Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
Hymn to the Ganges
By Sir William Jones (1746–1794)H
Luxuriant o’er her broad autumnal bed!
Her waves perpetual verdure spread,
Whilst health and plenty deck her golden sides:
As when an eagle, child of light,
On Carabala’s unmeasured height,
By Patala, the pontiffs throne revered,
O’er her eyry proudly reared
Sits brooding, and her plumage vast expands,
Thus Ganga o’er her cherished lands,
To Brahma’s grateful race endeared,
Throws wide her fostering arms, and on her banks divine
Sees temples, groves, and glittering towers, that in her crystal shine.
On blessed Cailasa’s top, where every stem
Glowed with a vegetable gem,
Mahesa stood, the dread and joy of men;
While Parvati, to gain a boon,
Fixed on his locks a beamy moon,
And hid his frontal eye, in jocund play,
With reluctant sweet delay:
All nature straight was locked in dim eclipse
Till Brahmans pure with hallowed lips
And warbled prayers restored the day;
When Ganga from his brow by heavenly fingers pressed
Sprang radiant, and descending graced the caverns of the west.
What time near proud Cantesa’s eastern bowers,
(While Devata’s rained living flowers)
A river-god, so Brahma willed, was born,
And rolled mature his vivid stream
Impetuous with celestial gleam:
The charms of Ganga, through all worlds proclaimed,
Soon his youthful breast enflamed,
But destiny the bridal hour delayed;
Then, distant from the westering maid,
He flowed, now blissful Sanpo named,
By Palte crowned with hills, bold Rimbu’s towering state,
And where sage Trashilhumbo hails her Lama’s form renate.
The picture of that sovereign youth had seen,
With graceful port and warlike mien,
In arms and vesture like his parent God,
Smit with the bright idea rushed,
And from her sacred mansion gushed,
Yet ah! with erring step. The western hills
Pride, not pious ardor, fills;
In fierce confederacy the giant bands
Advance with venom-darting hands,
Fed by their own malignant rills;
Nor could her placid grace their savage fury quell:
The madding rifts and shouldering crags her foamy flood repel.
Haunt your waste brow,” she said, “unholy rocks,
Far from the nectar-dropping locks!
But thou, loved Father, teach my waves to flow.”
Loud thunder her high birth confessed;
Then from the inhospitable west
She turned, and, gliding o’er a lovelier plain,
Cheered the pearled East again;
Through groves of nard she rolled, o’er spicy reeds,
Through golden vales and emerald meads;
Till, pleased with Indra’s fair domain,
She won through yielding marl her heaven-directed way:
With lengthened notes her eddies curled, and poured a blaze of day.
Smoothly she flows, where Calinadi brings
To Canyacuvja, seat of kings,
On prostrate waves her tributary flowers;
Whilst Yamunà, whose waters clear
Famed Indraprestha’s valleys cheer,
With Sereswati knit in mystic chain,
Gurgles o’er the vocal plain
Of Mathura, by sweet Brindávan’s grove,
Where Gopa’s love-lorn daughters rove,
And hurls her azure stream amain,
Till blest Prayága’s point beholds three mingling tides,
Where pilgrims on the far-sought bank drink nectar, as it glides.
And southern Palamau’s less daring steep,
Sonorous rivers, bright though deep,
O’er thirsty deserts youth and freshness throw.
“A goddess comes,” cried Gumti chaste,
And rolled her flood with zealous haste:
Her followed Soma with pellucid wave
Dancing from her diamond cave,
Broad Gogra, rushing swift from northern hills,
Red Gandac, drawn by crocodiles,
(Herds, drink not there, nor herdsmen, lave!)
Cosa, whose bounteous hand Nepalian odor flings,
And Mahanadi laughing wild at cities, thrones, and kings.
And verdurous flames by tepid breezes fanned,
Where health extends her pinions bland,
Thy groves, where pious Valmic sat and thought,
Where Vyása poured the strain sublime,
That laughs at all consuming time,
And Brahmans rapt the lofty Veda sing.
Cease, O, cease, a ruffian king,
The demon of his empire, not the grace,
His ruthless bandits bids deface
The shrines, whence gifts ethereal spring:
So shall his frantic sons with discord rend his throne,
And his fair-smiling realms be swayed by nations yet unknown.
But Sama, restless power, forbids delay:
To love all virtues homage pay,
E’en stern religion yields. How full, how strong
Her trembling, panting surges run,
Where Patali’s immortal son
To domes and turrets gives his awful name
Fragrant in the gales of fame!
Nor stop, where Rama, bright from dire alarms,
Sinks in chaste Sita’s constant arms,
While bards his wars and truth proclaim:
There from a fiery cave the bubbling crystal flows,
And Muctigir, delightful hill, with mirth and beauty glows.
And thou, from Ganga named, enchanting mount,
What voice your wailings can recount
Borne by shrill echo o’er each howling coast,
When He who bade your forests bloom,
Shall seal his eyes in iron gloom?
Exalted youth! The godless mountaineer,
Roaming round his thickets drear,
Whom rigor fired, nor legions could appall,
I see before thy mildness fall,
Thy wisdom love, thy justice fear:
A race, whom rapine nursed, whom gory murder stains,
Thy fair example wins to peace, to gentle virtue trains.
(This boon his prayers of Mahádèw obtain:
Grace more distinguished who could gain?)
Her calmer current o’er his western meads,
Which trips the fertile plains along,
When vengeance waits the oppressor’s wrong;
Then girds, fair Nawadwip, thy shaded cells,
Where the Pandit musing dwells;
Thence by the abode of arts and commerce glides,
Till Sagar breasts the bitter tides;
While she, whom struggling passion swells,
Beyond the labyrinth green, where pards by moonlight prowl,
With rapture seeks her destined lord, and pours her mighty soul.
Gay Rangamar, where sweetest spikenard blooms,
And Siret, famed for strong perfumes,
That, flung from shining tresses, lull the gales,
Wild Brahmaputra winding flows,
And murmurs hoarse his amorous woes;
Then, charming Gunga seen, the heavenly boy
Rushes with tumultuous joy:
(Can aught but love to men or gods be sweet?)
When she, the long-lost youth to greet,
Darts, not as earth-born lovers toy,
But blending her fierce waves, and teeming verdant isles;
While buxom Lacshmi crowns their bed, and sounding ocean smiles.
Thy sacred ear, and give the honor due?
Vishnupedi? Mild Bhismarsu?
Smooth Suranimnaga? Trisrota pure?
By that I call; its power confess;
With growing gifts thy suppliants bless,
Who with full sails in many a light-oared boat
On thy jasper bosom float;
Nor frown, dread goddess, on a peerless race
With liberal heart and martial grace,
Wafted from colder isles remote:
As they preserve our laws, and bid our terror cease,
So be their darling laws preserved in health, in joy, and peace!