DRAMATIC SCENE. (From the Mahabharat)

BY H. H. WILSON, ESQ.

KRISHNA.

"Deep pierced with countless shafts my gallaut son
Sank senseless in his car, and poured profuse
The life-blood forth. His followers marked his fall
With terror, while the hostile force with shouts
Proclaimed their joy. His faithful charioteer
Quick turned the coursers from the flight, nor far
Had urged their speed before his lord revived.
His bow he grasped, and sternly gazed around:
Awhile in mute astonishment he stood.
Then to the charioteer, the son of Daruka,
In anger and in sorrow thus he spoke.—

PRADYUMNA.

What hast thou done-from whence hast thou conveyed
Me, recreant ?-To the warriors of our tribe
Such baseness still unknown, -Say has the sight
Of hostile prewess filled thy mind with terror,
Or strange distraction driven thee from the war?

CHARIOTEER.

Son of Janardana, nor strange distraction,
Nor coward fear has driven me from the war.
I deemed thy youth unmeet to match the might
Of yon fierce King, and bore thee from the combat.
Such was my duty-his unconscious lord
The charioteer should rescue from the battle.
Dear art thou to me, prince, and it is mine
To snatch thee from thy fate, as thou art bound
To guard my life amidst the shock of hosts.
But thou art one, the foe is numerous,
Long trained to arms, the contest is unequal,
And from such contest have I borne thee hither.

PRADYUMNA.

Enough 'tis done, but ne'er again convey
Me living from the war. None of our race
Retreat from combat; none on prostrate foes
Remorseless strike, nor on the feeble sex,
Nor age, nor infancy, nor on the chief
Hurled from his car, or of his arms deprived.
Thou Dáruka art skilled in martial lore,
And in our house's battles long art tried:
But never more, when in the foremost rank
Thou drivest, turn my chariot to the rear.
How shall I face my glorious Sire, how meet
The mighty wielder of the death fraught mace?
What will they say to me-discomfited-
Shamed by ignoble wounds, disgraced by flight?
What will my gallant brothers say to me,
No partner of their fame; and what will they,
The daughters of our tribe, who hoped in me
A man, a champion-what will they say to me
Pradyumna comes, the coward-who in fear
Flies from the battle-fie-oh fie upon him;'
Oh worse than death to hear such words of shame:
To suffer acorn and mockery-oh! never

?

Bear me thus rashly from the fight again.
Taunted, degraded thus. I will not live.
Quick to the war, once more-I little prize
Existence, but I cannot brook dishonour

Quick, quick, and if I shrink from peril, leave me;
Leave me to rot a dastard in the dust.

Lash on the steeds, and in the storm of strife
Efface the stain-if it must be-with death."

There are several poetical contributions from Mr. Richardson himself. We meant to have extracted the lines on "Death"-but a Contemporary bas forestalled us. The Birth-day Stanzas to his little boy are fraught with tenderness and beauty.

BIRTH-DAY STANZAS TO MY CHILD.*

BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON.

I.

My spirit revels deep in dreams to day

I dimly recognize the scenes around,

For though thy fairy form is far away,

And still thy father treads this foreign ground,

He sees thee in thy native fields at play,

And hears thy light laugh's sweet familiar sound,
Merry and musical as birds in May!

11.

This is thy natal morn-a date how dear!
How many tender memories mark the time!
How oft thy prattle charmed a parent's ear,
And soothed his soul in this ungenial clime!
How oft when impious discontent was near,
Thy sinless smile hath kindled hopes sublime,
And made the gloom of exile seem less drear!
III.

Though now in weary loneliness I learn

What countless miseries broken ties may bring,
Though vainly to deserted rooms I turn
For one domestic charm, I will not fling
A shade upon this hour, nor idly yearn
For pleasures passed on Time's too rapid wing,
Nor pine at Fate's decrees, however stern.

IV.

Dear Child! to the devoted is the day,
Thy brethren, (gentle twins,) and she who beara
A mother's sacred name, are proud and gay;
The small white English cottage sweetly wears
A festal look, while friends and kindred pay
Their tribute-praise, foretell thy future years,
And paint the brightness of thine onward way.
V.

And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er
The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name
Be fondly pledged each elder guest's before,
Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame
Shall flush thy cheek; and then the brilliant store
Of Birth-day gifts shall childhood's dreams inflame,
While aged hearts remember days of yore.

• Lester Williams Richardson.

But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart,
Save such as pass like clouds o'er summer skies;
As once thy presence bade despair depart,
So now before thy memory sorrow flies;
And almost momently around me start

Dear forms of home, that stir with sweet surprise,
Like visions raised by some Enchanter's art!
Calcutta, October 19, 1831.

At present we have not space to spare, to extract the finely descriptive lines entitled Sea-foam."

"The Bottle of Red Ink" is a powerfully written tale of intense inter est-in which the fallacy of the legal sophism that circumstances cannot lie, is most impressively demonstrated. We shall not, however, mar the tale by giving the reader an idea of the story. We only extract one little passage just to shew how poetry is poetry, even clothe it as you will.

