Chapter 4

Oh, follow! while we fill the air With songs and softest music; Lauding thy wedded loveliness, Dear Mistress past compare! For there is not any splendour Of Apsarasas immortal-- No glory of their beauty rich-- But Radha has a share; Oh, follow! while we sing the song That fills the worlds with longing, The music of the Lord of love Who melts all hearts with bliss; For now is born the gladness That springs from mortal sadness, And all soft thoughts and things and hopes Were presages of this.

Then, follow, happiest Lady! Follow him thou lovest wholly; The hour is come to follow now The soul thy spells have led; His are thy breasts like jasper-cups, And his thine eyes like planets; Thy fragrant hair, thy stately neck, Thy queenly sumptuous head; Thy soft small feet, thy perfect lips, Thy teeth like jasmine petals, Thy gleaming rounded shoulders, And long caressing arms, Being thine to give, are his; and his The twin strings of thy girdle, And his the priceless treasure Of thine utter-sweetest charms.

So follow! while the flowers break forth In white and amber clusters, At the breath of thy pure presence, And the radiance on thy brow; Oh, follow where the Asokas wave Their sprays of gold and purple, As if to beckon thee the way That Krishna passed but now; He is gone a little forward! Though thy steps are faint for pleasure, Let him hear the tattling ripple Of the bangles round thy feet; Moving slowly o'er the blossoms On the path which he has shown thee, That when he turns to listen It may make his fond heart beat.

And loose thy jewelled girdle A little, that its rubies May tinkle softest music too, And whisper thou art near; Though now, if in the forest Thou should'st bend one blade of Kusha With silken touch of passing foot, His heart would know and hear; Would hear the wood-buds saying, "It is Radha's foot that passes;" Would hear the wind sigh love-sick, "It is Radha's fragrance, this;" Would hear thine own heart beating Within thy panting bosom, And know thee coming, coming, His--ever,--ever--his!

"_Mine_! "--hark! we are near enough for hearing-- "_Soon she will come--she will smile--she will say Honey-sweet words of heavenly endearing; O soul! listen; my Bride is on her way!_"

Hear'st him not, my Radha? Lo, night bendeth o'er thee-- Darker than dark Tamâla-leaves-- To list thy marriage-song; Dark as the touchstone that tries gold, And see now--on before thee-- Those lines of tender light that creep The clouded sky along: O night! that trieth gold of love, This love is proven perfect! O lines that streak the touchstone sky, Plash forth true shining gold! O rose-leaf feet, go boldly! O night!--that lovest lovers-- Thy softest robe of silence About these bridals fold!

See'st thou not, my Radha? Lo, the night, thy bridesmaid, Comes!--her eyes thick-painted With soorma of the gloom-- The night that binds the planet-worlds For jewels on her forehead, And for emblem and for garland Loves the blue-black lotus-bloom; The night that scents her breath so sweet With cool and musky odours, That joys to spread her veil of shade Over the limbs of love;

And when, with loving weary, Yet dreaming love, they slumber, Sets the far stars for silver lamps To light them from above.

So came she where he stood, awaiting her At the bower's entry, like a god to see, With marriage-gladness and the grace of heaven. The great pearl set upon his glorious head Shone like a moon among the leaves, and shone Like stars the gems that kept her gold gown close: But still a little while she paused--abashed At her delight, of her deep joy afraid-- And they that tended her sang once more this:

(_What follows is to the Music_ VARÂDI _and the Mode_ RUPAKA.)

Enter, thrice-happy! enter, thrice-desired! And let the gates of Hari shut thee in With the soul destined to thee from of old.

Tremble not! lay thy lovely shame aside; Lay it aside with thine unfastened zone, And love him with the love that knows not fear,

Because it fears not change; enter thou in, Flower of all sweet and stainless womanhood! For ever to grow bright, for ever new;

Enter beneath the flowers, O flower-fair! Beneath these tendrils, Loveliest! that entwine And clasp, and wreathe and cling, with kissing stems;

Enter, with tender-blowing airs of heaven, Soft as love's breath and gentle as the tones Of lover's whispers, when the lips come close:

Enter the house of Love, O loveliest! Enter the marriage-bower, most beautiful! And take and give the joy that Hari grants,

Thy heart has entered, let thy feet go too! Lo, Krishna! lo, the one that thirsts for thee! Give him the drink of amrit from thy lips.

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Then she, no more delaying, entered straight; Her step a little faltered, but her face Shone with unutterable quick love; and--while,

The music of her bangles passed the porch-- Shame, which had lingered in her downcast eyes, Departed shamed[5] ... and like the mighty deep, Which sees the moon and rises, all his life Uprose to drink her beams.

