Far in the north Himálaya, lifting highHis towery summits till they cleave the sky,Spans the wide land from east to western sea,Lord of the hills, instinct with deity.For him, when Prithu ruled in days of oldThe rich earth, teeming with her gems and gold,The vassal hills and Meru drained her breast,To deck Himálaya, for they loved him best;And earth, the mother, gave her store to fillWith herbs and sparkling ores the royal hill.Proud mountain-king! his diadem of snowDims not the beauty of his gems below.For who can gaze upon the moon, and dareTo mark one spot less brightly glorious there?
One shade of weakness in a hero's fame?Oft, when the gleamings of his mountain brassFlash through the clouds and tint them as they pass,Those glories mock the hues of closing day,And heaven's bright wantons hail their hour of play;Try, ere the time, the magic of their glance,And deck their beauty for the twilight dance.Dear to the sylphs are the cool shadows thrownBy dark clouds wandering round the mountain's zone,Till frightened by the storm and rain they seekEternal sunshine on each loftier peak.Far spread the wilds where eager hunters roam,Tracking the lion to his dreary home.For though the melting snow has washed awayThe crimson blood-drops of the wounded prey,Still the fair pearls that graced his forehead tellWhere the strong elephant, o'ermastered, fell,And clinging to the lion's claws, betray,Falling at every step, the mighty conqueror's way.There birch-trees wave, that lend their friendly aidTo tell the passion of the love-lorn maid,So quick to learn in metal tints to markHer hopes and fears upon the tender bark.
One shade of weakness in a hero's fame?Oft, when the gleamings of his mountain brassFlash through the clouds and tint them as they pass,Those glories mock the hues of closing day,And heaven's bright wantons hail their hour of play;Try, ere the time, the magic of their glance,And deck their beauty for the twilight dance.Dear to the sylphs are the cool shadows thrownBy dark clouds wandering round the mountain's zone,Till frightened by the storm and rain they seekEternal sunshine on each loftier peak.Far spread the wilds where eager hunters roam,Tracking the lion to his dreary home.For though the melting snow has washed awayThe crimson blood-drops of the wounded prey,Still the fair pearls that graced his forehead tellWhere the strong elephant, o'ermastered, fell,And clinging to the lion's claws, betray,Falling at every step, the mighty conqueror's way.There birch-trees wave, that lend their friendly aidTo tell the passion of the love-lorn maid,So quick to learn in metal tints to markHer hopes and fears upon the tender bark.
List! breathing from each cave, Himálaya leadsThe glorious hymn with all his whispering reeds,
Till heavenly minstrels raise their voice in song,And swell his music as it floats along.There the fierce elephant wounds the scented boughTo ease the torment of his burning brow;And bleeding pines their odorous gum distilTo breathe rare fragrance o'er the sacred hill.There magic herbs pour forth their streaming lightFrom mossy caverns through the darksome night,And lend a torch to guide the trembling maidWhere waits her lover in the leafy shade.Yet hath he caves within whose inmost cellsIn tranquil rest the murky darkness dwells,And, like the night-bird, spreads the brooding wingSafe in the shelter of the mountain-king,Unscorned, uninjured; for the good and greatSpurn not the suppliant for his lowly state.
Till heavenly minstrels raise their voice in song,And swell his music as it floats along.There the fierce elephant wounds the scented boughTo ease the torment of his burning brow;And bleeding pines their odorous gum distilTo breathe rare fragrance o'er the sacred hill.There magic herbs pour forth their streaming lightFrom mossy caverns through the darksome night,And lend a torch to guide the trembling maidWhere waits her lover in the leafy shade.Yet hath he caves within whose inmost cellsIn tranquil rest the murky darkness dwells,And, like the night-bird, spreads the brooding wingSafe in the shelter of the mountain-king,Unscorned, uninjured; for the good and greatSpurn not the suppliant for his lowly state.
Why lingers yet the heavenly minstrel's brideOn the wild path that skirts Himálaya's side?Cold to her tender feet—oh, cold—the snow,Why should her steps—her homeward steps—be slow?'Tis that her slender ankles scarce can bearThe weight of beauty that impedes her there;Each rounded limb, and all her peerless charms,That broad full bosom, those voluptuous arms.
The royal symbols to the mountain-king.With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hairFlashes like moonlight through the parted air.What monarch's fan more glorious might there be,More meet to grace a king as proud as he?There, when the nymphs, within the cave's recess,In modest fear their gentle limbs undress,Thick clouds descending yield a friendly screen,And blushing beauty bares her breast unseen.With pearly dewdrops Gangá loads the galeThat waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale,And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the faceOf wearied hunters when they quit the chase.So far aloft, amid Himálayan steeps,Crouched on the tranquil pool the lotus sleeps,That the bright Seven who star the northern skyCull the fair blossoms from their seats on high;And when the sun pours forth his morning glowIn streams of glory from his path below,They gain new beauty as his kisses breakHis darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.
The royal symbols to the mountain-king.With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hairFlashes like moonlight through the parted air.What monarch's fan more glorious might there be,More meet to grace a king as proud as he?There, when the nymphs, within the cave's recess,In modest fear their gentle limbs undress,Thick clouds descending yield a friendly screen,And blushing beauty bares her breast unseen.With pearly dewdrops Gangá loads the galeThat waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale,And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the faceOf wearied hunters when they quit the chase.So far aloft, amid Himálayan steeps,Crouched on the tranquil pool the lotus sleeps,That the bright Seven who star the northern skyCull the fair blossoms from their seats on high;And when the sun pours forth his morning glowIn streams of glory from his path below,They gain new beauty as his kisses breakHis darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.
Well might that ancient hill by merit claimThe power and glory of a monarch's name;
Earth's meetest bearer of unyielding might.The Lord of Life for this ordained him king,And bade him share the sacred offering.Gladly obedient to the law divine,He chose a consort to prolong his line.No child of earth, born of the Sage's will,The fair nymph Mená pleased the sovran hill.To her he sued, nor was his prayer denied,The Saints' beloved was the mountain's bride.Crowned with all bliss and beauty were the pair,He passing glorious, she was heavenly fair.Swiftly the seasons, winged with love, flew on,And made her mother of a noble son,The great Maináka, who in triumph ledHis Serpent beauties to the bridal bed;And once when Indra's might those pinions rentThat bare the swift hills through the firmament,(So fierce his rage, no mountain could withstandThe wild bolt flashing from his red right hand,)He fled to Ocean, powerful to save,And hid his glory 'neath the friendly wave.
Earth's meetest bearer of unyielding might.The Lord of Life for this ordained him king,And bade him share the sacred offering.Gladly obedient to the law divine,He chose a consort to prolong his line.No child of earth, born of the Sage's will,The fair nymph Mená pleased the sovran hill.To her he sued, nor was his prayer denied,The Saints' beloved was the mountain's bride.Crowned with all bliss and beauty were the pair,He passing glorious, she was heavenly fair.Swiftly the seasons, winged with love, flew on,And made her mother of a noble son,The great Maináka, who in triumph ledHis Serpent beauties to the bridal bed;And once when Indra's might those pinions rentThat bare the swift hills through the firmament,(So fierce his rage, no mountain could withstandThe wild bolt flashing from his red right hand,)He fled to Ocean, powerful to save,And hid his glory 'neath the friendly wave.
A gentle daughter came at length to blessThe royal mother with her loveliness;Born once again, for in an earlier lifeHigh fame was hers, as Śiva's faithful wife.]But her proud sire had dared the God to scorn;Then was her tender soul with anguish torn,And jealous for the lord she loved so well,Her angered spirit left its mortal cell.Now deigned the maid, a lovely boon, to springFrom that pure lady and the mountain-king.When Industry and Virtue meet and kiss,Holy their union, and the fruit is bliss.Blest was that hour, and all the world was gay,When Mená's daughter saw the light of day.A rosy glow suffused the brightening sky;An odorous breeze came sweeping softly by.Breathed round the hill a sweet unearthly strain,And the glad heavens poured down their flowery rain.That fair young maiden diademmed with lightMade her dear mother's fame more sparkling bright.As the blue offspring of the Turquois HillsThe parent mount with richer glory fills,When the cloud's voice has caused the gem to spring,Responsive to its gentle thundering.Then was it sweet, as days flew by, to traceThe dawning charm of every infant grace,Even as the crescent moons their glory pourMore full, more lovely than the eve before.
As yet the maiden was unknown to fame;Child of the Mountain was her only name.
At her stern penance, cried Forbear! Forbear!To a new title was the warning turned,And Umá was the name the maiden earned.Loveliest was she of all his lovely race,And dearest to her father. On her faceLooking with love he ne'er could satisfyThe thirsty glances of a parent's eye.When spring-tide bids a thousand flowerets bloomLoading the breezes with their rich perfume,Though here and there the wandering bee may rest,He loves his own—his darling mango—best.The Gods' bright river bathes with gold the skies,And pure sweet eloquence adorns the wise.The flambeau's glory is the shining fire;She was the pride, the glory of her sire,Shedding new lustre on his old descent,His loveliest child, his richest ornament.The sparkling Gangá laved her heavenly home,And o'er her islets would the maiden roamAmid the dear companions of her playWith ball and doll to while the hours away.As swans in autumn in assembling bandsFly back to Gangá's well-remembered sands:As herbs beneath the darksome shades of nightCollect again their scattered rays of light:The far-off memory of her life resigned,And all her former learning in its train,Feelings, and thoughts, and knowledge came again.Now beauty's prime, that craves no artful aid,Ripened the loveliness of that young maid:That needs no wine to fire the captive heart,—The bow of Love without his flowery dart.There was a glory beaming from her face,With love's own light, and every youthful grace:Ne'er had the painter's skilful hand portrayedA lovelier picture than that gentle maid;Ne'er sun-kissed lily more divinely fairUnclosed her beauty to the morning air.Bright as a lotus, springing where she trod,Her glowing feet shed radiance o'er the sod.That arching neck, the step, the glance aside,The proud swans taught her as they stemmed the tide,Whilst of the maiden they would fondly learnHer anklets' pleasant music in return.When the Almighty Maker first beganThe marvellous beauty of that child to plan,In full fair symmetry each rounded limbGrew neatly fashioned and approved by Him:The rest was faultless, for the Artist's careFormed each young charm most excellently fair,
The visible type of perfect loveliness.What thing of beauty may the poet dareWith the smooth wonder of those limbs compare?The young tree springing by the brooklet's side?The rounded trunk, the forest-monarch's pride?Too rough that trunk, too cold that young tree's stem;A softer, warmer thing must vie with them.Her hidden beauties though no tongue may tell,Yet Śiva's love will aid the fancy well:No other maid could deem her boasted charmsWorthy the clasp of such a husband's arms.Between the partings of fair Umá's vestCame hasty glimpses of a lovely breast:So closely there the sweet twin hillocks rose,Scarce could the lotus in the vale repose.And if her loosened zone e'er slipped below,All was so bright beneath the mantle's flow,So dazzling bright, as if the maid had bracedA band of gems to sparkle round her waist;And the dear dimples of her downy skinSeemed fitting couch for Love to revel in.Her arms were softer than the flowery dart,Young Káma's arrow, that subdues the heart;For vain his strife with Śiva, till at lastHe chose those chains to bind his conqueror fast.
When her long fingers flashed their rosy gleam,And brighter than Aśoka's blossom threwA glory round, like summer's evening hue.The strings of pearl across her bosom thrownIncreased its beauty, and enhanced their own,—Her breast, her jewels seeming to agree,The adorner now, and now the adorned to be.When Beauty gazes on the fair full moon,No lotus charms her, for it blooms at noon:If on that flower she feed her raptured eye,No moon is shining from the mid-day sky;She looked on Umá's face, more heavenly fair,And found their glories both united there.The loveliest flower that ever opened yetLaid in the fairest branch: a fair pearl setIn richest coral, with her smile might vieFlashing through lips bright with their rosy dye.And when she spoke, upon the maiden's tongue,Distilling nectar, such rare accents hung,The sweetest note that e'er the Koïl pouredSeemed harsh and tuneless as a jarring chord.The melting glance of that soft liquid eye,Tremulous like lilies when the breezes sigh,Which learnt it first—so winning and so mild—The gentle fawn, or Mená's gentler child?
And spurned the bow he once esteemed so fair:Her long bright tresses too might shame the prideOf envious yaks who roamed the mountain-side.Surely the Maker's care had been to bringFrom Nature's store each sweetest, loveliest thing,As if the world's Creator would beholdAll beauty centred in a single mould.
