The Craftsmen of India


Their Fancy tolls the knell
Of Love and rapture sweet
Their dark and dismal thoughts
With nations' tombs replete.

Their idol halls arc full
With prints of gloomy death.
The art of these Brahmans
Seems tired of life and breath.

They hide from eyes of man
His state and noble name:
They fill the soul with sleep,
Incite the lust in frame. '

Alas! in Hind Sex rules
The bards and painters too
Those, who write romantic tales,
Talk of Sex through and through.

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