# Poets of John Company/A Lay of Lachen

COLMAN MACAULAY.
1848–90.
A Lay of Lachen.
The purple shadows upward crept On Sikkim's mountains blue, The snows their solemn vigil kept Those stately watchers true. The frosted peaks of Chola gleamed. Broken and bare and bold, On the glittering crest of Kinchin streamed The sun-light clear and cold. The fleeting clouds brief shadows flung On mighty Junnoo's brow, or hung On Pindim's forehead near; And Donkia's beetling bastions frowned A silent warning far around: No foot may venture here.
The light air bore the sullen roar Of Rungit rushing by; And Bengal's Lord in thought was deep As he gazed across the mountains steep And he spake his counsel high:— "No travellers come from far Tibet, From the mystic land no tidings yet For many a month are sent; No more the tinkling bells ring clear; On Lingtu's heights, by Bedden's mere; On Jelep's path no step resounds No smoke at even upward bounds From weary trader's tent.
Do thou, Macaulay, ready make, To Sikkim's Chief my greeting take And see his father's solemn pact Is true fulfilled in word and act. And hie thee to the frontier far. Journey towards the Northern Star, Speak fair the Lord of Kambajong And seek his friendship new: The path is steep, the road is long, But the purpose high and true. Say that you cross the snow drifts sad But to seek the grasp of friendship's hand, We wish but the welfare of the land To make both peoples glad."
Macaulay took his Chief's commands, And, for that the city was long and steep. And the ice was thick and the snow was deep. And the wind that blows across the sands Of Tartary is biting keen. He called companions three To go with him across the sheen Of the snow fields wild and free. First genial Evans—wisest he Of all wise lawyers, and his place At Bar and Board is ever high,— Sage in council, for a space Fled from the wiles of Dorson's race And Rent Bill papers dry. To breathe the air of Sikkim free, To wander by her purling rills And seek the beauty of her hills The blueness of her sky.
And Paul who Sikkim loves so well That still the native chieftains tell, With kindly smile and grasp of hand, That of the Sahib log who cross
The Rungit's silver fall, None know the story of their land, None can its meaning understand, As does that Sahib tall.
And cheery Gordon, blithe and gay, Sang as they toiled along the way To Tibet's frontier far; That soldier minstrel whose guitar By Lachen's stream or Lushai hill Has often cheered the camp, and still Is heard in Cooch Behar. And in the vales of Sikkim lone, As gay he bought her brooch or zone. Did many a maiden fair Sigh, as she brushed a tear away, "He will not buy what eke he may; "He buys all things throughout the land. "Oh, would he only buy my hand, "That soldier debonnair!"
And Sarat Chandra, hardy son Of soft Bengal, whose wondrous store Of Buddhist and Tibetan lore A place in fame's bright page has won, Friend of the Tashu Lama's line, Whose eyes have seen the gleaming shrine Of holy Lhassa, came to show The wonders of the land of snow.
They journeyed over steep Tendong, And through the vale of Teesta fair, By Shilling's slopes and Yeung's Mendong, And Kubbi's smiling pastures rare And Ryott's roaring falls. To where, high perched on Mafi's breast With banners gay and brazen crest, Shone Sikkimputti's halls.
Right royal welcome Sikkim gave, With high carouse and banquets brave, And many a pledge of right good-will, And many a promise new His compact ever to fulfil And prove his fealty true: And to the Lord of Kambajong Swift messengers he sent: "Lo, o'er the hills to Giagong, "By Lachen's vale and Phallung's snows, "From great Bengal an envoy goes, "To greet thee in his tent."
And leaving Sikkim's halls, the four O'er Mafi's hill, by Ringun's rill 'Neath stately Gnarim's summit hoar, By Namga's shades and Chakoong's glades. And rapid Teesta's rocky shore And Choongtam's marshes low. And fairy Lachen's forests green, And boiling Zemu's silver sheen, And cherished still of Hooker's name, Travelled till they the torrent crossed At Tullum Samdong hard in frost And Tungu deep in snow.
The moon to nearly full had grown Ere they the frontier cold and lone Did reach, where wind swept Giagong Near twice six thousand cubits sheer, O'er India's plains and peoples' throng Lies white and chill and drear 'Twixt Kinchinjow and Chomiom. No man or beast may make his home That barren snow-field near.
The day was waning, and the crest Of Chomiomo paler grew, As sank the sun into the west And ever lengthening shadows threw The giants hoar between. The north wind sharp and sharper blew, The frost was piercing keen; Night followed day, but still no sound Was heard the silent snow drift round Of coming foot-steps, and no light Of lantern or of torch did peer Across the waste of gleaming white To say that help was near.
No light had they, nor drink, nor meat Nor could they forward go or back; The drifts were deep around the track. The snow was thick around the feet; And night like a funeral pall lay black On a snow winding sheet. The moon rose slow, and pale, and sad O'er the royal crest of Kinchinjow, And Chomiomo's peak was clad In the light that bathed his icy brow; And a shimmering moonbeam sad caressed Her white still face and summit proud As they laid their weary limbs to rest On her silent spreading shroud.
At length that awful night was past, No more they shuddered 'neath the blast; The morning smiled across the wild, And the tentsmen followed fast. Down Kongralamo's snowy waste The Yaks with stately movement paced. And five score swordsmen's weapons glanced As Kamba's chieftain grave advanced The mystic chorton past.
And in Macaulay's tent that day, In high durbar and bright array, With welcome glad and presents fair, Was Bengal's greeting told. And Kamba's Lord did oft declare That Tibet's people fain would dare The dangers of the road, to see Victoria's Empire, rich and rare, Of mighty Tara regent she. And with her happy people free Would friendly converse hold.
Next day with many a greeting kind And many a pledge of friendship true They parted; and the wondrous blue Of Tibet's sky was left behind. And at the Yule-tide far away, As sweet young faces wondering gaze, When downward fall the ashes grey And upward leaps the yellow blaze. Those comrades four may tell the tale Of how they trod fair Lachen's vale, So lovely and so long. And how they braved the withering gale And lay beneath the snowpeaks pale At lonely Giagong.