O INDIA, India, O my lovely land — <br />At whose sweet throat the greedy English Snake, <br />With fangs and lips that suck and never slake, <br />Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band, <br />The loathsome Shape twists, chaining foot and hand — <br />O from this death-swoon must thou never wake, <br />From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake, <br />And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand? <br />Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes, wherein there stays <br />The patience of that august Faith that scorns <br />The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze, <br />Where, not within the timeless east and haze, <br />The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns, <br />There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!<br /><br />Francis William Lauderdale Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-india-3/
