চাহিছে কীট মৌমাছির
      পাইতে অধিকার--
করিল নত ফুলের শির
      দারুণ প্রেম তার।

THY CALL HAS sped over all countries of the world
and men have gathered around thy seat.
The day is come.
But where is India?
Does she still remain hidden, lagging behind?
Let her take up her burden and march with all.
Send her, mighty God, thy message of victory,
O Lord ever awake!
Those who defied suffering have crossed
the wilderness of death and have shattered
their prison of illusions.
The day is come.
But where is India?
Her listless arms are idle and ashamed
and futile her days and nights, lacking in joy of life.
Touch her with thy living breath,
O Lord ever awake!
The morning sun of the new age has risen.
Thy temple hall is filled with pilgrims.
The day is come.
But where is India?
She lies on the dust in dishonour,
deprived of her seat.
Remove her shame, and give her a place
in thy House of Man,
O Lord ever awake!
The world's highroads are crowded,
resounding with the roar of thy chariot wheels.
The sky is trembling with travellers' songs.
The day is come.
But where is India?
Doors are shut in her house age-worn,
feeble is her hope, her heart sunk in silence.
Send thy voice to her children who are dumb,
O Lord ever awake!
Peoples there are who have felt thy strength
in their own hearts and sinews
and have earned life's fulfilment,
conquering fear.
The day is come.
But where is India?
Strike thy blow at her self-suspicion and despair!
Save her from the dread of her own pursuing shadow,
O Lord ever awake!

FIERCELY THEY rend in pieces the carpet woven during ages of prayer for the welcome of the world's best hope.
        The great preparations of love lie a heap of shreds, and there is nothing on the ruined altar to remind the mad crowd that their god was to have come. In a fury of passion they seem to have burnt their future to cinders, and with it the season of their bloom.
        The air is harsh with the cry, 'Victory to the Brute!' The children look haggard and aged; they whisper to one another that time revolves but never advances, that we are goaded to run but have nothing to reach, that creation is like a blind man's groping.
        I said to myself, 'Cease thy singing. Song is for one who is to come, the struggle without an end is for things that are.'
        The road, that ever lies along like some one with ear to the ground listening for footsteps, to-day gleans no hint of coming guest, nothing of the house at its far end.
        My lute said, 'Trample me in the dust.'
        I looked at the dust by the roadside. There was a tiny flower among thorns. And I cried, 'The world's hope is not dead!'
        The sky stooped over the horizon to whisper to the earth, and a hush of expectation filled the air. I saw the palm leaves clapping their hands to the beat of inaudible music, and the moon exchanged glances with the glistening silence of the lake.
        The road said to me, 'Fear nothing!' and my lute said, 'Lend me thy songs!'