228 
SCENES IN INDIA. 
and listened to the solemn service for the dead, I could 
not forbear recalling the beautiful lines of Y oun : — 
“ What is the world itself? thy world ? — a grave ! 
Where is the dust that has not been alive ? 
The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors ; 
From human mould we reap our daily bread. 
The globe around earth’s hollow surface shakes, 
And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
O’er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
Whole buried towns support the dancer’s heel. 
The moist of human frame the sun exhales ; 
Winds scatter through the mighty void, the dry. 
Earth repossesses part of what she gave, 
And the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire. 
Each element partakes our scatter’d spoils, 
As nature wide our ruins spread : man’s death 
Inhabits all things but the thought of man.”* 
Night 9th. 
