INFANTICIDE. 
103 
And find her consolation, if she can, 
In the caress bestowed by flattered pride, 
Which oft is deemed and christened love in man. 
For beautiful is Zeida, and her lord 
Knows well to prize and guard so fair a gem — 
A richer never shone in Delhi’s hoard — 
But can he love her, and condemn 
That young heart to such agony. 
As now each pulse is torturing? 
Ol could he but that infant see 
From its brief slumber just awaking. 
Still pillowed on that bosom aching, 
Stretching its tiny hands that cling 
To the soft neck, as in appeal 
For love, for pity, for protection, 
Even his proud soul remorse must feel ; 
He could not crush that young affection, 
Nor to the monsters of the flood 
His helpless first-born child resign, 
Though one of his pure flowing blood 
Seeks none but sons to grace his line. 
****## 
The river rusheth full and strong, 
A mighty and majestic stream; — 
Yon Chupra it hath swept along, 
Stifling the dying scream 
Of the wretch that in his lone despair 
Waited death’s rude summons there. 
Where the tall reeds thickly grow, 
Nodding slowly to and fro. 
Plunges the lordly buffalo ; 
