BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI.   OBIIT 1894

Thy tears fall fast, O mother, on its bloom.

O white-armed mother, like honey fall thy tears;

Yet even their sweetness can no more relume

The golden light, the fragrance heaven rears,

The fragrance and the light for ever shed,

Upon his lips immortal who is dead.                

Goethe

A perfect face amid barbarian faces,
A perfect voice of sweet and serious rhyme,
Traveller with calm, inimitable paces,
Critic with judgment absolute to all time,
A complete strength when men were maimed and weak,

German obscured the spirit of a Greek.                      

The Lost Deliverer

Pythian he came; repressed beneath his heel

The hydra of the world with bruised head.

Vainly, since Fate's immeasurable wheel

Could parley with a straw. A weakling sped

The bullet when to custom's usual night

We fell because a woman's faith was light.                 

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