(_Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled_ RADHIKAMILANE SANANDADAMODARO.)

[Footnote 5: This complete anticipation (_salajjâ lajjâpi_) of the line--

"Upon whose brow shame is ashamed to sit"

--occurs at the close of the Sarga, part of which is here perforce omitted, along with the whole of the last one.]

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Hari keep you! He whose might, On the King of Serpents seated, Flashes forth in dazzling light From the Great Snake's gems repeated: Hari keep you! He whose graces, Manifold in majesty,-- Multiplied in heavenly places-- Multiply on earth--to see Better with a hundred eyes Her bright charms who by him lies.

_What skill may be in singing, What worship sound in song, What lore be taught in loving, What right divined from wrong: Such things hath Jayadeva-- In this his Hymn of Love, Which lauds Govinda ever,-- Displayed; may all approve!_

THE END OF THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS

_MISCELLANEOUS ORIENTAL POEMS._

_THE RAJPOOT WIFE._

Sing something, Jymul Rao! for the goats are gathered now, And no more water is to bring; The village-gates are set, and the night is gray as yet, God hath given wondrous fancies to thee:--sing!

Then Jymul's supple fingers, with a touch that doubts and lingers, Sets athrill the saddest wire of all the six; And the girls sit in a tangle, and hush the tinkling bangle, While the boys pile the flame with store of sticks.

And vain of village praise, but full of ancient days, He begins with a smile and with a sigh-- "Who knows the babul-tree by the bend of the Ravee?" Quoth Gunesh, "I!" and twenty voices, "I!"

"Well--listen! there below, in the shade of bloom and bough, Is a musjid of carved and coloured stone; And Abdool Shureef Khan--I spit, to name that man!-- Lieth there, underneath, all alone.

"He was Sultan Mahmoud's vassal, and wore an Amir's tassel In his green hadj-turban, at Nungul. Yet the head which went so proud, it is not in his shroud; There are bones in that grave,--but not a skull!

"And, deep drove in his breast, there moulders with the rest A dagger, brighter once than Chundra's ray; A Rajpoot lohar whet it, and a Rajpoot woman set it Past the power of any hand to tear away.

"'Twas the Ranee Neila true, the wife of Soorj Dehu, Lord of the Rajpoots of Nourpoor; You shall hear the mournful story, with its sorrow and its glory, And curse Shureef Khan,--the soor!"

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All in the wide Five-Waters was none like Soorj Dehu, To foeman who so dreadful, to friend what heart so true?

Like Indus, through the mountains came down the Muslim ranks, And town-walls fell before them as flooded river-banks;

But Soorj Dehu the Rajpoot owned neither town nor wall; His house the camp, his roof-tree the sky that covers all;

His seat of state the saddle; his robe a shirt of mail; His court a thousand Rajpoots close at his stallion's tail.

Not less was Soorj a Rajah because no crown he wore Save the grim helm of iron with sword-marks dinted o'er;

Because he grasped no sceptre save the sharp tulwar, made Of steel that fell from heaven,--for 'twas Indra forged that blade! And many a starless midnight the shout of "Soorj Dehu" Broke up with spear and matchlock the Muslim's "Illahu."

And many a day of battle upon the Muslim proud Tell Soorj, as India's lightning falls from the silent cloud.

Nor ever shot nor arrow, nor spear nor slinger's stone, Could pierce the mail that Neila the Ranee buckled on:

But traitor's subtle tongue-thrust through fence of steel can break; And Soorj was taken sleeping, whom none had ta'en awake.

Then at the noon, in durbar, swore fiercely Shureef Khan That Soorj should die in torment, or live a Mussulman.

But Soorj laughed lightly at him, and answered, "Work your will! The last breath of my body shall curse your Prophet still."

With words of insult shameful, and deeds of cruel kind, They vexed that Rajpoot's body, but never moved his mind.

And one is come who sayeth, "Ho! Rajpoots! Soorj is bound; Your lord is caged and baited by Shureef Khan, the hound.

"The Khan hath caught and chained him, like a beast, in iron cage, And all the camp of Islam spends on him spite and rage;

"All day the coward Muslims spend on him rage and spite; If ye have thought to help him, 'twere good ye go to-night."

Up sprang a hundred horsemen, flashed in each hand a sword; In each heart burned the gladness of dying for their lord;

Up rose each Rajpoot rider, and buckled on with speed The bridle-chain and breast-cord, and the saddle of his steed.

But unto none sad Neila gave word to mount and ride; Only she called the brothers of Soorj unto her side,

And said, "Take order straightway to seek this camp with me; If love and craft can conquer, a thousand is as three.

