and youth inured To hills of Rohilcund and Indian snows. Through many a clime his riper years have passed Of insalubrious name; o'er wilds of Cutch, Where sluggish flows the Run; Barodrah, hid Amid the full Nerbuddah's aguish plain, The Jungles* deep of southern Malabar, And arid plains that parch the traveller's life
* Wild woodlands; situations of all others the most unhealthy, often proving fatal
those who go there even on the short excursions of the chase, or of botany.
In Middle Ind. All these his years have seen And traced in all the fierce Pindarrie's* haunt, Yet triumph still in sinews unsubdued. Yon man of stooping age, whose shivering limbs Scarce patient seem the chilly morn to bear, Was once a soldier stout: the Ebon staff, Where press his leaning hands, is trophy ta'en From arbor, loved by old Tippoo Sultaun, In triumph half, and half in pity kept. Yon Moslem old, from earliest childhood bred Amid the British camp, scarce deigns to own A different kindred; flows the English tongue Like native Hindoostanee o'er his speech; And oft with pride the hardy veteran tells How side by side he stood with English bands, To meet on isles of France the Frenchman's sword,† And drive him headlong back. That glory shared Yon dark Hindoo, whose mien, subdued and mild, Seems scarce for soldier meet; yet firm and brave, By Briton's side he met the shock of fight Like Coral-soft amid its native deeps, Yet charmed to firmest strength in upper air. And see where stalks, with folded arms and slow, Yon tall Bungalla: trained to all the skill Of British war, he joined the fierce assault That burst Batavia's iron lines, and tamed, Thro' smoke and blood, Cornelis desperate fort:† A faithful soldier he; yet strict to hold
Each rite of Brahman faith: with proud contempt The newer sects he views, from Indian faith By stranger's arts allured, as traveller sees The crumbling stones by idle Arabs torn From vast Egyptian pyramid, whose heighth, Through countless time, yet unimpaired remains.
Thus through the various groupe the veteran's tale Discursive roved; and oft with grateful heart Would bid his son remark, how through the gloom Of feeblest age each soldier smiled content, And rested gladsome o'er his staff of Eld, Secure in British faith, where waning years For youthful toil with large rewards are paid. And then would Hubert piteous seek the groupe Of soldier's widows near :-Some wandering lone Amid the distant trees, or leaning sad Beneath the Jaca, laden with giant fruit ;‡ With orphans some, a mournful burthen, charged, Their hope at once, and grief; and childless some, With no consoler near, save soldier old, Their husband's ancient friend, who oft had shared In wounds with him, and pestilence of camps Their nursing care.-Now, silent here and lone,
* Most readers will know, that Pindarric, is merely the Hinduwee word signifying Robber. The habits of the predatory race, to whom this name has been latterly restricted, bear a great resemblance to those of the well known Moss-troopers of border song.
The bravery and good conduct of the native troops, under their English officers, both at the capture of the Mauritius and of Batavia, will be long remembered. At both these places, particularly the former, they came immediately into contact with European antagonists, and did not one jot disgrace the character of British soldiers.
The Iaca is a species of what is called the Bread Fruit-tree; its fruit is considerably larger than an ordinary sized cucumber.
With none to yield them love, and none to seek With fond caress their soft connubial care, They droop forlorn: and yet, whate'er the hand Of power can do, the widow's heart to cheer Is here in kindness tried; no bitter fear Of haggard want shall haunt her feeble Eld, And bid her children weep; her husband's lord Is her protector still, and fills her hand
With competence: And here perchance she meets With other widowed dame, whose youthful son Has won her daughter's love, and led her forth To share his fate, and like her mother sooth Amid the toil of camps the soldier's cares. How fair the bonds of love! the mothers too Are thus conjoined, and each, in lonely Eld, Finds pleasures new by kindness interchanged, And hopes commingled fond in grandchild born.