At her stern penance, cried Forbear! Forbear!To a new title was the warning turned,And Umá was the name the maiden earned.Loveliest was she of all his lovely race,And dearest to her father. On her faceLooking with love he ne'er could satisfyThe thirsty glances of a parent's eye.When spring-tide bids a thousand flowerets bloomLoading the breezes with their rich perfume,Though here and there the wandering bee may rest,He loves his own—his darling mango—best.The Gods' bright river bathes with gold the skies,And pure sweet eloquence adorns the wise.The flambeau's glory is the shining fire;She was the pride, the glory of her sire,Shedding new lustre on his old descent,His loveliest child, his richest ornament.The sparkling Gangá laved her heavenly home,And o'er her islets would the maiden roamAmid the dear companions of her playWith ball and doll to while the hours away.As swans in autumn in assembling bandsFly back to Gangá's well-remembered sands:As herbs beneath the darksome shades of nightCollect again their scattered rays of light:The far-off memory of her life resigned,And all her former learning in its train,Feelings, and thoughts, and knowledge came again.Now beauty's prime, that craves no artful aid,Ripened the loveliness of that young maid:That needs no wine to fire the captive heart,—The bow of Love without his flowery dart.There was a glory beaming from her face,With love's own light, and every youthful grace:Ne'er had the painter's skilful hand portrayedA lovelier picture than that gentle maid;Ne'er sun-kissed lily more divinely fairUnclosed her beauty to the morning air.Bright as a lotus, springing where she trod,Her glowing feet shed radiance o'er the sod.That arching neck, the step, the glance aside,The proud swans taught her as they stemmed the tide,Whilst of the maiden they would fondly learnHer anklets' pleasant music in return.When the Almighty Maker first beganThe marvellous beauty of that child to plan,In full fair symmetry each rounded limbGrew neatly fashioned and approved by Him:The rest was faultless, for the Artist's careFormed each young charm most excellently fair,
The visible type of perfect loveliness.What thing of beauty may the poet dareWith the smooth wonder of those limbs compare?The young tree springing by the brooklet's side?The rounded trunk, the forest-monarch's pride?Too rough that trunk, too cold that young tree's stem;A softer, warmer thing must vie with them.Her hidden beauties though no tongue may tell,Yet Śiva's love will aid the fancy well:No other maid could deem her boasted charmsWorthy the clasp of such a husband's arms.Between the partings of fair Umá's vestCame hasty glimpses of a lovely breast:So closely there the sweet twin hillocks rose,Scarce could the lotus in the vale repose.And if her loosened zone e'er slipped below,All was so bright beneath the mantle's flow,So dazzling bright, as if the maid had bracedA band of gems to sparkle round her waist;And the dear dimples of her downy skinSeemed fitting couch for Love to revel in.Her arms were softer than the flowery dart,Young Káma's arrow, that subdues the heart;For vain his strife with Śiva, till at lastHe chose those chains to bind his conqueror fast.
When her long fingers flashed their rosy gleam,And brighter than Aśoka's blossom threwA glory round, like summer's evening hue.The strings of pearl across her bosom thrownIncreased its beauty, and enhanced their own,—Her breast, her jewels seeming to agree,The adorner now, and now the adorned to be.When Beauty gazes on the fair full moon,No lotus charms her, for it blooms at noon:If on that flower she feed her raptured eye,No moon is shining from the mid-day sky;She looked on Umá's face, more heavenly fair,And found their glories both united there.The loveliest flower that ever opened yetLaid in the fairest branch: a fair pearl setIn richest coral, with her smile might vieFlashing through lips bright with their rosy dye.And when she spoke, upon the maiden's tongue,Distilling nectar, such rare accents hung,The sweetest note that e'er the Koïl pouredSeemed harsh and tuneless as a jarring chord.The melting glance of that soft liquid eye,Tremulous like lilies when the breezes sigh,Which learnt it first—so winning and so mild—The gentle fawn, or Mená's gentler child?
And spurned the bow he once esteemed so fair:Her long bright tresses too might shame the prideOf envious yaks who roamed the mountain-side.Surely the Maker's care had been to bringFrom Nature's store each sweetest, loveliest thing,As if the world's Creator would beholdAll beauty centred in a single mould.
When holy Nárad—Saint who roams at will—First saw the daughter of the royal hill,He hailed the bride whom Śiva's love should ownHalf of himself, and partner of his throne.Himálaya listened, and the father's prideWould yield the maiden for no other's bride:To Fire alone of all bright things we raiseThe holy hymn, the sacrifice of praise.But still the monarch durst not, could not bringHis child, unsought, to Heaven's supremest King;But as a good man fears his earnest prayerShould rise unheeded, and with thoughtful careSeeks for some friend his eager suit to aid,Thus great Himálaya in his awe delayed.
In the full glory of her beauty died,The mournful Śiva in the holy groveHad dwelt in solitude, and known not love.High on that hill where musky breezes throwTheir balmy odours o'er eternal snow;Where heavenly minstrels pour their notes divine,And rippling Gangá laves the mountain pine,Clad in a coat of skin all rudely wroughtHe lived for prayer and solitary thought.The faithful band that served the hermit's willLay in the hollows of the rocky hill,Where from the clefts the dark bitumen flowed.Tinted with mineral dyes their bodies glowed;Clad in rude mantles of the birch-tree's rind,With bright red garlands was their hair entwined.The holy bull before his master's feetShook the hard-frozen earth with echoing feet,And as he heard the lion's roaring swellIn distant thunder from the rocky dell,In angry pride he raised his voice of fearAnd from the mountain drove the startled deer.Bright fire—a shape the God would sometimes wearWho takes eight various forms—was glowing there.Then the great deity who gives the prizeOf penance, prayer, and holy exercise,
Himself the penance and the pain began.Now to that holy lord, to whom is givenHonour and glory by the Gods in heaven,The worship of a gift Himálaya paid,And towards his dwelling sent the lovely maid;Her task, attended by her youthful train,To woo his widowed heart to love again.
Himself the penance and the pain began.Now to that holy lord, to whom is givenHonour and glory by the Gods in heaven,The worship of a gift Himálaya paid,And towards his dwelling sent the lovely maid;Her task, attended by her youthful train,To woo his widowed heart to love again.
The hermit welcomed with a courteous browThat gentle enemy of hermit vow.The still pure breast where Contemplation dwellsDefies the charmer and the charmer's spells.Calm and unmoved he viewed the wondrous maid,And bade her all his pious duties aid.She culled fresh blossoms at the God's command,Sweeping the altar with a careful hand;The holy grass for sacred rites she sought,And day by day the fairest water brought.And if the unwonted labour caused a sigh,The fair-haired lady turned her languid eyeWhere the pale moon on Śiva's forehead gleamed,And swift through all her frame returning vigour streamed.
Was troubling heaven and earth with wild affright,To Brahmá's high abode, by Indra led,The mournful deities for refuge fled.As when the Day-God's loving beams awakeThe lotus slumbering on the silver lake,So Brahmá deigned his glorious face to show,And poured sweet comfort on their looks of woe.Then nearer came the suppliant Gods to payHonour to him whose face turns every way.They bowed them low before the Lord of Speech,And sought with truthful words his heart to reach:"Glory to Thee! before the world was made,One single form thy Majesty displayed.Next Thou, to body forth the mystic Three,Didst fill three Persons: Glory, Lord, to Thee!Unborn and unbegotten! from thy handThe fruitful seed rained down; at thy command
All things that move not, all that move have grown.Before thy triple form in awe they bow:Maker, preserver, and destroyer, Thou!Thou, when a longing urged thee to create,Thy single form in twain didst separate.The Sire, the Mother that made all things beBy their first union were but parts of Thee.From them the life that fills this earthly frame,And fruitful Nature, self-renewing, came.Thou countest not thy time by mortals' light;With Thee there is but one vast day and night.When Brahmá slumbers fainting Nature dies,When Brahmá wakens all again arise.Creator of the world, and uncreate!Endless! all things from Thee their end await.Before the world wast Thou! each Lord shall fallBefore Thee, mightiest, highest, Lord of all.Thy self-taught soul thine own deep spirit knows;Made by thyself thy mighty form arose;Into the same, when all things have their end,Shall thy great self, absorbed in Thee, descend.Lord, who may hope thy essence to declare?Firm, yet as subtile as the yielding air:Fixt, all-pervading; ponderous, yet light,Patent to all, yet hidden from the sight.
Commencing ever with the word of praise,With three-toned chant the sacrifice to grace,And win at last in heaven a blissful place.They hail Thee Nature labouring to freeThe Immortal Soul from low humanity;Hail Thee the stranger Spirit, unimpressed,Gazing on Nature from thy lofty rest.Father of fathers, God of gods art thou,Creator, highest, hearer of the vow!Thou art the sacrifice, and Thou the priest,Thou, he that eateth; Thou, the holy feast.Thou art the knowledge which by Thee is taught,The mighty thinker, and the highest thought!"
All things that move not, all that move have grown.Before thy triple form in awe they bow:Maker, preserver, and destroyer, Thou!Thou, when a longing urged thee to create,Thy single form in twain didst separate.The Sire, the Mother that made all things beBy their first union were but parts of Thee.From them the life that fills this earthly frame,And fruitful Nature, self-renewing, came.Thou countest not thy time by mortals' light;With Thee there is but one vast day and night.When Brahmá slumbers fainting Nature dies,When Brahmá wakens all again arise.Creator of the world, and uncreate!Endless! all things from Thee their end await.Before the world wast Thou! each Lord shall fallBefore Thee, mightiest, highest, Lord of all.Thy self-taught soul thine own deep spirit knows;Made by thyself thy mighty form arose;Into the same, when all things have their end,Shall thy great self, absorbed in Thee, descend.Lord, who may hope thy essence to declare?Firm, yet as subtile as the yielding air:Fixt, all-pervading; ponderous, yet light,Patent to all, yet hidden from the sight.
Commencing ever with the word of praise,With three-toned chant the sacrifice to grace,And win at last in heaven a blissful place.They hail Thee Nature labouring to freeThe Immortal Soul from low humanity;Hail Thee the stranger Spirit, unimpressed,Gazing on Nature from thy lofty rest.Father of fathers, God of gods art thou,Creator, highest, hearer of the vow!Thou art the sacrifice, and Thou the priest,Thou, he that eateth; Thou, the holy feast.Thou art the knowledge which by Thee is taught,The mighty thinker, and the highest thought!"
Pleased with their truthful praise, his favouring eyeHe turned upon the dwellers in the sky,While from four mouths his words in gentle flowCome welling softly to assuage their woe:"Welcome! glad welcome, Princes! ye who holdYour lofty sovereignties ordained of old.But why so mournful? what has dimmed your light?Why shine your faces less divinely bright?Like stars that pour forth weaker, paler gleams,When the fair moon with brighter radiance beams.
The thunderbolt of heaven, unused to spare?Vritra, the furious fiend, 'twas strong to slay:Why dull and blunted is that might to-day?See, Varun's noose hangs idly on his arm,Like some fell serpent quelled by magic charm.Weak is Kuvera's hand, his arm no moreWields the dread mace it once so proudly bore;But like a tree whose boughs are lopped away,It tells of piercing woe, and dire dismay.In days of yore how Yama's sceptre shone!Fled are its glories, all its terrors gone;Despised and useless as a quenched brand,All idly now it marks the yielding sand.Fallen are the Lords of Light, ere now the gazeShrank from the coming of their fearful blaze;So changed are they, the undazzled eye may seeLike pictured forms, each rayless deity.Some baffling power has curbed the breezes' swell:Vainly they chafe against the secret spell.We know some barrier checks their wonted course,When refluent waters seek again their source.The Rudras too—fierce demigods who bearThe curved moon hanging from their twisted hair—Tell by their looks of fear, and shame, and woe,Of threats now silenced, of a mightier foe.
Have ye now yielded to some stronger might,Even as on earth a general law may beMade powerless by a special text's decree?Then say, my sons, why seek ye Brahmá's throne?'Tis mine to frame the worlds, and yours to guard your own."
The thunderbolt of heaven, unused to spare?Vritra, the furious fiend, 'twas strong to slay:Why dull and blunted is that might to-day?See, Varun's noose hangs idly on his arm,Like some fell serpent quelled by magic charm.Weak is Kuvera's hand, his arm no moreWields the dread mace it once so proudly bore;But like a tree whose boughs are lopped away,It tells of piercing woe, and dire dismay.In days of yore how Yama's sceptre shone!Fled are its glories, all its terrors gone;Despised and useless as a quenched brand,All idly now it marks the yielding sand.Fallen are the Lords of Light, ere now the gazeShrank from the coming of their fearful blaze;So changed are they, the undazzled eye may seeLike pictured forms, each rayless deity.Some baffling power has curbed the breezes' swell:Vainly they chafe against the secret spell.We know some barrier checks their wonted course,When refluent waters seek again their source.The Rudras too—fierce demigods who bearThe curved moon hanging from their twisted hair—Tell by their looks of fear, and shame, and woe,Of threats now silenced, of a mightier foe.