"If love be weak to save him, Soorj dies--and ye return, For where a Rajpoot dieth, the Rajpoot widows burn."

Thereat the Ranee Neila unbraided from her hair The pearls as great as Kashmir grapes Soorj gave his wife to wear,

And all across her bosoms--like lotus-buds to see-- She wrapped the tinselled sari of a dancing Kunchenee;

And fastened on her ankles the hundred silver bells, To whose light laugh of music the Nautch-girl darts and dwells.

And all in dress a Nautch-girl, but all in heart a queen, She set her foot to stirrup with a sad and settled mien.

Only one thing she carried no Kunchenee should bear, The knife between her bosoms;--ho, Shureef! have a care!

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Thereat, with running ditty of mingled pride and pity, Jymul Rao makes the six wires sigh; And the girls with tearful eyes note the music's fall and rise, And the boys let the fire fade and die.

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All day lay Soorj the Rajpoot in Shureef's iron cage, All day the coward Muslims spent on him spite and rage.

With bitter cruel torments, and deeds of shameful kind, They racked and broke his body, but could not shake his mind.

And only at the Azan, when all their worst was vain, They left him, like dogs slinking from a lion in his pain.

No meat nor drink they gave him through all that burning day, And done to death, but scornful, at twilight-time he lay.

So when the gem of Shiva uprose, the shining moon, Soorj spake unto his spirit, "The end is coming soon."

"I would the end might hasten, could Neila only know-- What is that Nautch-girl singing with voice so known and low?

"Singing beneath the cage-bars the song of love and fear My Neila sang at parting!--what doth that Nautch-girl here?

"Whence comes she by the music of Neila's tender strain, She, in that shameless tinsel?--O Nautch-girl, sing again!"

"Ah, Soorj!"--so followed answer--"here thine own Neila stands, Faithful in life and death alike,--look up, and take my hands:

"Speak low, lest the guard hear us;--to-night, if thou must die, Shureef shall have no triumph, but bear thee company."

So sang she like the Koil that dies beside its mate; With eye as black and fearless, and love as hot and great.

Then the Chief laid his pale lips upon the little palm, And sank down with a smile of love, his face all glad and calm;

And through the cage-bars Neila felt the brave heart stop fast, "O Soorj!"--she cried--"I follow! have patience to the last."

She turned and went. "Who passes?" challenged the Mussulman; "A Nautch-girl, I."--"What seek'st thou?"--"The presence of the Khan;"

"Ask if the high chief-captain be pleased to hear me sing;" And Shureef, full of feasting, the Kunchenee bade bring.

Then, all before the Muslims, aflame with lawless wine, Entered the Ranee Neila, in grace and face divine;

And all before the Muslims, wagging their goatish chins, The Rajpoot Princess set her to the "bee-dance" that begins,

"_If my love loved me, he should be a bee, I the yellow champâk, love the honey of me._"

All the wreathed movements danced she of that dance; Not a step she slighted, not a wanton glance;

In her unveiled bosom chased th' intruding bee, To her waist--and lower--she! a Rajpoot, she!

Sang the melting music, swayed the languorous limb: Shureef's drunken heart beat--Shureef's eyes waxed dim.

From his finger Shureef loosed an Ormuz pearl-- "By the Prophet," quoth he, "'tis a winsome girl!"

"Take this ring; and 'prithee, come and have thy pay, I would hear at leisure more of such a lay."

Glared his eyes on her eyes, passing o'er the plain, Glared at the tent-purdah--never glared again!

Never opened after unto gaze or glance, Eyes that saw a Rajpoot dance a shameful dance;

For the kiss she gave him was his first and last-- Kiss of dagger, driven to his heart, and past.

At her feet he wallowed, choked with wicked blood; In his breast the katar quivered where it stood.

At the hilt his fingers vainly--wildly--try, Then they stiffen feeble;--die! thou slayer, die!

From his jewelled scabbard drew she Shureef's sword, Cut a-twain the neck-bone of the Muslim lord.

Underneath the starlight,--sooth, a sight of dread! Like the Goddess Kali, comes she with the head,

Comes to where her brothers guard their murdered chief; All the camp is silent, but the night is brief.

At his feet she flings it, flings her burden vile; "Soorj! I keep my promise! Brothers, build the pile!"

They have built it, set it, all as Rajpoots do From the cage of iron taken Soorj Dehu;

In the lap of Neila, seated on the pile, Laid his head--she radiant, like a queen the while.

Then the lamp is lighted, and the ghee is poured-- "Soorj, we burn together: O my love, my lord!"

In the flame and crackle dies her tender tongue, Dies the Ranee, truest, all true wives among.