But 'mid the veteran bands, one friendlier voice Meets Hubert's ear, and bids his step return :- The aged Nursoo, long his comrade loved In days of war. For Nursoo's faithful years In British warfare many a clime had seen From green Ceylon to Egypt's northern lands; And many a fight the proud medallions told
Had decked his breast. With him the veteran loves Beneath the shadowy grove, where sweet at morn The juicy palm-tree pours her Indian* wine, To scan the wars and intervals of peace
That pleased their youth. Old Nursoo loves to tell Of days of calm amid his native glens,
When sent with English arms to guard the vale Where passed his youth, he met her kinsmen old With welcome throned in every brightening eye; And saw the peasants urge their toil secure, Or yield their thanks for his protection given, Where war late raged, and where his youth had seen, Beneath each fieldward tree the ploughman's arms, Who, trembling, strewed his field with hopeless seed, While lurked the plunderers near. Nor less the heart Of English Hubert loves to trace the time When 'mid those Indian vales his days had passed In sweet respite from war; his sole employ The beaten foe from rocky towers to watch, And guard with Sepoyt band the peaceful vale ; While all the love the grateful Indians bore To generous England, centered sole in him, Lone English soldier, mid their wondering crowds. Unblessed their rites of village splendor seemed,
The toddy, or palm-wine, is produced from three species of the palm, the cocoa, the date, and what is called the crab-tree: Those trees from which the juice or wine is drawn, produce no fruit. The juice is received from the stump of the fruit-bearing branches by means of a small earthen pot, into which the end of the branch is fixed; it is removed every morning and evening, but is seldom used by Europeans, except in the morning, the heat of the sun giving it a disagreeable sourness, when it oozes from the tree during the day. Many of the natives, on the contrary, prefer it in its acid state, and prepare from it, by boiling with garlic and spices, a beverage which is perfectly nauseating to European palates, but of which they are very fond. The palm-wine, when kept for a certain time, is also used as vinegar; and when distilled yields an inferior kind of spirituous liquor; when boiled in its fresh state, the residuum is a kind of coarse sugar.
+ Sepoy, (Sipahi, Spahi) is the Arabic word signifying soldier; it is now generally used to signify an Indian soldier in the British service.
Ere came their English guest the scene to view ;- Each marriage-feast with fondest care was decked, When his expected presence graced the cot;- And every village elder's kind Salam,
And smiling peasant's daily gift of fruit, To softest kindness soothed his grateful heart, And wakes remembrance kind.
Of idling peace, old Nursoo less delights, Than tale of battles gained where Sepoy ba ids With faithful step unshrinking, urged advance Where'er the boldest British heart could lead, As troop the sprites of witched Arabian lamp Where'er the Sovereign Genie calls their aid. Nor less that veteran Nursoo loved to tell Of magic powers, by sprites attendant wrought (For Indian men beheld) which round her camp Still showered for Britain's troops abundance down, And strewed Bungalan harvests o'er the wild To feed secure her banded armies vast.
Then launched he forth in grateful word to shew, How 'mid the crowded camp, where black disease Filled every soul with fear, the British art Spread o'er the soldier's life her wings of health, And tended careful all his tedious ills.-
What contrast strange to scenes of Indian war! (For Nursoo's youth had Scindia's campments seen) Where misdirected valour useless raged,
And each rebelling soldier blamed his chief,
While plague and famine gnawed their armies strength. And oft the aged veteran blessed his gods
That, since their hands had formed his fate for war, Their kind decrees had sent him forth to fight Beneath the buckler hung on British arm.
Nor undelighted lists the partial ear Of aged Hubert, hearing thus the praise Of native England spoke by Indian tongue. For,-distant far from home,-his sleeping wish By no fond hopes ere waked to seek return- His country's fame to him was country now, And those who owned to Britain grateful love, His opening heart as countrymen received. And oft with them the patriot veteran loves To sooth the moodier thoughts that haunt the hours Of aimless age, when turns the languid mind To thoughts of youthful days, and wild regret, With saddening cloud, bedims the cheering gleam That o'er his eve of life all brightening plays.
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