Excerpt from The Last of the Peshwas: A Tale of the Third Maratha War
The Exile's Dream
Our ship, as swift as the lightning flash,
Clove with her prow the waves that dash
Tumultuously with thunderous roar
At midnight on an Indian shore,
And those whereunder buried lie
Busiris' Memphian chivalry.
Then o'er the midland wavelets blue
To Calpe's cannoned steep we flew,
And in a moment southward far
St. Vincent left and Trafalgar.
Ah! joy to feel the northern blast
That on our brows the snowflake cast,
Till loomed a land of hodden gray
Half-hidden by the Atlantic spray,
Behind whose misty canopy
Was heard the peewit's eerie cry.
What magic ship thus bore my soul
Like flash of lightning to her goal
Across the seas that lay between?
A dream of days that once had been.
And what that land of hodden gray?
The bonnie hills of Galloway,
On which my steps no more may stray,
For ever and aye.
About the Publisher
Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com
This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works. Это и многое другое вы найдете в книге The Last of the Peshwas (Michael Macmillan)