At the dawn a clamour runs from tent to tent, Like the wild geese cackling when the night is spent.

"Shureef Khan lies headless! gone is Soorj Dehu! And the wandering Nautch-girl, who has seen her, who?"

This but know the sentries, at the "breath of morn" Forth there fared two horsemen, by the first was borne.

The urn of clay, the vessel that Rajpoots use to bring The ashes of dead kinsmen to Gungas' holy spring.

_KING SALADIN_.

Long years ago--so tells Boccaccio In such Italian gentleness of speech As finds no echo in this northern air To counterpart its music--long ago, When Saladin was Soldan of the East, The kings let cry a general crusade; And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy The idle lances of the North and West Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down Into a lake, from all its hanging hills, The clash and glitter of a hundred streams. Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin; And that swart king--as royal in his heart As any crowned champion of the Cross-- That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn The purpose of the lords of Christendom, And when their war and what their armament, Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy. Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain, All habited in garbs that merchants use, With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts That best loved mail and dagger, Saladin Set forth upon his journey perilous. In that day, lordly land was Lombardy! A sea of country-plenty, islanded With cities rich; nor richer one than thee, Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn-- With ear that little recked the matin-bell, But a keen eye to measure wall and foss-- The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine, And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse. All day he rode; yet at the wane of day No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire, Nor Tessin's sparkle underneath the stars Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware Of a gay company upon the way, Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds: Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind Of merry race for home. "Go!" said the king To one that rode upon his better hand, "And pray these gentles of their courtesy How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates What hour they close them?" Then the Saracen Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed First of the hunt, he told the message--they Checking the jangling bits, and chiding down The unfinished laugh to listen--but by this Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand, Theirs doffed to him: "Sir Trader," Torel said (Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria), "They shut the Pavian gate at even-song, And even-song is sung." Then turning half, Muttered, "Pardie, the man is worshipful, A stranger too!" "Fair lord!" quoth Saladin, "Please you to stead some weary travellers, Saying where we may lodge, the town so far And night so near" "Of my heart, willingly," Made answer Torel, "I did think but now To send my knave an errand--he shall ride And bring you into lodgment--oh! no thanks, Our Lady keep you!" then with whispered hest He called their guide and sped them. Being gone. Torello told his purpose, and the band, With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains, Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set A goodly banquet underneath the planes, And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon Welcomed the wondering strangers, thereto led Unwitting, by a world of winding paths; Messer Torello, at the inner gate, Waiting to take them in--a goodly host, Stamped current with God's image for a man Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free. Then he, "Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave Hath found you shelter better than the worst: Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed, Grace our poor supper here." Then Saladin, Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy, Answered, "Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame, You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed, And travellers' questions holding you afield, For those you give us this." "Sir! not your meed, Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth That is not out of Pavia." Thereupon He led them to fair chambers decked with all Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath, And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst, And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew. Thereafter at the supper-board they sat; Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king, Worthy provend in crafts of cookery, Pastel, pasticcio--all set forth on gold; And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies, Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time Till there was none but held the stranger-sir, For all his chapman's dress of cramasie, Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre: "I go myself," said Torel, "with a score Of better knights--the flower of Pavia-- To try our steel against King Saladin's. Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun, Know you the Soldan?" Answer gave the king, "The Soldan we have seen--'twill push him hard If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords Are valorous as gentle;--we, alas! Are Cyprus merchants making trade to France-- Dull sons of Peace." "By Mary!" Torel cried, "But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat Liker a soldier's in the sabre's place; But sure I hold you sleepless!" Then himself Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne, Led them to restful beds, commending them To sleep and God, Who hears--Allah or God-- When good men do his creatures charities. At dawn the cock, and neigh of saddled steeds, Broke the king's dreams of battle--not their own, But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls, Caparisoned to bear them; he their host Up, with a gracious radiance like the sun, To bid them speed. Beside him in the court Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she, And of her port as queenly, and serene As if the braided gold about her brows Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given, Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest To take a token of his sojourn there, Marking her good-will, not his worthiness; "A gown of miniver--these furbelows Are silk I spun--my lord wears ever such-- A housewife's gift! but those ye love are far; Wear it as given for them." Then Saladin-- "A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks; And--but thou shalt not hear a 'no' from me-- Past my receiving; yet I take it; we Were debtors to your noble courtesy Out of redemption--this but bankrupts us." "Nay, sir,--God shield you!" said the knight and dame. And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse Returned, or ever that he rode alone, Swore a great oath in guttural Arabic, An oath by Allah--startling up the ears Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode-- That never yet was princelier-natured man, Nor gentler lady;--and that time should see For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.

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