A kindly warmth diffusing, Youthful fires
Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative to mortal Man
With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow'd.
English Poetry
Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
It is,—it is my husband's voice!
Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice
To Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose. Young image of what old Rishi of Ind Art thou, O Arya savant, Jagadish? What unseen hermitage hast thou raised up From ‘neath the dry dust of this city of stone? Amidst the crowd’s...
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