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" Britain, thy voice can bid the light descend; 

 On thee alone, the eyes of Asia bend! 

 High Arbitress ! to thee her hopes are given, 

 Sole pledge of bliss, and delegate of heaven : 

 In thy dread mantle all her fates repose, 

 Or blight with blessings, or o'ercast with woes ; 

 And future ages shall thy mandate keep, 

 Smile at thy touch, or at thy bidding weep. 

 Oh! to thy godlike destiny arise! 

 Awake, and meet the purpose of the skies ! 

 Wide as thy sceptre waves, let India learn 

 What virtues round the shrine of incense burn ; 

 Some nobler flight let thy bold genius tower, 

 Nor stoop to vulgar lures of fame or power ; 

 Such power as gluts the tyrant's purple pride, 

 Such fame as reeks around the homicide. 

 With peaceful trophies deck thy throne, nor bare 

 Thy conquering sword, till Justice ask the war : 

 Justice alone can consecrate renown, 

 Her's are the brightest rays in Glory's crown ; 

 All else, nor eloquence nor song sublime 

 Can screen from curse, or sanctify from crime. 



Let gentler arts awake at thy behest, 

 And science sooth the Hindoo's mournful breast. 

 In vain has Nature shed her gift around, 

 For eye or ear, soft bloom or tuneful sound ; 

 Fruits of all hues on every grove display'd, 

 And pour'd profuse the tamarind's gorgeous shade. 

 What joy to him can song or shade afford, 

 Outcast so abject, by himself abhorr'd ? 

 While chain'd to dust, half struggling, half resign'd, 

 Sinks to her fate the heaven-descended mind, 

 Disrob'd of all her lineaments sublime, 

 The daring hope whose glance outmeasur'd time, 