"Here I sit alive, and in perfect contentment, this present 11th day of Septem ber, 1830, in my neat blue parlour which overlooks the tranquil Hudson, and the pleasant little village of New Harton. From my bay window, whose light is che quered by waving honey-suckle and clematis, while they fling their delicious fra grance through its open panes, I gaze on a charming landscape, ruddy with the glories of an American autumn. The balmy air of the sunny afternoon brings from afar the sweetest sounds that can be associated with rural scenery; the tin. kle of the sheep bell, the low of cattle, the murmur of the distant water-mill, the cheerful jingle which accompanies the passing team, and now and then the remote Bound of the clanking hammer from the village smithy; but dearer to a father's heart, there is the cheerful laugh, the merry shout of my bright-eyed children, as they chase the shaggy and sagacious Bronte round the rose bushes of my trim garden."

The article from the same pen on the Decline and Fall of Ghosts, is writ ten with exquisite humour; but we feel very indignant with Mr. Parker, for, under a pretence of standing up for Ghosts and Ghostlerie, he demo lishes the whole generation with his small-sword like pen, so pointed, and bright, which endangers the reader much like a wound in the Diaphragm with a sharp instrument, which, according to the ancients, was sure to kill the party with laughter. There are many other compositions which we would most willingly dwell on (among others those touching lines by Mr. J. Tytler, that breathe such a chastened and devotional spirit) but that we are compelled, by interruption, to close this rambling notice sooner than we had anticipated.

[FROM THE INDIA GAZETTE.]

We have been favored with a copy of the Bengal Annual for 1832, and it is with much pleasure that we recommend the volume to the notice of our readers. To say that Mr. RICHARDSON'S publication is, as a literary production, superior to many of its European contemporaries, is not perhaps any very high praise; for the English Anuuals are mainly indebted to the beauty of their pictorial embellishments for the suc cess they have met with. The Indian Editor has no such attractions to of

fer, and his book must therefore stand or fall by its literary merits alone. If the value of the many richly ornamented volumes that now adorn the table of every drawing-room were to be tried by a similar criterion, very few of them would be able to abide the test; but we think we may say, that without a single engraving to allure the eye, the contents of the Bengal Annual will be found amply to reward the reader for the trouble of its perusal. We are glad to perceive that this little work has attracted the attention of several of the newspapers and periodical publications at home; for so profound is the apathy of our countrymen as to all subjects connected with India that we had scarcely hoped any thing proceeding from this quarter of the globe would have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. Mr. RICHARDSON has however been more fortunate in this respect than we could have anticipated; and we think the decidedly Oriental character of the volume before us will greatly conduce to its favorable reception in England. A work of this kind might be rendered not merely amusing to the English reader, but also the means of conveying to him some of that information as to the institutions and habits of the natives of India, which it seems in vain to expect he will take the trouble of acquiring from any more legitimate source. In the introduction to one of the stories contained in the present number, it is observed that there are portions in the earlier history of the English in India, which keep pace in romantic interest with the tales of the first conquerors of America, or of the primitive settlers in the woods of the western hemisphere. Many of the incidents in this country during the last century and a half afford a rich field for the labors of the novelist; and, after what we have seen, we cannot doubt that there are writers among us who are capable of making an excellent use of the materials that are ready at hand. A portion of the interest we have felt in perusing some of the contributions to the Bengal Annual must, no doubt, be attributed to a personal acquaintance with the respective authors; and this circumstance makes us unwilling to pronounce an opinion which, it is scarcely possible, can be altogether an unbiassed one. Without, therefore, entering into a minute examination of the merits or defects of any particular article, which indeed our limits would not permit, we shall only mention one or two contributions that strike us as possessing peculiar claims to attention. The tales of The Bottle of Red Ink," "The Tailor of Beaulie," and "The Rival Factory," though widely differing from each other in subject and style, are alike creditable to the present character of Anglo-Indian literature. Many of the poetical articles also possess considerable merit. "The Lament of the Forsaken Rose," reminds us of SHELLEY in some of his lighter and more fanciful compositions; while the lines on The Ganges," are a singularly graphic sketch of the various scenes, which meet the eye of the traveller on his passage up the far famed sacred river. To the talented author of "Chateaux en Espagne," itself a very amusing trifle, we are indebted for some of the best articles in the volume. The Editor of the work has also contributed several short poetical pieces of his own, with one of we are so much pleased that we shall extract it, and thus enable our readers to form their own judgment. It seems to us to be a composition of considerable beauty, though it belongs to a class of poetry that will proba bly never be popular, in the ordinary acceptation of the word:

DEATH.

BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON.

I.

We weep and tremble at the doom

The dreadful doom of death;-
'Tis sad amidst the fair earth's bloom
To yield this mortal breath!

66

Tis this that fills the final hour
With mournfulness and dread,

Love's tender ties and friendship's power
Avail not with the dead!

And though we meet to part no more,

We may not meet the same;

The things that linked our hearts before Were chains that Death's cold hand divides,

For nought in holier realms abides

Of this terrestrial frame.
VI.

Thy radiant fields, Eternity!

The dreamer's breast alarm,
They echo not a human sigh,
Nor own a human charm!
Thy skies the dazzled soul appal
And too severely glow,

Thy scenes no long lost joys recall,
And in thy bright and boundless space
Where only spirits dwell, we trace
No features loved below!