Have ye now yielded to some stronger might,Even as on earth a general law may beMade powerless by a special text's decree?Then say, my sons, why seek ye Brahmá's throne?'Tis mine to frame the worlds, and yours to guard your own."
Then Indra turned his thousand glorious eyes,Glancing like lilies when the soft wind sighs,And in the Gods' behalf, their mighty chiefUrged the Most Eloquent to tell their grief.Then rose the heavenly Teacher, by whose sideDim seemed the glories of the Thousand-eyed,And with his hands outspread, to Brahmá spake,Couched on his own dear flower, the daughter of the lake:"O mighty Being! surely thou dost knowThe unceasing fury of our ruthless foe;For thou canst see the secret thoughts that lieDeep in the heart, yet open to thine eye.The vengeful Tárak, in resistless might,Like some dire Comet, gleaming wild affright,O'er all the worlds an evil influence sheds,And, in thy favour strong, destruction spreads.All bow before him: on his palace wallThe sun's first ray and parting splendour fall;
For him, proud fiend, the moon no waning knows,But with unminished full-orbed lustre glows.Too faint for him the crescent glory setAmid the blaze of Śiva's coronet.How fair his garden, where the obedient breezeDares steal no blossom from the slumbering trees!The wild wind checks his blustering pinions there,And gently whispering fans the balmy air;While through the inverted year the seasons pour,To win the demon's grace, their flowery store.For him, the River-god beneath the stream,Marks the young pearl increase its silver gleam,Until, its beauty and its growth complete,He bears the offering to his master's feet.The Serpents, led by Vásuki, their king,Across his nightly path their lustre fling;Bright as a torch their flashing jewels blaze,Nor wind, nor rain, can dim their dazzling rays.E'en Indra, sovereign of the blissful skies,To gain his love by flattering homage tries,And sends him oft those flowers of wondrous hueThat on the heavenly tree in beauty grew.Yet all these offerings brought from day to day,This flattery, fail his ruthless hand to stay.
Alas! where glowed the bright celestial bowers,And gentle fair ones nursed the opening flowers,Where heavenly trees a heavenly odour shed,O'er a sad desert ruin reigns instead.He roots up Meru's sacred peaks, where strayThe fiery coursers of the God of Day,To form bright slopes, and glittering mounds of ease,In the broad gardens of his palaces.There, on his couch, the mighty lord is fannedTo sweetest slumber by a heavenly band;Poor captive nymphs, who stand in anguish by,Drop the big tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh.And now have Indra's elephants defiledThe sparkling stream where heavenly Gangá smiled,And her gold lotuses the fiend has takenTo deck his pools, and left her all forsaken.The Gods of heaven no more delight to roamO'er all the world, far from their glorious home.They dread the demon's impious might, nor dareSpeed their bright chariots through the fields of air.And when our worshippers in duty bringThe appointed victims for the offering,He tears them from the flame with magic art,While we all powerless watch with drooping heart.
No more our hosts, so glorious once, withstandThe fierce dominion of the demon's hand,As herbs of healing virtue fail to tameThe sickness raging through the infected frame.Idly the discus hangs on Vishṇu's neck,And our last hope is vain, that it would checkThe haughty Tárak's might, and flash afarRuin and death—the thunderbolt of war.E'en Indra's elephant has felt the mightOf his fierce monsters in the deadly fight,Which spurn the dust in fury, and defyThe threatening clouds that sail along the sky.Therefore, O Lord, we seek a chief, that heMay lead the hosts of heaven to victory,Even as holy men who long to severThe immortal spirit from its shell for ever,Seek lovely Virtue's aid to free the soulFrom earthly ties and action's base control.Thus shall he save us: proudly will we goUnder his escort 'gainst the furious foe;And Indra, conqueror in turn, shall bringFortune, dear captive, home with joy and triumphing."
For him, proud fiend, the moon no waning knows,But with unminished full-orbed lustre glows.Too faint for him the crescent glory setAmid the blaze of Śiva's coronet.How fair his garden, where the obedient breezeDares steal no blossom from the slumbering trees!The wild wind checks his blustering pinions there,And gently whispering fans the balmy air;While through the inverted year the seasons pour,To win the demon's grace, their flowery store.For him, the River-god beneath the stream,Marks the young pearl increase its silver gleam,Until, its beauty and its growth complete,He bears the offering to his master's feet.The Serpents, led by Vásuki, their king,Across his nightly path their lustre fling;Bright as a torch their flashing jewels blaze,Nor wind, nor rain, can dim their dazzling rays.E'en Indra, sovereign of the blissful skies,To gain his love by flattering homage tries,And sends him oft those flowers of wondrous hueThat on the heavenly tree in beauty grew.Yet all these offerings brought from day to day,This flattery, fail his ruthless hand to stay.
Alas! where glowed the bright celestial bowers,And gentle fair ones nursed the opening flowers,Where heavenly trees a heavenly odour shed,O'er a sad desert ruin reigns instead.He roots up Meru's sacred peaks, where strayThe fiery coursers of the God of Day,To form bright slopes, and glittering mounds of ease,In the broad gardens of his palaces.There, on his couch, the mighty lord is fannedTo sweetest slumber by a heavenly band;Poor captive nymphs, who stand in anguish by,Drop the big tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh.And now have Indra's elephants defiledThe sparkling stream where heavenly Gangá smiled,And her gold lotuses the fiend has takenTo deck his pools, and left her all forsaken.The Gods of heaven no more delight to roamO'er all the world, far from their glorious home.They dread the demon's impious might, nor dareSpeed their bright chariots through the fields of air.And when our worshippers in duty bringThe appointed victims for the offering,He tears them from the flame with magic art,While we all powerless watch with drooping heart.
No more our hosts, so glorious once, withstandThe fierce dominion of the demon's hand,As herbs of healing virtue fail to tameThe sickness raging through the infected frame.Idly the discus hangs on Vishṇu's neck,And our last hope is vain, that it would checkThe haughty Tárak's might, and flash afarRuin and death—the thunderbolt of war.E'en Indra's elephant has felt the mightOf his fierce monsters in the deadly fight,Which spurn the dust in fury, and defyThe threatening clouds that sail along the sky.Therefore, O Lord, we seek a chief, that heMay lead the hosts of heaven to victory,Even as holy men who long to severThe immortal spirit from its shell for ever,Seek lovely Virtue's aid to free the soulFrom earthly ties and action's base control.Thus shall he save us: proudly will we goUnder his escort 'gainst the furious foe;And Indra, conqueror in turn, shall bringFortune, dear captive, home with joy and triumphing."
Sweet as the rains—the fresh'ning rains—that pourOn the parched earth when thunders cease to roar,Were Brahmá's words: "Gods, I have heard your grief;Wait ye in patience: time will bring relief.'Tis not for me, my children, to createA chief to save you from your mournful fate.Not by my hand the fiend must be destroyed,For my kind favour has he once enjoyed;And well ye know that e'en a poisonous treeBy him who planted it unharmed should be.He sought it eagerly, and long agoI gave my favour to your demon-foe,And stayed his awful penance, that had hurledFlames, death, and ruin o'er the subject world.When that great warrior battles for his life,O, who may conquer in the deadly strife,Save one of Śiva's seed? He is the light,Reigning supreme beyond the depths of night.Nor I, nor Vishṇu, his full power may share,Lo, where he dwells in solitude and prayer!Go, seek the Hermit in the grove alone,And to the God be Umá's beauty shown.Perchance, the Mountain-child, with magnet's force,May turn the iron from its steadfast course,Bride of the mighty God; for only sheCan bear to Him as water bears to me.Then from their love a mighty Child shall rise,And lead to war the armies of the skies.
He spake, and vanished from their wondering sight;And they sped homeward to their world of light.But Indra, still on Brahmá's words intent,To Káma's dwelling-place his footsteps bent.Swiftly he came: the yearning of his willMade Indra's lightning course more speedy still.The Love-God, armed with flowers divinely sweet,In lowly homage bowed before his feet.Around his neck, where bright love-tokens clung,Arched like a maiden's brow, his bow was hung,And blooming Spring, his constant follower, boreThe mango twig, his weapon famed of yore.
Is eager gaze the sovereign of the skieslooked full on Káma with his thousand eyes:E'en such a gaze as trembling suppliants bend,When danger threatens, on a mighty friend.
Close by his side, where Indra bade him rest,The Love-God sate, and thus his lord addressed:"All-knowing Indra, deign, my Prince, to tellThy heart's desire in earth, or heaven, or hell:Double the favour, mighty sovereign, thouHast thought on Káma, O, command him now:Who angers thee by toiling for the prize,By penance, prayer, or holy sacrifice?What mortal being dost thou count thy foe?Speak, I will tame him with my darts and bow.Has some one feared the endless change of birth,And sought the path that leads the soul from earth?Slave to a glancing eye thy foe shall bow,And own the witchery of a woman's brow
Were taught high wisdom by the immortal sage,With billowy passions will I whelm his soul,Like rushing waves that spurn the bank's control.Or has the ripe full beauty of a spouse,Too fondly faithful to her bridal vows,Ravished thy spirit from thee? Thine, all thineAround thy neck her loving arms shall twine.Has thy love, jealous of another's charms,Spurned thee in wrath when flying to her arms?I'll rack her yielding bosom with such pain,Soon shall she be all love and warmth again,And wildly fly in fevered haste to restHer aching heart close, close to thy dear breast.Lay, Indra, lay thy threatening bolt aside:My gentle darts shall tame the haughtiest pride,And all that war with heaven and thee shall knowThe magic influence of thy Káma's bow;For woman's curling lip shall bow them down,Fainting in terror at her threatening frown.Flowers are my arms, mine only warrior Spring,Yet in thy favour am I strong, great King.What can their strength who draw the bow availAgainst my matchless power when I assail?Strong is the Trident-bearing God, yet he,The mighty Śiva, e'en, must yield to me."
Were taught high wisdom by the immortal sage,With billowy passions will I whelm his soul,Like rushing waves that spurn the bank's control.Or has the ripe full beauty of a spouse,Too fondly faithful to her bridal vows,Ravished thy spirit from thee? Thine, all thineAround thy neck her loving arms shall twine.Has thy love, jealous of another's charms,Spurned thee in wrath when flying to her arms?I'll rack her yielding bosom with such pain,Soon shall she be all love and warmth again,And wildly fly in fevered haste to restHer aching heart close, close to thy dear breast.Lay, Indra, lay thy threatening bolt aside:My gentle darts shall tame the haughtiest pride,And all that war with heaven and thee shall knowThe magic influence of thy Káma's bow;For woman's curling lip shall bow them down,Fainting in terror at her threatening frown.Flowers are my arms, mine only warrior Spring,Yet in thy favour am I strong, great King.What can their strength who draw the bow availAgainst my matchless power when I assail?Strong is the Trident-bearing God, yet he,The mighty Śiva, e'en, must yield to me."
Resting his foot upon a stool the while:"Dear God of Love, thou truly hast displayedThe power unrivalled of thy promised aid.My hope is all in thee: my weapons areThe thunderbolt and thou, more mighty far.But vain, all vain the bolt of heaven to frightThose holy Saints whom penance arms aright.Thy power exceeds all bound: thou, only thou,All-conquering Deity, canst help me now!Full well I know thy nature, and assignThis toil to thee, which needs a strength like thine:As on that snake alone will Krishṇa rest,That bears the earth upon his haughty crest.Our task is well-nigh done: thy boasted dartHas power to conquer even Śiva's heart.Hear what the Gods, oppressed with woe, would fainFrom mighty Śiva through thine aid obtain.He may beget—and none in heaven but he—Achief to lead our hosts to victory.But all his mind with holiest lore is fraught,Bent on the Godhead is his every thought.Thy darts, O Love, alone can reach him now,And lure his spirit from the hermit vow.Go, seek Himálaya's Mountain-child, and aidWith all thy loveliest charms the lovely maid,
May wed with Śiva: such the fixt decree.E'en now my bands of heavenly maids have spiedFair Umá dwelling by the Hermit's side.There by her father's bidding rests she still,Sweet minister, upon the cold bleak hill.Go, Káma, go! perform this great emprise,And free from fear the Rulers of the Skies;We need thy favour, as the new-sown grainCalls for the influence of the gentle rain.Go, Káma, go! thy flowery darts shall beCrowned with success o'er this great deity.Yea, and thy task is e'en already done,For praise and glory are that instant wonWhen a bold heart dares manfully essayThe deed which others shrink from in dismay.Gods are thy suppliants, Káma, and on theeDepends the triple world's security.No cruel deed will stain thy flowery bow:With all thy gentlest, mightiest valour, go!And now, Disturber of the spirit, seeSpring, thy beloved, will thy comrade be,And gladly aid thee Śiva's heart to tame:None bids the whispering Wind, and yet he fans the flame."
