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.