# Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/The Moosulman's Grave

THE MOOSULMAN'S GRAVE.
Sweet is the shelter of yon verdant glade,
 Where lofty palms and waving mangos bloom,
Where the tall peepul spreads its grateful shade
 Above the pious Moslem's lowly tomb.
Severe in chaste simplicity it stands
 Bearing no record of the donor's name,
To tell the world from whose all-bounteous hands
 The smiling gifts of that fair valley came.
'Twas he who planted all those clustering topes,
 And scooped the basin of the well-filled tank,
The pleasant haunt of playful antelopes,
 Who leap rejoicing o'er the flowery bank;
And there in flocks, beside its ample brim,
 Unnumbered birds wheel round in airy rings;
And o'er its glassy surface wild fowls skim,
 And stately herons plume their shining wings.
There too in crouds the villagers repair,
 And while the cooling stream their temples lave,
From countless lips is breathed the grateful prayer,
 Blessing the hand munificent that gave
To the parched waste the precious element,
 Whose gushing waters all their lotas fill;
And many a graceful female form is bent,
Dipping the ghurrah in the crystal rill.
Oh! where the noon-tide sun so fiercely glows,
 Scorching the desert with its sultry beam,
How bland, how welcome, is the soft repose,
 Invited by the thickly shaded stream!
Beneath the boughs of some o'er-arching palm,
 The mossy turf by weary limbs is prest,
And blest by slumbers most delicious balm,
 The pilgrim sinks at once to blissful rest.
Beside the lakelet, with its modest dome,
 Peeps forth between the trees a pillared mosque;
And there the wandring fakeer finds a home,
 And chants the nuzzum from the high kiosk:
He feeds the lamp with palm-nut's fragrant oil,
 A lonely star upon the brow of night,
And plucks the fairy offsprings of the soil,
 To crown with votive wreaths the altar's height.
Nature's luxuriant and lavish hand,
 Forest and hill, steep cliff, and tangled wild,
With rich profusion o'er the sunny land,
 A countless tribe of brilliant flowers has piled.
Upon the sandy plain fair lilies spring;
 And mid the jungle, buds of rain-bow dyes
To the spiced gale their balmy perfume fling,
 Or lift their towering garlands to the skies.
There the warm red of the pomegranate glows
 In ruby lustre; and acacias twine
Their many-colored wreaths amid the rose,
 The yellow champa and the jessamine;
Its mantling silver the clematis draws
 O'er clustering oleanders pink and white;
And the magnolia's richly scented vase
 Droops o'er the Baubool's bells of golden light.
And India's dark-browed natives dearly prize
 The silken treasures of their forest bowers;
They love to plait their fagrant rosaries,
 And heap each holy shrine with wreaths of flowers.
O'er the bright waters snowy chaplets float,
 With lotus crowns the pearly river glows,
And each proud shallop and each nut-shell boat
 Bear a rich garland on their dainty prows.
Buds of all scents and every changeful hue,
 The gardens beautiful though fragile gems,
Whate'er his creed, or Moslem or Hindoo,
 The pilgrim twines in radiant diadems.
With votive offerings of a grateful breast,
 Mosque or pagoda by his hands are wreathed,
For where the tank invites the fainting guest,
 He asks not who the precious boon bequeathed.
Oh! blessed work of charity—a tree
 Planted for love of human-kind—a well—
A mosque or mhut's o'ershading canopy,
 Can make the heart with holy feelings swell.
The wide serai within the city's gate,
 A pool in some green dell beside the plain,
Cheer with their pious gifts the desolate,
 And light the fading beams of hope again.
Blessed by the bounties of his fellow man
 The way-worn traveller who journeys o'er
The wide and sultry realms of Hindostan,
 By deep ravine, parched waste, or river's shore,
Where'er his wandering footsteps are addrest,
 From steep Nepaul to sea-girt Juggunaut,
He finds a frequent place of welcome rest,
 In some pagoda, or some mosque-crowned ghaut.