May wed with Śiva: such the fixt decree.E'en now my bands of heavenly maids have spiedFair Umá dwelling by the Hermit's side.There by her father's bidding rests she still,Sweet minister, upon the cold bleak hill.Go, Káma, go! perform this great emprise,And free from fear the Rulers of the Skies;We need thy favour, as the new-sown grainCalls for the influence of the gentle rain.Go, Káma, go! thy flowery darts shall beCrowned with success o'er this great deity.Yea, and thy task is e'en already done,For praise and glory are that instant wonWhen a bold heart dares manfully essayThe deed which others shrink from in dismay.Gods are thy suppliants, Káma, and on theeDepends the triple world's security.No cruel deed will stain thy flowery bow:With all thy gentlest, mightiest valour, go!And now, Disturber of the spirit, seeSpring, thy beloved, will thy comrade be,And gladly aid thee Śiva's heart to tame:None bids the whispering Wind, and yet he fans the flame."
He spake, and Káma bowed his bright head down,And took his bidding like a flowery crown.And fondly touched his soldier ere he went,With that hard hand—but, O, how gentle now—That fell so heavy on his elephant's brow.Then for that snow-crowned hill he turned away,Where all alone the heavenly Hermit lay.His fearful Rati and his comrade SpringFollowed the guidance of Love's mighty king.There will he battle in unwonted strife,Return a conqueror or be reft of life.
How fair was Spring! To fill the heart with love,And lure the Hermit from his thoughts above,In that pure grove he grew so heavenly brightThat Káma's envy wakened at the sight.Now the bright Day-God turned his burning rayTo where Kuvera holds his royal sway,While the sad South in whispering breezes sighedAnd mourned his absence like a tearful bride.Then from its stem the red Aśoka threwFull buds and flowerets of celestial hue,Nor waited for the maiden's touch, the sweetbeloved pressure of her tinkling feet.There grew Love's arrow, his dear mango spray,Winged with young leaves to speed its airy way,And powder its fine red with many a beeThat sips the oozing nectar rapturously.The cool gale speeding o'er the shady lawnsShook down the sounding leaves, while startled fawnsRan wildly at the viewless foe, all blindWith pollen wafted by the fragrant wind.Sweet was the Köil's voice, his neck still redWith mango buds on which he late had fed:Twas as the voice of Love to bid the dameSpurn her cold pride, nor quench the gentle flame.What though the heat has stained the tints that dyedWith marvellous bloom the heavenly minstrel's bride?[Pg 35]Neither her smile nor sunny glances fail:Bright is her lip, although her check be paleE'en the pure hermits owned the secret powerOf warm Spring coming in unwonted hour,While Love's delightful witchery gently stoleWith strong sweet influence o'er the saintly soul.
On came the Archer-God, and at his sideThe timid Rati, his own darling bride,While breathing nature showed how deep it felt,At passion's glowing touch, the senses melt.For there in eager love the wild bee dipp'dIn the dark flower-cup where his partner sipp'd.Here in the shade the hart his horn declined,And, while joy closed her eyes, caressed the hind.There from her trunk the elephant had pouredA lily-scented stream to cool her lord,While the fond love-bird by the silver floodGave to his mate the tasted lotus bud.Full in his song the minstrel stayed to sipThe heavenlier nectar of his darling's lip.Pure pearls of heat had late distained the dye,But flowery wine was sparkling in her eye.How the young creeper's beauty charmed the view,Fair as the fairest maid, as playful too![Pg 36]Here some bright blossoms, lovelier than the rest,In full round beauty matched her swelling breast.Here in a thin bright line, some delicate spray,Red as her lip, ravished the soul away.And then how loving, and how close they clungTo the tall trees that fondly o'er them hung!Bright, heavenly wantons poured the witching strain,Quiring for Śiva's ear, but all in vain.No charmer's spell may check the firm controlWon by the holy o'er the impassioned soul.
The Hermit's servant hasted to the door:In his left hand a branch of gold he bore.He touched his lip for silence: "Peace! be still!Nor mar the quiet of this holy hill."He spake: no dweller of the forest stirred,No wild bee murmured, hushed was every bird.Still and unmoved, as in a picture stoodAll life that breathed within the waving wood.As some great monarch when he goes to warShuns the fierce aspect of a baleful star,So Káma hid him from the Hermit's eye,And sought a path that led unnoticed by,Where tangled flowers and clustering trailers spreadTheir grateful canopy o'er Śiva's head.Bent on his hardy enterprise, with aweThe Three-eyed Lord—great Penitent—he saw.[Pg 37]There sate the God beneath a pine-tree's shade,Where on a mound a tiger's skin was laid.Absorbed in holiest thought, erect and still,The Hermit rested on the gentle hill.His shoulders drooping down, each foot was bentBeneath the body of the Penitent.With open palms the hands were firmly pressed,As though a lotus lay upon his breast.A double rosary in each ear, behindWith wreathing serpents were his locks entwined.His coat of hide shone blacker to the viewAgainst his neck of brightly beaming blue.How wild the look, how terrible the frownOf his dark eyebrows bending sternly down!How fiercely glared his eyes' unmoving blazeFixed in devotion's meditating gaze:Calm as a full cloud resting on a hill,A waveless lake when every breeze is still,Like a torch burning in a sheltered spot,So still was he, unmoving, breathing not.So full the stream of marvellous glory pouredfrom the bright forehead of that mighty Lord,Pale seemed the crescent moon upon his head,And slenderer than a slender lotus thread.At all the body's nine-fold gates of senseHe had barred in the pure Intelligence,[Pg 38]To ponder on the Soul which sages callEternal Spirit, highest, over all.
How sad was Káma at the awful sight,How failed his courage in a swoon of fright!As near and nearer to the God he cameWhom wildest thought could never hope to tame,Unconsciously his hands, in fear and woe,Dropped the sweet arrows and his flowery bow.But Umá came with all her maiden throng,And Káma's fainting heart again was strong;Bright flowers of spring, in every lovely hue,Around the lady's form rare beauty threw.Some clasped her neck like strings of purest pearls,Some shot their glory through her wavy curls.Bending her graceful head as half-oppressedWith swelling charms even too richly blest,Fancy might deem that beautiful young maidenSome slender tree with its sweet flowers o'erladen.From time to time her gentle hand replacedThe flowery girdle slipping from her waist:It seemed that Love could find no place more fair,So hung his newest, dearest bowstring there.A greedy bee kept hovering round to sipThe fragrant nectar of her blooming lip.She closed her eyes in terror of the thief,And beat him from her with a lotus leaf.[Pg 39]The angry curl of Rati's lip confessedThe shade of envy that stole o'er her breast.Through Káma's soul fresh hope and courage flew,As that sweet vision blessed his eager view.So bright, so fair, so winning soft was she,Who could not conquer in such company?
Now Umá came, fair maid, his destined bride,With timid steps approaching Śiva's side.In contemplation will he brood no more,He sees the Godhead, and his task is o'er.He breathes, he moves, the earth begins to rock,The Snake, her bearer, trembling at the shock.Due homage then his own dear servant paid,And told him of the coming of the maid.He learnt his Master's pleasure by the nod,And led Himálaya's daughter to the God.Before his feet her young companions spreadFresh leaves and blossoms as they bowed the head,While Umá stooped so low, that from her hairDropped the bright flower that starred the midnight there.To him whose ensign bears the bull she bent,Till each spray fell, her ear's rich ornament."Sweet maid," cried Śiva, "surely thou shalt beBlessed with a husband who loves none but thee!"[Pg 40]Her fear was banished, and her hope was high:A God had spoken, and Gods cannot lie.
Rash as some giddy moth that wooes the flame,Love seized the moment, and prepared to aim.Close by the daughter of the Mountain-King,He looked on Śiva, and he eyed his string.While with her radiant hand fair Umá gaveA rosary, of the lotuses that laveTheir beauties in the heavenly Gangá's wave,And the great Three-Eyed God was fain to takeThe offering for the well-loved suppliant's sake,On his bright bow Love placed the unerring dart,The soft beguiler of the stricken heart.Like the Moon's influence on the sea at rest,Came passion stealing o'er the Hermit's breast,While on the maiden's lip that mocked the dyeOf ripe red fruit, he bent his melting eye.And oh! how showed the lady's love for him,The heaving bosom, and each quivering limb!Like young Kadambas, when the leaf-buds swell,At the warm touch of Spring they love so well.But still, with downcast eyes, she sought the ground,And durst not turn their burning glances round.Then with strong effort, Śiva lulled to rest,The storm of passion in his troubled breast,[Pg 41]And seeks, with angry eyes that round him roll,Whence came the tempest o'er his tranquil soul.He looked, and saw the bold young archer stand,His bow bent ready in his skilful hand,Drawn towards the eye; his shoulder well depressed,And the left foot thrown forward as a rest.
Then was the Hermit-God to madness lashed,Then from his eye red flames of fury flashed.So changed the beauty of that glorious brow,Scarce could the gaze support its terror now.Hark! heavenly voices sighing through the air:"Be calm, great Śiva, O be calm and spare!"Alas! that angry eye's resistless flashesHave scorched the gentle King of Love to ashes!But Rati saw not, for she swooned away;Senseless and breathless on the earth she lay;Sleep while thou mayst, unconscious lady, sleep!Soon wilt thou rise to sigh and wake to weep.E'en as the red bolt rives the leafy bough,So Śiva smote the hinderer of his vow;Then fled with all his train to some lone placeFar from the witchery of a female face.
Sad was Himaláya's daughter: grief and shameO'er the young spirit of the maiden came: Grief—for she loved, and all her love was vain;Shame—she was spurned before her youthful train.She turned away, with fear and woe oppressed,To hide her sorrow on her father's breast;Then, in the fond arms of her pitying sire,Closed her sad eyes for fear of Śiva's ire.Still in his grasp the weary maiden lay,While he sped swiftly on his homeward way.Thus have I seen the elephant stoop to drink,And lift a lily from the fountain's brink.Thus, when he rears his mighty head on high,Across his tusks I've seen that lily lie.
Sad, solitary, helpless, faint, forlorn,Woke Káma's darling from her swoon to mourn.Too soon her gentle soul returned to knowThe pangs of widowhood—that word of woe.Scarce could she raise her, trembling, from the ground,Scarce dared to bend her anxious gaze around,Unconscious yet those greedy eyes should neverFeed on his beauty more—gone, gone for ever.
