Vhe Spirit of 'Pagan.
Hail, great Ananda, glorious temple. Hail !
What though the centuries have passed thee by And left thee silent, like an ended tale, With minarets mutely pointing to the sky.
The blown sand deepens on the barren ground,
The cactus stretches forth its thorny hands, And time, the leveller, like a lurking hound, Waits but to tear thee down. In other lands
Throbs now the pulse of Ufe ; thy portals fair
That once held priestly throng and kings' array, Now faintly echo to the muttered prayer
Of village hinds, who marvel while they pray.
The evening air is stillathe sinking sun
Floods with its fire thy walls of silvery blue. Night shakes her skirtsaday's flickering light is done, Darkness descends ; great Derelict, adieu 1