The suppliant stranger to fair India's shore.

"With wondering steps I traced the sunny strand,
And mark'd each giant work of nature's hand;
Saw towering oaks th' aërial tempest brave,
And mighty rivers roll the sea-like wave.
Amaze, unmix'd with joy, my soul possess'd;
What beauteous scene can charm an Exile's breast?
Sadly I saw primeval forests frown,
And, in each foreign stream, still sought my own.

"No bright success my rising labours crown'd;
The sunbeam wither'd, or the deluge drown'd,
Each growing hope: my frame seem'd worn with care,
And Death still hover'd in the feverish air.
Stern Famine o'er my solitary gate
Spread her cold wings, and watch'd in sullen state.
Life yet was dear--Each visionary night
Restored my ancient dwelling to my sight;
And every gale, that swept the valley o'er,
Appear'd to point me to my native shore.

"Soon as the morning waved her banner red,
With bounding heart the winged sail I spread.
Again the tempest roars, the meteors play,
And struggling clouds repel the rising ray.
Yet nought disturb'd my unprophetic soul;
Resign'd to joy, impatient of control,
I seem'd new-born: Creative Hope again
Restored the sense of pleasure, and of pain;