"Speak to me, Káma! why so silent? giveOne word in answer—doth my Káma live?"There on the turf his dumb cold ashes lay,Whose soul that fiery flash had scorched away.She clasped the dank earth in her wild despair,Her bosom stained, and rent her long bright hair,Till hill and valley caught the mourner's cry,And pitying breezes echoed sigh for sigh.[Pg 46]"Oh thou wast beautiful: fond lovers swareTheir own bright darlings were like Káma, fair.Sure woman's heart is stony: can it beThat I still live while this is all of thee?Where art thou, Káma? Could my dearest leaveHis own fond Rati here alone to grieve?So must the sad forsaken lotus dieWhen her bright river leaves his channel dry.Káma, dear Káma, call again to mindHow thou wast ever gentle, I was kind.Let not my prayer, thy Rati's prayer, be vain;Come as of old, and bless these eyes again!Wilt thou not hear me? Think of those sweet hoursWhen I would bind thee with my zone of flowers,Those soft gay fetters o'er thee fondly wreathing,Thine only punishment when gently breathingIn tones of love thy heedless sigh betrayedThe name, dear traitor! of some rival maid.Then would I pluck a floweret from my tressAnd beat thee till I forced thee to confess,While in my play the falling leaves would coverThe eyes—the bright eyes—of my captive lover.And then those words that made me, oh, so blest—"Dear love, thy home is in my faithful breast!"Alas, sweet words, too blissful to be true,Or how couldst thou have died, nor Rati perish too?[Pg 47]
Yes, I will fly to thee, of thee bereft,And leave this world which thou, my life, hast left.Cold, gloomy, now this wretched world must be,For all its pleasures came from only thee.When night has veiled the city in its shade,Thou, only thou, canst soothe the wandering maid,And guide her trembling at the thunder's roarSafe through the darkness to her lover's door.In vain the wine-cup, as it circles by,Lisps in her tongue and sparkles in her eye.Long locks are streaming, and the cheek glows red:But all is mockery, Love—dear Love—is dead.The Moon, sweet spirit, shall lament for thee,Late, dim, and joyless shall his rising be.Days shall fly on, and he forget to takeHis full bright glory, mourning for thy sake.Say, Káma, say, whose arrow now shall beThe soft green shoot of thy dear mango tree,The favourite spray which Köils love so well,And praise in sweetest strain its wondrous spell?This line of bees which strings thy useless bowHums mournful echo to my cries of woe.Come in thy lovely shape and teach againThe Köil's mate, that knows the tender strain,Her gentle task to waft to longing earsThe lover's hope, the distant lover's fears.[Pg 48]Come, bring once more that ecstasy of bliss,The fond dear look, the smile, and ah! that kiss!Fainting with woe, my soul refuses restWhen memory pictures how I have been blest.See, thou didst weave a garland, love, to deckWith all spring's fairest buds thy Rati's neck.Sweet are those flowers as they were culled to-day,And is my Káma's form more frail than they?His pleasant task my lover had begun,But stern Gods took him ere the work was done;Return, my Káma, at thy Rati's cry,And stain this foot which waits the rosy dye.Now will I hie me to the fatal pile,And ere heaven's maids have hailed thee with a smile,Or on my love their winning glances thrown,I will be there, and claim thee for mine own.Yet though I come, my lasting shame will beThat I have lived one moment after thee.Ah, how shall I thy funeral rites prepare,Gone soul and body to the viewless air?"With thy dear Spring I've seen thee talk and smile,Shaping an arrow for thy bow the while.Where is he now, thy darling friend, the giverOf many a bright sweet arrow for thy quiver?Is he too sent upon death's dreary path,Scorched by the cruel God's inexorable wrath?"[Pg 49]
Stricken in spirit by her cries of woe,Like venomed arrows from a mighty bow,A moment fled, and gentle Spring was there,To ask her grief, to soothe her wild despair.She beat her breast more wildly than before,With greater floods her weeping eyes ran o'er.When friends are nigh the spirit finds reliefIn the full gushing torrent of its grief.
"Turn, gentle friend, thy weeping eyes, and seeThat dear companion who was all to me.His crumbling dust with which the breezes play,Bearing it idly in their course away,White as the silver feathers of a dove,Is all that's left me of my murdered love.Now come, my Káma. Spring, who was so dear,Longs to behold thee. Oh, appear, appear!Fickle to women Love perchance may bendHis ear to listen to a faithful friend.Remember, he walked ever at thy sideO'er bloomy meadows in the warm spring-tide,That Gods above, and men, and fiends belowShould own the empire of thy mighty bow,That ruthless bow, which pierces to the heart,Strung with a lotus-thread, a flower its dart.[Pg 50]As dies a torch when winds sweep roughly by,So is my light for ever fled, and I,The lamp his cheering rays no more illume,Am wrapt in darkness, misery and gloom.Fate took my love, and spared the widow's breath,Yet fate is guilty of a double death.When the wild monster tramples on the groundThe tree some creeper garlands closely round,Reft of the guardian which it thought so true,Forlorn and withered, it must perish too.Then come, dear friend, the true one's pile prepare,And send me quickly to my husband there.Call it not vain: the mourning lotus diesWhen the bright Moon, her lover, quits the skies.When sinks the red cloud in the purple west,Still clings his bride, the lightning, to his breast.All nature keeps the eternal high decree:Shall woman fail? I come, my love, to thee!Now on the pile my faint limbs will I throw,Clasping his ashes, lovely even so,—As if beneath my weary frame were spreadSoft leaves and blossoms for a flowery bed.And oh, dear comrade (for in happier hoursOft have I heaped a pleasant bed of flowersFor thee and him beneath the spreading tree),Now quickly raise the pile for Love and me.[Pg 51]And in thy mercy gentle breezes sendTo fan the flame that wafts away thy friend,And shorten the sad moments that divideImpatient Káma from his Rati's side;Set water near us in a single urn,We'll sip in heaven from the same in turn;And let thine offering to his spirit beSprays fresh and lovely from the mango tree,Culled when the round young buds begin to swell,For Káma loved those fragrant blossoms well."
As Rati thus complained in faithful love,A heavenly voice breathed round her from above,Falling in pity like the gentle rainThat brings the dying herbs to life again:"Bride of the flower-armed God, thy lord shall beNot ever distant, ever deaf to thee.Give me thine ear, sad lady, I will tellWhy perished Káma, whom thou lovedst well.The Lord of Life in every troubled senseToo warmly felt his fair child's influence.He quenched the fire, but mighty vengeance cameOn Káma, fanner of the unholy flame.When Śiva by her penance won has ledHimálaya's daughter to her bridal bed,[Pg 52]His bliss to Káma shall the God repay,And give again the form he snatched away.Thus did the gracious God, at Justice' prayer,The term of Love's sad punishment declare.The Gods, like clouds, are fierce and gentle too,Now hurl the bolt, now drop sweet heavenly dew.Live, widowed lady, for thy lover's armsShall clasp again—oh, fondly clasp—thy charms.In summer-heat the streamlet dies awayBeneath the fury of the God of Day:Then, in due season, comes the pleasant rain,And all is fresh, and fair, and full again."Thus breathed the spirit from the viewless air,And stilled the raging of her wild despair;While Spring consoled with every soothing art,Cheered by that voice from heaven, the mourner's heart,Who watched away the hours, so sad and slow,That brought the limit of her weary woe,As the pale moon, quenched by the conquering lightOf garish day, longs for its own dear night.
Now woe to Umá, for young Love is slain,Her Lord hath left her, and her hope is vain.Woe, woe to Umá! how the Mountain-MaidCursed her bright beauty for its feeble aid!'Tis Beauty's guerdon which she loves the best,To bless her lover, and in turn be blest.Penance must aid her now—or how can sheWin the cold heart of that stern deity?Penance, long penance: for that power aloneCan make such love, so high a Lord, her own.
But, ah! how troubled was her mother's browAt the sad tidings of the mourner's vow!She threw her arms around her own dear maid,Kissed, fondly kissed her, sighed, and wept, and prayed:"Are there no Gods, my child, to love thee here?Frail is thy body, yet thy vow severe.[Pg 56]The lily, by the wild bee scarcely stirred,Bends, breaks, and dies beneath the weary bird."Fast fell her tears, her prayer was strong, but stillThat prayer was weaker than her daughter's will.Who can recall the torrent's headlong force,Or the bold spirit in its destined course?She sent a maiden to her sire, and prayedHe for her sake would grant some bosky shade,That she might dwell in solitude, and thereGive all her soul to penance and to prayer.In gracious love the great Himálaya smiled,And did the bidding of his darling child.Then to that hill which peacocks love she came,Known to all ages by the lady's name.
Still to her purpose resolutely true,Her string of noble pearls aside she threw,Which, slipping here and there, had rubbed awayThe sandal dust that on her bosom lay,And clad her in a hermit coat of bark,Rough to her gentle limbs, and gloomy dark,Pressing too tightly, till her swelling breastBroke into freedom through the unwonted vest.Her matted hair was full as lovely nowAs when 'twas braided o'er her polished brow.[Pg 57]Thus the sweet beauties of the lotus shineWhen bees festoon it in a graceful line;And, though the tangled weeds that crown the rillCling o'er it closely, it is lovely still.With zone of grass the votaress was bound,Which reddened the fair form it girdled round:Never before the lady's waist had feltThe ceaseless torment of so rough a belt.Alas! her weary vow has caused to fadeThe lovely colours that adorned the maid.Pale is her hand, and her long finger-tipsSteal no more splendour from her paler lips,Or, from the ball which in her play would rest,Made bright and fragrant, on her perfumed breast.Rough with the sacred grass those hands must be,And worn with resting on her rosary.Cold earth her couch, her canopy the skies,Pillowed upon her arm the lady lies:She who before was wont to rest her headIn the soft luxury of a sumptuous bed,Vext by no troubles as she slumbered there,But sweet flowers slipping from her loosened hair.The maid put off, but only for awhile,Her passioned glances and her witching smile.She lent the fawn her moving, melting gaze,And the fond creeper all her winning ways.[Pg 58]The trees that blossomed on that lonely mountShe watered daily from the neighbouring fount:If she had been their nursing mother, sheCould not have tended them more carefully.Not e'en her boy—her own bright boy—shall stayHer love for them: her first dear children they.Her gentleness had made the fawns so tame,To her kind hand for fresh sweet grain they came,And let the maid before her friends compareHer own with eyes that shone as softly there.
Then came the hermits of the holy woodTo see the votaress in her solitude;Grey elders came; though young the maid might seem,Her perfect virtue must command esteem.They found her resting in that lonely spot,The fire was kindled, and no rite forgot.In hermit's mantle was she clad; her lookFixt in deep thought upon the Holy Book.So pure that grove: all war was made to cease,And savage monsters lived in love and peace.Pure was that grove: each newly built abodeHad leafy shrines where fires of worship glowed.
But far too mild her penance, Umá thought,To win from heaven the lordly meed she sought.[Pg 59]She would not spare her form, so fair and frail,If sterner penance could perchance prevail.Oft had sweet pastime wearied her, and yetFain would she match in toil the anchoret.Sure the soft lotus at her birth had lentDear Umá's form its gentle element;But gold, commingled with her being, gaveThat will so strong, so beautifully brave.Full in the centre of four blazing pilesSate the fair lady of the winning smiles,While on her head the mighty God of DayShot all the fury of his summer ray;Yet her fixt gaze she turned upon the skies,And quenched his splendour with her brighter eyes.To that sweet face, though scorched by rays from heaven,Still was the beauty of the lotus given,Yet, worn by watching, round those orbs of lightA blackness gathered like the shades of night.She cooled her dry lips in the bubbling stream,And lived on Amrit from the pale moon-beam,Sometimes in hunger culling from the treeThe rich ripe fruit that hung so temptingly.Scorched by the fury of the noon-tide rays,And fires that round her burned with ceaseless blaze,Summer passed o'er her: rains of Autumn cameAnd throughly drenched the lady's tender frame.[Pg 60]So steams the earth, when mighty torrents pourOn thirsty fields all dry and parched before.The first clear rain-drops falling on her brow,Gem it one moment with their light, and nowKissing her sweet lip find a welcome restIn the deep valley of the lady's breast;Then wander broken by the fall withinThe mazy channels of her dimpled skin.There as she lay upon her rocky bed,No sumptuous roof above her gentle head,Dark Night, her only witness, turned her eyes,Red lightnings flashing from the angry skies,And gazed upon her voluntary pain,In wind, in sleet, in thunder, and in rain.Still lay the maiden on the cold damp ground,Though blasts of winter hurled their snows around,Still pitying in her heart the mournful fateOf those poor birds, so fond, so desolate,—Doomed, hapless pair, to list each other's moanThrough the long hours of night, sad and alone.Chilled by the rain, the tender lotus sank:She filled its place upon the streamlet's bank.Sweet was her breath as when that lovely flowerSheds its best odour in still evening's hour.Red as its leaves her lips of coral hue:Red as those quivering leaves they quivered too.[Pg 61]
Of all stern penance it is called the chiefTo nourish life upon the fallen leaf.But even this the ascetic maiden spurned,And for all time a glorious title earned.Aparná—Lady of the unbroken fast—Have sages called her, saints who knew the past.Fair as the lotus fibres, soft as they,In these stern vows she passed her night and day.No mighty anchoret had e'er essayedThe ceaseless penance of this gentle maid.
