| |
| WHERE 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, | 5 |
| Hides and ghi; | |
| Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints | |
| In his prints; | |
| Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away | |
| Near a Bay— | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth | |
| South and North, | |
| Till the country from Peshawar to Ceylon | |
| Was his own. | |
| Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more’s the pity!— | 25 |
| Grew a City. | |
| As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed, | |
| So it spread— | |
| Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built | |
| On the silt— | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| For his gain. | |
| Now the resting-place of Charnock, ’neath the palms, | |
| Asks an alms, | |
| And the burden of its lamentation is, | |
| Briefly, this:— | 50 |
| “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 | 55 |
| We explain | |
| That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:— | |
| “All must fry!” | |
| That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain | |
| For his gain. | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
| 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” | 75 |
| Swell Her trade— | |
| Still, for rule, administration, and the rest, | |
| Simla’s best! | |
| |
