Henry Louis Vivian Derozio
Henry Louis Vivian Derozio was a fiery Indian teacher and poet. As a lecturer at the Hindu College of Calcutta, he invigorated a large group of students to think independently; this Young Bengal group played a key role in the Bengal renaissance.
Derozio was generally considered an Anglo-Indian, being of mixed Portuguese descent, but he was fired by a patriotic spirit for his native Bengal, and considered himself Indian. In his poem To India My Native Land he wrote:
“My Country! In the days of Glory Past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
And worshiped as deity thou wast,
Where is that Glory, where is that reverence now?”
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Henry Louis Vivian Derozio Poems
The Harp Of India
Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough? Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now?
To My Native Land
My country! In thy days of glory past A beauteous halo circled round thy brow and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
A Walk By Moonlight
Last night - it was a lovely night, And I was very blest - Shall it not be for Memory A happy spot to rest?
Song Of The Hindustanee Minstrel
I With surmah tinge the black eye's fringe, 'Twill sparkle like a star;
Going Into Darkness
'It is that hour when dusky night Comes gathering o're departing light, When hue by hue and ray by ray, Thine eye may watch it waste away,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Harp Of India
Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough?
Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain;
Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now?
Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain?
Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain;
Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou,
Like ruined monument on desert plain:
O! many a hand more worthy far than mine
Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave,
And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine
Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel's grave:
Those hands are cold - but if thy notes divine
May be by mortal wakened once ...