There came a hermit: reverend was heAs Bráhmanhood's embodied sanctity.With coat of skin, with staff and matted hair,His face was radiant, and he spake her fair.Up rose the maid the holy man to greet,And humbly bowed before the hermit's feet.Though meditation fill the pious breast,It finds a welcome for a glorious guest:The sage received the honour duly paid,And fixed his earnest gaze upon the maid.While through her frame unwonted vigour ran,Thus, in his silver speech, the blameless saint began:"How can thy tender frame, sweet lady, bearIn thy firm spirit's task its fearful share?Canst thou the grass and fuel duly bring,And still unwearied seek the freshening spring?[Pg 62]Say, do the creeper's slender shoots expand,Seeking each day fresh water from thy hand,Till like thy lip each ruddy tendril glows,That lip which, faded, still outreds the rose?With loving glance the timid fawns draw nigh:Say dost thou still with joy their wants supply?For thee, O lotus-eyed, their glances shine,Mocking the brightness of each look of thine.O Mountain-Lady, it is truly saidThat heavenly charms to sin have never led,For even penitents may learn of theeHow pure, how gentle Beauty's self may be.Bright Gangá falling with her heavenly waves,Himálaya's head with sacred water laves,Bearing the flowers the seven great Sages flingTo crown the forehead of the Mountain-King.Yet do thy deeds, O bright-haired maiden, shedA richer glory round his awful head.Purest of motives, Duty leads thy heart:Pleasure and gain therein may claim no part.O noble maid, the wise have truly saidThat friendship soon in gentle heart is bred.Seven steps together bind the lasting tie:Then bend on me, dear Saint, a gracious eye.Fain, lovely Umá, would a Bráhman learnWhat noble guerdon would thy penance earn.[Pg 63]Say, art thou toiling for a second birth,Where dwells the great Creator? O'er the earthResistless sway? Or fair as Beauty's Queen,Peerless, immortal, shall thy form be seen?The lonely soul bowed down by grief and pain,By penance' aid some gracious boon may gain.But what, O faultless one, can move thy heartTo dwell in solitude and prayer apart?Why should the cloud of grief obscure thy brow,'Mid all thy kindred, who so loved as thou?Foes hast thou none: for what rash hand would dareFrom serpent's head the magic gem to tear?Why dost thou seek the hermit's garb to try,Thy silken raiment and thy gems thrown by?As though the sun his glorious state should leave,Rayless to harbour 'mid the shades of eve.Wouldst thou win heaven by thy holy spells?Already with the Gods thy father dwells.A husband, lady? O forbear the thought,A priceless jewel seeks not, but is sought.Maiden, thy deep sighs tell me it is so;Yet, doubtful still, my spirit seeks to knowCouldst thou e'er love in vain? What heart so coldThat hath not eagerly its worship told?Ah! could the cruel loved one, thou fair maid,Look with cold glances on that bright hair's braid?[Pg 64]Thy locks are hanging loosely o'er thy brow,Thine ear is shaded by no lotus now.See, where the sun hath scorched that tender neckWhich precious jewels once were proud to deck.Still gleams the line where they were wont to cling,As faintly shows the moon's o'ershadowed ring.Now sure thy loved one, vain in beauty's pride,Dreamed of himself when wandering at thy side,Or he would count him blest to be the markOf that dear eye, so soft, so lustrous dark.But, gentle Umá, let thy labour cease;Turn to thy home, fair Saint, and rest in peace.By many a year of penance duly doneRich store of merit has my labour won.Take then the half, thy secret purpose name;Nor in stern hardships wear thy tender frame."
The holy Bráhman ceased: but Umá's breastIn silence heaved, by love and fear opprest.In mute appeal she turned her languid eye,Darkened with weeping, not with softening dye,To bid her maiden's friendly tongue declareThe cherished secret of her deep despair:"Hear, holy Father, if thou still wouldst know,Why her frail form endures this pain and woe,[Pg 65]As the soft lotus makes a screen to stayThe noontide fury of the God of Day.Proudly disdaining all the blest above,With heart and soul she seeks for Śiva's love.For him alone, the Trident-wielding God,The thorny paths of penance hath she trod.But since that mighty one hath Káma slain,Vain every hope, and every effort vain.E'en as life fled, a keen but flowery dartYoung Love, the Archer, aimed at Śiva's heart.The God in anger hurled the shaft away,But deep in Umá's tender soul it lay;Alas, poor maid! she knows no comfort now,Her soul's on fire, her wild locks hide her brow.She quits her father's halls, and frenzied rovesThe icy mountain and the lonely groves.Oft as the maidens of the minstrel throngTo hymn great Śiva's praises raised the song,The lovelorn lady's sobs and deep-drawn sighsDrew tears of pity from their gentle eyes.Wakeful and fevered in the dreary nightScarce closed her eyes, and then in wild affrightRang through the halls her very bitter cry,"God of the azure neck, why dost thou fly?"While their soft bands her loving arms would castHound the dear vision fading all too fast.[Pg 66]Her skilful hand, with true love-guided art,Had traced the image graven on her heart."Art thou all present? Dost thou fail to seePoor Umá's anguish and her love for thee?"Thus oft in frenzied grief her voice was heard,Chiding the portrait with reproachful word.Long thus in vain for Śiva's love she strove,Then turned in sorrow to this holy grove.Since the sad maid hath sought these forest gladesTo hide her grief amid the dreary shades,The fruit hath ripened on the spreading bough;But ah! no fruit hath crowned her holy vow.Her faithful friends alone must ever mournTo see that beauteous form by penance worn,But oh! that Śiva would some favour deign,As Indra pitieth the parching plain!"The maiden ceased: his secret joy dissembling,The Bráhman turned to Umá pale and trembling:"And is it thus, or doth the maiden jest?Is this the darling secret of thy breast?"
Scarce could the maid her choking voice command,Or clasp her rosary with quivering hand:"O holy Sage, learned in the Vedas' lore,'Tis even thus. Great Śiva I adore.Thus would my steadfast heart his love obtain,For this I gladly bear the toil and pain.[Pg 67]Surely the strong desire, the earnest will,May win some favour from his mercy still."
"Lady," cried he, "that mighty Lord I know;Ever his presence bringeth care and woe.And wouldst thou still a second time prepareThe sorrows of his fearful life to share?Deluded maid, how shall thy tender hand,Decked with the nuptial bracelet's jewelled band,Be clasped in his, when fearful serpents twineIn scaly horror round that arm divine?How shall thy robe, with gay flamingoes gleaming,Suit with his coat of hide with blood-drops streaming?Of old thy pathway led where flowerets sweetMade pleasant carpets for thy gentle feet.And e'en thy foes would turn in grief awayTo see these vermeil-tinted limbs essay,Where scattered tresses strew the mournful place,Their gloomy path amid the tombs to trace.On Śiva's heart the funeral ashes rest,Say, gentle lady, shall they stain thy breast,Where the rich tribute of the Sandal treesSheds a pure odour on the amorous breeze?A royal bride returning in thy state,The king of elephants should bear thy weight.How wilt thou brook the mockery and the scornWhen thou on Śiva's bull art meanly borne?[Pg 68]Sad that the crescent moon his crest should be:And shall that mournful fate be shared by thee?His crest, the glory of the evening skies,His bride, the moonlight of our wondering eyes!Deformed is he, his ancestry unknown;By vilest garb his poverty is shown.O fawn-eyed lady, how should Śiva gainThat heart for which the glorious strive in vainNo charms hath he to win a maiden's eye:Cease from thy penance, hush the fruitless sigh!Unmeet is he thy faithful heart to share,Child of the Mountain, maid of beauty rare!Not 'mid the gloomy tombs do sages raiseThe holy altar of their prayer and praise."
Impatient Umá listened: the quick bloodRushed to her temples in an angry flood.Her quivering lip, her darkly-flashing eyeTold that the tempest of her wrath was nigh.Proudly she spoke: "How couldst thou tell arightOf one like Śiva, perfect, infinite?'Tis ever thus, the mighty and the justAre scorned by souls that grovel in the dust.Their lofty goodness and their motives wiseShine all in vain before such blinded eyes.[Pg 69]Say who is greater, he who strives for power,Or he who succours in misfortune's hour?Refuge of worlds, O how should Śiva deignTo look on men enslaved to paltry gain?The spring of wealth himself, he careth naughtFor the vile treasures that mankind have sought.His dwelling-place amid the tombs may be,Yet Monarch of the three great worlds is he.What though no love his outward form may claim,The stout heart trembles at his awful name.Who can declare the wonders of his might?The Trident-wielding God, who knows aright?Whether around him deadly serpents twine,Or if his jewelled wreaths more brightly shine;Whether in rough and wrinkled hide arrayed,Or silken robe, in glittering folds displayed;If on his brow the crescent moon he bear,Or if a shrunken skull be withering there;The funeral ashes touched by him acquireThe glowing lustre of eternal fire;Falling in golden showers, the heavenly maidsDelight to pour them on their shining braids.What though no treasures fill his storehouse full,What though he ride upon his horned bull,Not e'en may Indra in his pride withholdThe lowly homage that is his of old,[Pg 70]But turns his raging elephant to meetHis mighty Lord, and bows before his feet,Right proud to colour them rich rosy redWith the bright flowers that deck his prostrate head.Thy slanderous tongue proclaims thy evil mind,Yet in thy speech one word of truth we find.Unknown thou call'st him: how should mortal manCount when the days of Brahmá's Lord began?But cease these idle words: though all be true,His failings many and his virtues few,Still clings my heart to him, its chosen lord,Nor fails nor falters at thy treacherous word.Dear maiden, bid yon eager boy depart:Why should the slanderous tale defile his heart?Most guilty who the faithless speech begins,But he who stays to listen also sins."She turned away: with wrath her bosom swelling,Its vest of bark in angry pride repelling:But sudden, lo, before her wondering eyesIn altered form she sees the sage arise;'Tis Śiva's self before the astonished maid,In all his gentlest majesty displayed.She saw, she trembled, like a river's course,Checked for a moment in its onward force,By some huge rock amid the torrent hurledWhere erst the foaming waters madly curled.[Pg 71]One foot uplifted, shall she turn away?Unmoved the other, shall the maiden stay?The silver moon on Śiva's forehead shone,While softly spake the God in gracious tone:"O gentle maiden, wise and true of soul,Lo, now I bend beneath thy sweet control.Won by thy penance, and thy holy vows,Thy willing slave Śiva before thee bows."
He spake, and rushing through her languid frame,At his dear words returning vigour came.She knew but this, that all her cares were o'er,Her sorrows ended, she should weep no more!
Now gentle Umá bade a damsel bearTo Śiva, Soul of All, her maiden prayer:"Wait the high sanction of Himálaya's will,And ask his daughter from the royal hill."Then ere the God, her own dear Lord, replied,In blushing loveliness she sought his side.Thus the young mango hails the approaching springBy its own tuneful bird's sweet welcoming.
In Umá's ear he softly whispered, yea,Then scarce could tear him from her arms away.Swift with a thought he summoned from aboveThe Seven bright Saints to bear his tale of love.They came, and She, the Heavenly Dame, was there,Lighting with glories all the radiant air;Just freshly bathed in sacred Gangá's tide,Gemmed with the dancing flowers that deck her side,[Pg 76]And richly scented with the nectarous rillThat heavenly elephants from their brows distil.Fair strings of pearl their radiant fingers hold,Clothed are their limbs in hermit-coats of gold;Their rosaries, large gems of countless price,Shone like the fruit that glows in Paradise,As though the glorious trees that blossom thereHad sought the forest for a life of prayer.With all his thousand beams the God of Day,Urging his coursers down the sloping way,His banner furled at the approach of night,Looks up in reverence on those lords of light.Ancient creators: thus the wise, who know,Gave them a name in ages long ago:With Brahmá joining in creation's plan,And perfecting the work His will began;Still firm in penance, though the hermit-vowBears a ripe harvest for the sages now.Brightest in glory 'mid that glorious bandSee the fair Queen, the Heavenly Lady, stand.Fixing her loving eyes upon her spouse,She seemed sent forth to crown the sage's vowsWith sweet immortal joy, the dearest prizeStrong prayer could merit from the envious skies.With equal honour on the Queen and allDid the kind glance of Śiva's welcome fall.[Pg 77]No partial favour by the good is shown:They count not station, but the deed alone.So fair she shone upon his raptured view,He longed for wedlock's heavenly pleasures too.What hath such power to lead the soul aboveBy virtue's pleasant path as wedded love!Scarce had the holy motive lent its aidTo knit great Śiva to the Mountain-Maid,When Káma's spirit that had swooned in fearBreathed once again and deemed forgiveness near.
The ancient Sages reverently adoredThe world's great Father and its Sovran Lord,And while a soft ecstatic thrilling ranO'er their celestial frames, they thus began:"Glorious the fruit our holy studies bear,Our constant penance, sacrifice and prayer.For that high place within thy thoughts we gainWhich fancy strives to reach, but longs in vain.How blest is he, the glory of the wise,Deep in whose thoughtful breast thy Godhead lies!But who may tell his joy who rests enshrined,O Brahmá's great Creator, in thy mind!We dwell on high above the cold moon's ray;Beneath our mansion glows the God of Day,But now thy favour lends us brighter beams,Blest with thy love our star unchanging gleams.[Pg 78]How should we tell what soul-entrancing blissEnthrals our spirit at an hour like this?Great Lord of All, thou Soul of Life indwelling,We crave one word thy wondrous nature telling.Though to our eyes thy outward form be shown,How can we know thee as thou shouldst be known?In this thy present shape, we pray thee, sayDost thou create? dost thou preserve or slay?But speak thy wish; called from our starry restWe wait, O Śiva, for our Lord's behest"
Then answered thus the Lord of glory, whileFlashed from his dazzling teeth so white a smile,The moon that crowned him poured a larger streamOf living splendour from that pearly gleam:"Ye know, great Sages of a race divine,No selfish want e'er prompts a deed of mine.Do not the forms—eight varied forms—I wear,The truth of this to all the world declare?Now, as that thirsty bird that drinks the rainPrays the kind clouds of heaven to soothe its pain,So the Gods pray me, trembling 'neath their foe,To send a child of mine and end their woe.I seek the Mountain-Maiden as my bride:Our hero son shall tame the demon's pride.[Pg 79]Thus the priest bids the holy fire arise,Struck from the wood to aid the sacrifice.Go, ask Himálaya for the lovely maid:Blest are those bridals which the holy aid.So shall more glorious honours gild my name,And win the father yet a prouder fame.Nor, O ye heavenly Sages, need I teachWhat for the maiden's hand shall be your speech,For still the wise in worthiest honour holdThe rules and precepts ye ordained of old.This Lady too shall aid your mission there:Best for such task a skilful matron's care.And now, my heralds, to your task away,Where proud Himálaya holds his royal sway;Then meet me where this mighty torrent ravesDown the steep channel with its headlong waves."
