It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:--
A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills
That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold
Communion with the changing skies above;
Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys
And wearied peasants in the midday noon;
A lake that shone in lustre clear and bright
Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst
Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs
Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids
With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear
Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale
Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes
Of future plenty and of future joys.
Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys!
In this enchanted hollow that was scooped--
For so it seemed--by God's own mighty hand,
Where Nature shower'd her richest gifts to make
Another paradise, stood Krishnapore
With her two score and seven huts reared by
The patient labour of her simple men.

In this blest hamlet one there was that owned
Its richest lands: beloved by all its men,
Their friend in times of need, their guide in life,
Partaker of their joys and woes as well,
The arbiter of all their petty strifes.
By him his friend the village master lived
That at his door a group of children taught;
A man he was well versed in ancient lore;