Thus while that holiest One his love confessed,The hermits listened: from each saintly breastFled the false shame that yet had lingered there,And love and wedlock showed divinely fair.
On through the heaven, o'er tracts of swordlike blue,Towards the gay city, swift as thought, they flew,Bright with high domes and palaces most fair,As if proud Alaká were planted there,[Pg 80]Or Paradise poured forth, in showers that bless,The rich o'erflowings of its loveliness.Round lofty towers adorned with gems and goldHer guardian stream the holy Gangá rolled.On every side, the rampart's glowing crown,Bright wreaths of fragrant flowers hung waving down,—Flowers that might tempt the maids of heavenly birthTo linger fondly o'er that pride of earth.Its noble elephants, unmoved by fear,The distant roaring of the lions hear.In beauty peerless, and unmatched in speed,Its thousand coursers of celestial breed.Through the broad streets bright sylphs and minstrels rove:Its dames are Goddesses of stream and grove.Hark! the drum echoes louder and more loudFrom glittering halls whose spires are wrapt in cloud.It were the thunder, but that voice of fearFalls not in measured time upon the ear.'Tis balmy cool, for many a heavenly tree,With quivering leaves and branches waving free,Sheds a delightful freshness through the air,—Fans which no toil of man has stationed there.The crystal chambers where they feast at nightFlash back the beamings of the starry light.So brightly pure that silver gleam is shed,Playing so fondly round each beauteous head,[Pg 81]That all seem gifted from those lights aboveWith richest tokens of superior love.How blest its maidens! cloudless is their day,And radiant herbs illume their nightly way.No term of days, but endless youth they know;No Death save him who bears the Flowery Bow:Their direst swoon, their only frenzy this—The trance of love, the ecstasy of bliss!Ne'er can their lovers for one hour withstandThe frown, the quivering lip, the scornful hand;But seek forgiveness of the angry fair,And woo her smile with many an earnest prayer.Around, wide gardens spread their pleasant bowers,Where the bright Champac opes her fragrant flowers:Dear shades, beloved by the sylphs that roamIn dewy evening from their mountain home.
Ah! why should mortals fondly strive to gainHeaven and its joys by ceaseless toil and pain?E'en the Saints envied as their steps drew near,And owned a brighter heaven was opened here.They lighted down; braided was each long tress,Bright as the pictured flame, as motionless.Himálaya's palace-warders in amazeOn the Seven Sages turned their eager gaze,—[Pg 82]A noble company of celestial raceWhere each in order of his years had place,—Glorious, as when the sun, his head inclining,Sees his own image 'mid the waters shining.To greet them with a gift Himálaya sped,Earth to her centre shaking at his tread.By his dark lips with mountain metals dyed,His arms like pines that clothe his lofty side:By his proud stature, by his stony breast,Lord of the Snowy Hills he stood confest.On to his Council-hall he led the way,Nor failed due honour to the Saints to pay.On couch of reed the Monarch bade them rest,And thus with uplift hands those Heavenly Lords addressed:"Like soft rain falling from a cloudless sky,Or fruit, when bloom has failed to glad the eye,So are ye welcome, Sages; thus I feelEcstatic thrilling o'er my spirit steal,Changed, like dull senseless iron to burning gold,Or some rapt creature, when the heavens unfoldTo eyes yet dim with tears of earthly care,The rest, the pleasures, and the glory there.Long pilgrim bands from this auspicious dayTo my pure hill shall bend their constant way.Famed shall it be o'er all the lands around,For where the good have been is holy ground.[Pg 83]Now am I doubly pure, for Gangá's tideFalls on my head from heaven and laves my side.Henceforth I boast a second stream as sweet,The water, Sages, that has touched your feet.Twice by your favour is Himálaya blest,—This towery mountain that your feet have prest,And this my moving form is happier stillTo wait your bidding, to perform your will.These mighty limbs that fill the heaven's expanseSink down, o'erpowered, in a blissful trance.So bright your presence, at the glorious sightMy brooding shades of darkness turn to light.The gloom that haunts my mountain caverns flies,And cloudy passion in the spirit dies.O say, if here your arrowy course ye spedTo throw fresh glory round my towering head.Surely your wish, ye Mighty Ones, can craveNo aid, no service from your willing slave.Yet deem me worthy of some high behest:The lord commandeth, and the slave is blest.Declare your pleasure, then, bright heavenly band:We crave no guerdon but your sole command.Yours are we all, Himálaya and his bride,And this dear maiden child our hope and pride."
Not once he spake: his cavern mouths aroundIn hollow echoings gave again the sound.[Pg 84]Of all who speak beyond compare the best,Angiras answered at the Saints' request:"This power hast thou, great King, and mightier far,Thy mind is lofty as thy summits are.Sages say truly, Vishṇu is thy name:His spirit breatheth in thy mountain frame.Within the caverns of thy boundless breastAll things that move and all that move not rest.How on his head so soft, so delicate,Could the great Snake uphold the huge earth's weight,Did not thy roots, far-reaching down to hell,Bear up the burden and assist him well?Thy streams of praise, thy pure rills' ceaseless flowMake glad the nations wheresoe'er they go,Till, shedding purity on every side,They sink at length in boundless Ocean's tide.Blest is fair Gangá, for her heavenly streamFlows from the feet of him that sits supreme;And blest once more, O mighty Hill, is sheThat her bright waters spring anew from thee.Vast grew his body when the avenging GodIn three huge strides o'er all creation trod.Above, below, his form increased, but thouWast ever glorious and as vast as now.By thee is famed Sumeru forced to hideHis flashing rays and pinnacles of pride,[Pg 85]For thou hast won thy station in the skies'Mid the great Gods who claim the sacrifice.Firm and unmoved remains thy lofty hill,Yet thou canst bow before the holy still.Now—for the glorious work will fall on thee,—Hear thou the cause of this our embassy.We also, Mountain Monarch, since we bearTo thee the message, in the labour share.The Highest, Mightiest, Noblest One, adoredBy the proud title of our Sovran Lord:The crescent moon upon his brow bears he,And wields the wondrous powers of Deity.He in this earth and varied forms displayed,Bound each to other by exchange of aid,Guides the great world and all the things that are,As flying coursers whirl the glittering car.Him good men seek with holy thought and prayer,Who fills their breast and makes his dwelling there.When saints, we read, his lofty sphere attain,They ne'er may fall to this base earth again:His messengers, great King, we crave the handOf thy fair daughter at the God's command.At such blest union, as of Truth and Voice,A father's heart should grieve not, but rejoice.Her Lord is Father of the world, and sheOf all that liveth shall the mother be.[Pg 86]Gods that adore him with the Neck of BlueIn homage bent shall hail the Lady too,And give a glory to her feet with gemsThat sparkle in their priceless diadems.Hear what a roll shall blazon forth thy line,—Maid, Father, Suitor, Messengers divine!Give him the chosen lady, and aspireTo call thy son the Universe's Sire,Who laudeth none, but all mankind shall raiseTo Him through endless time the songs of praise."
Thus while he spake the lady bent her headTo hide her cheek, now blushing rosy red,And numbered o'er with seeming care the whileHer lotus' petals in sweet maiden guile.With pride and joy Himálaya's heart beat high,Yet ere he spake he looked to Mená's eye:Full well he knew a mother's gentle careLearns her child's heart and love's deep secret there,And this the hour, he felt, when fathers seekHer eye for answer or her changing cheek.His eager look Himálaya scarce had bentWhen Mená's eye beamed back her glad assent.O gentle wives! your fondest wish is stillTo have with him you love one heart, one will.
[Pg 87]
He threw his arms around the blushing maidIn queenly garment and in gems arrayed,Awhile was silent, then in rapture cried,"Come, O my daughter! Come, thou destined brideOf Śiva, Lord of All: this glorious bandOf Saints have sought thee at the God's command;And I thy sire this happy day obtainThe best reward a father's wish would gain."Then to the Saints he cried: "Pure Hermits, seeThe spouse of Śiva greets your company."They looked in rapture on the maid, and pouredTheir fullest blessing on her heavenly lord.So low she bowed, the gems that decked her hairAnd sparkled in her ear fell loosened there;Then with sweet modesty and joy opprestShe hid her blushes on the Lady's breast,Who cheered the mother weeping for her child,Her own dear Umá, till again she smiled:Such bliss and glory should be hers above,Yea, mighty Śiva's undivided love.
They named the fourth for Umá's nuptial day;Then sped the Sages on their homeward way;And thanked by Śiva with a gracious eyeSought their bright rest amid the stars on high.[Pg 88]Through all those weary days the lover sighedTo wind his fond arms round his gentle bride.Oh, if the Lord of Heaven could find no rest,Think, think how Love, strong Love, can tear a mortal's breast![Pg 89]
In light and glory dawned the expected dayBlest with a kindly star's auspicious ray,When gaily gathered at Himálaya's callHis kinsmen to the solemn festival.Through the broad city every dame's awakeTo grace the bridal for her monarch's sake;So great their love for him, this single careMakes one vast household of the thousands there.Heaven is not brighter than the royal streetWhere flowers lie scattered 'neath the nobles' feet,And banners waving to the breeze unfoldTheir silken broidery over gates of gold.And she, their child, upon her bridal dayBears her dear parents' every thought away.So, when from distant shores a friend returns,With deeper love each inmost spirit burns.[Pg 92]So, when grim Death restores his prey againJoy brighter shines from memory of pain.Each noble matron of Himálaya's raceFolds his dear Umá in a long embrace,Pours blessings on her head, and prays her takeSome priceless jewel for her friendship's sake.With sweetest influence a star of powerHad joined the spotted moon: at that blest hourTo deck fair Umá many a noble dameAnd many a gentle maid assiduous came.And well she graced their toil, more brightly fairWith feathery grass and wild flowers in her hair.A silken robe flowed free below her waist;Her sumptuous head a glittering arrow graced.So shines the young unclouded moon at last,Greeting the sun, its darksome season past.Sweet-scented Lodhra dust and Sandal dyedThe delicate beauties of the fair young bride,Veiled with a soft light robe. Her tiring-girlsThen led her to a chamber decked with pearlsAnd paved with sapphires, where the lulling soundOf choicest music breathed divinely round.There o'er the lady's limbs they poured by turnsStreams of pure water from their golden urns.Fresh from the cooling bath the lovely maidIn fairest white her tender form arrayed.[Pg 93]So opens the Kása all her shining flowersLured from their buds by softly falling showers.Then to a court with canopies o'erheadA crowd of noble dames the maiden led—A court for solemn rites, where gems and goldAdorn the pillars that the roof uphold.There on a couch they set her with her faceTurned toward the east. So lovely then the graceOf that dear maid, so ravishing her smile,E'en her attendants turned to gaze awhile;For though the brightest gems around her lay,Her brighter beauty stole their eyes away.Through her long tresses one a chaplet wound,And one with fragrant grass her temples crowned,While o'er her head sweet clouds of incense rolledTo try and perfume every shining fold.Bright dyes of saffron and the scented woodAdorned her beauty, till the maiden stoodFairer than Gangá when the Love-birds playO'er sandy islets in her silvery bay.To what rare beauty shall her maids compareHer clear brow shaded by her glossy hair?Less dazzling pure the lovely lotus shinesFlecked by the thronging bees in dusky lines.Less bright the moon, when a dark band of cloudEnhances beauties which it cannot shroud.[Pg 94]Behind her ear a head of barley drewThe eye to gaze upon its golden hue.But then her cheek, with glowing saffron dyed,To richer beauty called the glance aside.Though from those lips, where Beauty's guerdon lay,The vermeil tints were newly washed away,Yet o'er them, as she smiled, a ray was thrownOf quivering brightness that was all their own.
"Lay this dear foot upon thy lover's headCrowned with the moon," the laughing maiden said,Who dyed her lady's feet—no word spake she,But beat her with her wreath in playful glee.Then tiring-women took the jetty dyeTo guard, not deck, the beauty of her eye,Whose languid half-shut glances might compareWith lotus leaves just opening to the air;And as fresh gems adorned her neck and arms,So quickly changing grew the maiden's charms,Like some fair plant where bud succeeding budUnfolds new beauty; or a silver floodWhere gay birds follow quickly; or like night,When crowding stars come forth in all their light.Oft as the mirror would her glance beguileShe longed to meet her Lord's approving smile.[Pg 95]Her tasteful skill the timid maid essaysTo win one smile of love, one word of praise.
The happy mother took the golden dyeAnd raised to hers young Umá's beaming eye.Then swelled her bosom with maternal prideAs thus she decked her darling for a bride.Oh, she had longed to trace on that fair browThe nuptial line, yet scarce could mark it now.On Umá's rounded arm the woollen bandWas fixt securely by the nurse's hand.Blind with the tears that filled her swimming eye,In vain the mother strove that band to tie.Spotless as curling foam-flakes stood she there,As yielding soft, as graceful and as fair:Or like the glory of an autumn nightRobed by the full moon in a veil of light.Then at her mother's hest, the maid adoredThe spirit of each high ancestral lord,Nor failed she next the noble dames to greet,And give due honour to their reverend feet.They raised the maiden as she bowed her head:"Thine be the fulness of his love!" they said.Half of his being, blessing high as thisCan add no rapture to her perfect bliss.Well-pleased Himálaya viewed the pomp and prideMeet for his daughter, meet for Śiva's bride;[Pg 96]Then sought the hall with all his friends to waitThe bridegroom's coming with a monarch's state.
Meanwhile by heavenly matrons' care displayedUpon Kuvera's lofty mount were laidThe ornaments of Śiva, which of yoreAt his first nuptials the bridegroom wore.He laid his hand upon the dress, but howShall robes so sad, so holy, grace him now?His own dire vesture took a shape as fairAs gentle bridegroom's heart could wish to wear.The withering skull that glazed the eye with dread,Shone a bright coronal to grace his head.That elephant's hide the God had worn of oldWas now a silken robe inwrought with gold.Ere this his body was with dust besprent:With unguent now it shed delightful scent;And that mid-eye which glittering like a starShot the wild terror of its glance afar—So softly now its golden radiance beamed—A mark of glory on his forehead seemed.His twining serpents, destined still to beThe pride and honour of the deity,Changed but their bodies: in each sparkling crestThe blazing gems still shone their loveliest.[Pg 97]What need of jewels on the brow of HimWho wears the crescent moon? No spot may dimIts youthful beauty, e'en in light of dayShedding the glory of its quenchless ray.Well-pleased the God in all his pride arrayedSaw his bright image mirrored in the bladeOf the huge sword they brought; then calmly leantOn Nandi's arm, and toward his bull he went,Whose broad back covered with a tiger's hideWas steep to climb as Mount Kailása's side.Yet the dread monster humbly shrank for fear,And bowed in reverence as his Lord drew near.The matrons followed him, a saintly throng,Their ear-rings waving as they dashed along:Sweet faces, with such glories round them shedAs made the air one lovely lotus bed.On flew those bright ones: Káli came behind,The skulls that decked her rattling in the wind:Like the dark rack that scuds across the sky,With herald lightning and the crane's shrill cry.
Hark! from the glorious bands that lead the way,Harp, drum, and pipe, and shrilling trumpet's bray,Burst through the sky upon the startled earAnd tell the Gods the hour of worship's near.[Pg 98]They came; the Sun presents a silken shadeWhich heaven's own artist for the God had made,Gilding his brows, as though bright Gangá rolledAdown his holy head her waves of gold.She in her Goddess-shape divinely fair,And Yamuná, sweet river-Nymph, were there,Fanning their Lord, that fancy still might deemSwans waved their pinions round each Lady of the Stream.E'en Brahmá came, Creator, Lord of Might,And Vishṇu glowing from the realms of light."Ride on," they cried, "thine, thine for ever beThe strength, the glory, and the victory."To swell his triumph that high blessing cameLike holy oil upon the rising flame.In those Three Persons the one God was shown,Each first in place, each last,—not one alone;Of Śiva, Vishṇu, Brahmá, each may beFirst, second, third, among the Blessed Three.By Indra led, each world-upholding LordWith folded hands the mighty God adored.In humble robes arrayed, the pomp and prideOf glorious deity they laid aside.They signed to Nandi, and the favourite's handGuided his eye upon the suppliant band.He spake to Vishṇu, and on Indra smiled,To Brahmá bowed—the lotus' mystic child.[Pg 99]On all the hosts of heaven his friendly eyeBeamed duly welcome as they crowded nigh.The Seven Great Saints their blessings o'er him shed,And thus in answer, with a smile, he said:"Hail, mighty Sages! hail, ye Sons of Light!My chosen priests to celebrate this rite."Now in sweet tones the heavenly minstrels tellHis praise, beneath whose might Tripura fell.He moves to go: from his moon-crest a raySheds quenchless light on his triumphant way.On through the air his swift bull bore him well,Decked with the gold of many a tinkling bell;Tossing from time to time his head on high,Enwreathed with clouds as he flew racing by,As though in furious charge he had uptornA bank of clay upon his mighty horn.
Swiftly they came where in its beauty layThe city subject to Himálaya's sway.No foeman's foot had ever trod those halls,No foreign bands encamped around the walls.Then Śiva's glances fixed their eager holdOn that fair city as with threads of gold.The God whose neck still gleams with cloudy blueBurst on the wondering people's upturned view,And on the earth descended, from the pathHis shafts once dinted in avenging wrath.[Pg 100]Forth from the gates a noble army pouredTo do meet honour to the mighty Lord.With all his friends on elephants of stateThe King of Mountains passed the city gate,So gaily decked, the princes all were seenLike moving hills inwrapt in bowery green.As the full rushing of two streams that pourBeneath one bridge with loud tumultuous roar,So through the city's open gate streamed inMountains and Gods with tumult and with din.So glorious was the sight, wonder and shame,When Śiva bowed him, o'er the Monarch came;He knew not he had bent his lofty crestIn reverent greeting to his heavenly guestHimálaya, joying in the festive day,Before the immortal bridegroom led the wayWhere heaps of gay flowers burying half the feetLay breathing odours through the crowded street.Careless of all beside, each lady's eyeMust gaze on Śiva as the troop sweeps by.One dark-eyed beauty will not stay to bindHer long black tresses, floating unconfinedSave by her little hand; her flowery crownHanging neglected and unfastened down.One from her maiden tore her foot awayOn which the dye, all wet and streaming, lay,[Pg 101]And o'er the chamber rushing in her haste,Where'er she stepped, a crimson footprint traced.Another at the window takes her stand;One eye is dyed,—the pencil in her hand.Here runs an eager maid, and running, holdsLoose and ungirt her flowing mantle's folds,Whilst, as she strives to close the parting vest,Its brightness gives new beauty to her breast.Oh! what a sight! the crowded windows thereWith eager faces excellently fair,Like sweetest lilies, for their dark eyes flingQuick glances quivering like the wild bee's wing.
Onward in peerless glory Śiva passed;Gay banners o'er his way their shadows cast,Each palace dome, each pinnacle and heightCatching new lustre from his crest of light.On swept the pageant: on the God aloneThe eager glances of the dames were thrown;On his bright form they fed the rapturous gaze,And only turned to marvel and to praise:"Oh, well and wisely, such a lord to gainThe Mountain-Maid endured the toil and pain.To be his slave were joy; but Oh, how blestThe wife—the loved one—lying on his breast!Surely in vain, had not the Lord of LifeMatched this fond bridegroom and this loving wife,[Pg 102]Had been his wish to give the worlds a mouldOf perfect beauty! Falsely have they toldHow the young flower-armed God was burnt by fireAt the red flash of Śiva's vengeful ire.No: jealous Love a fairer form confessed,And cast away his own, no more the loveliest.How glorious is the Mountain King, how proudEarth's stately pillar, girt about with cloud!Now will he lift his lofty head more high,Knit close to Śiva by this holy tie."
Such words of praise from many a bright-eyed dameOn Śiva's ear with soothing witchery came.Through the broad streets 'mid loud acclaim he rode,And reached the palace where the King abode.There he descended from his monster's side,As the sun leaves a cloud at eventide.Leaning on Vishṇu's arm he passed the doorWhere mighty Brahmá entered in before.Next Indra came, and all the host of heaven,The noble Saints and those great Sages seven.Then led they Śiva to a royal seat;Fair gifts they brought, for such a bridegroom meet:With all due rites, the honey and the milk,Rich gems were offered and two robes of silk.
[Pg 103]
At length by skilful chamberlains arrayedThey led the lover to the royal maid.Thus the fond Moon disturbs the tranquil restOf Ocean glittering with his foamy crest,And leads him on, his proud waves swelling o'er,To leap with kisses on the clasping shore.He gazed on Umá. From his lotus eyesFlashed out the rapture of his proud surprise.Then calm the current of his spirit layLike the world basking in an autumn day.They met; and true love's momentary shameO'er the blest bridegroom and his darling came.Eye looked to eye, but, quivering as they met,Scarce dared to trust the rapturous gazing yet.In the God's hand the priest has duly laidThe radiant fingers of the Mountain-Maid,Bright, as if Love with his dear sprays of redHad sought that refuge in his hour of dread.From hand to hand the soft infection stole,Till each confessed it in the inmost soul.Fire filled his veins, with joy she trembled; suchThe magic influence of that thrilling touch.
How grows their beauty, when two lovers standEye fixt on eye, hand fondly linkt in hand![Pg 104]Then how, unblamed, may mortal minstrel dareTo paint in words the beauty of that pair!Around the fire in solemn rite they trod,The lovely lady and the glorious God;Like day and starry midnight when they meetIn the broad plains at lofty Meru's feet.Thrice at the bidding of the priest they cameWith swimming eyes around the holy flame.Then at his word the bride in order dueInto the blazing fire the parched grain threw,And toward her face the scented smoke she drew,Which softly wreathing o'er her fair cheek hung,And round her ears in flower-like beauty clung.As o'er the incense the sweet lady stooped,The ear of barley from her tresses drooped,And rested on her cheek, beneath the eyeStill brightly beaming with the jetty dye.
"This flame be witness of your wedded life:Be just, thou husband, and be true, thou wife!"Such was the priestly blessing on the bride.Eager she listened, as the earth when driedBy parching summer suns drinks deeply inThe first soft droppings when the rains begin.
"Look, gentle Umá," cried her Lord, "afarSeest thou the brightness of yon polar star?[Pg 105]Like that unchanging ray thy faith must shine."Sobbing, she whispered, "Yes, for ever thine."
The rite is o'er. Her joyful parents nowAt Brahmá's feet in duteous reverence bow.Then to fair Umá spake the gracious PowerWho sits enthroned upon the lotus flower:"O beautiful lady, happy shalt thou be,And hero children shall be born of thee;"Then looked in silence: vain the hope to blessThe bridegroom, Śiva, with more happiness.
Then from the altar, as prescribed of old,They turned, and rested upon seats of gold;And, as the holy books for men ordain,Were sprinkled duly with the moistened grain.High o'er their heads sweet Beauty's Queen displayedUpon a stem of reed a cool green shade,While the young lotus-leaves of which 'twas madeSeemed, as they glistened to the wondering view,All richly pearled with drops of beady dew.In twofold language on each glorious headThe Queen of Speech her richest blessings shed;In strong, pure, godlike utterance for his ear,To her in liquid tones, soft, beautifully clear.
[Pg 106]
Now for awhile they gaze where maids divineIn graceful play the expressive dance entwine;Whose eloquent motions, with an actor's art,Show to the life the passions of the heart.
The rite was ended; then the heavenly bandPrayed Śiva, raising high the suppliant hand:"Now, for the dear sake of thy lovely bride,Have pity on the gentle God," they cried,"Whose tender body thy fierce wrath has slain:Give all his honour, all his might again."Well pleased, he smiled, and gracious answer gave:Śiva himself now yields him Káma's slave.When duly given, the great will ne'er despiseThe gentle pleading of the good and wise.
Now have they left the wedded pair alone;And Śiva takes her hand within his ownTo lead his darling to the bridal bower,Decked with bright gold and all her sumptuous dower.She blushes sweetly as her maidens thereLook with arch smiles and glances on the pair;And for one moment, while the damsels stay,From him she loves turns her dear face away.[Pg 107]
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