Chapter 3

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 ['S]IVA, and he eyed his string. While with her radiant hand fair UMÁ gave A rosary, of the lotuses that lave Their beauties in the heavenly GANGÁ'S wave, And the great Three-Eyed God was fain to take The 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 dye Of 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, ['S]IVA lulled to rest, The storm of passion in his troubled breast, 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 ['S]IVA, O be calm and spare!" Alas! that angry eye's resistless flashes Have 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 ['S]IVA smote the hinderer of his vow; Then fled with all his train to some lone place Far from the witchery of a female face.

Sad was HIMALÁYA'S daughter: grief and shame O'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 ['S]IVA'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.

_CANTO FOURTH._

Canto Fourth.

_RATI'S LAMENT._

Sad, solitary, helpless, faint, forlorn, Woke KÁMA'S darling from her swoon to mourn. Too soon her gentle soul returned to know The 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 never Feed on his beauty more--gone, gone for ever.

"Speak to me, KÁMA! why so silent? give One 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. "Oh thou wast beautiful: fond lovers sware Their own bright darlings were like KÁMA, fair. Sure woman's heart is stony: can it be That I still live while this is all of thee? Where art thou, KÁMA? Could my dearest leave His own fond RATI here alone to grieve? So must the sad forsaken lotus die When her bright river leaves his channel dry. KÁMA, dear KÁMA, call again to mind How 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 hours When I would bind thee with my zone of flowers, Those soft gay fetters o'er thee fondly wreathing, Thine only punishment when gently breathing In tones of love thy heedless sigh betrayed The name, dear traitor! of some rival maid. Then would I pluck a floweret from my tress And beat thee till I forced thee to confess, While in my play the falling leaves would cover The 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?

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 roar Safe 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 take His full bright glory, mourning for thy sake. Say, KÁMA, say, whose arrow now shall be The 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 bow Hums mournful echo to my cries of woe. Come in thy lovely shape and teach again The Köil's mate, that knows the tender strain, Her gentle task to waft to longing ears The lover's hope, the distant lover's fears. Come, bring once more that ecstasy of bliss, The fond dear look, the smile, and ah! that kiss! Fainting with woe, my soul refuses rest When memory pictures how I have been blest. See, thou didst weave a garland, love, to deck With 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 be That 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 giver Of 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?"

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 relief In the full gushing torrent of its grief.

"Turn, gentle friend, thy weeping eyes, and see That 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 bend His ear to listen to a faithful friend. Remember, he walked ever at thy side O'er bloomy meadows in the warm spring-tide, That Gods above, and men, and fiends below Should own the empire of thy mighty bow, That ruthless bow, which pierces to the heart, Strung with a lotus-thread, a flower its dart. 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 ground The 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 dies When 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 spread Soft leaves and blossoms for a flowery bed. And oh, dear comrade (for in happier hours Oft have I heaped a pleasant bed of flowers For thee and him beneath the spreading tree), Now quickly raise the pile for LOVE and me. And in thy mercy gentle breezes send To fan the flame that wafts away thy friend, And shorten the sad moments that divide Impatient 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 be Sprays 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 rain That brings the dying herbs to life again: "Bride of the flower-armed God, thy lord shall be Not ever distant, ever deaf to thee. Give me thine ear, sad lady, I will tell Why perished KÁMA, whom thou lovedst well. The Lord of Life in every troubled sense Too warmly felt his fair child's influence. He quenched the fire, but mighty vengeance came On KÁMA, fanner of the unholy flame. When ['S]IVA by her penance won has led HIMÁLAYA'S daughter to her bridal bed, 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 arms Shall clasp again--oh, fondly clasp--thy charms. In summer-heat the streamlet dies away Beneath 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 light Of garish day, longs for its own dear night.

_CANTO FIFTH._

Canto Fifth.

_UMÁ'S REWARD._

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-Maid Cursed 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 she Win the cold heart of that stern deity? Penance, long penance: for that power alone Can make such love, so high a Lord, her own.

But, ah! how troubled was her mother's brow At 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. 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 still That 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 prayed He for her sake would grant some bosky shade, That she might dwell in solitude, and there Give 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 away The 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 breast Broke into freedom through the unwonted vest. Her matted hair was full as lovely now As when 'twas braided o'er her polished brow. Thus the sweet beauties of the lotus shine When bees festoon it in a graceful line; And, though the tangled weeds that crown the rill Cling 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 felt The ceaseless torment of so rough a belt. Alas! her weary vow has caused to fade The lovely colours that adorned the maid. Pale is her hand, and her long finger-tips Steal 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 head In 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. The trees that blossomed on that lonely mount She watered daily from the neighbouring fount: If she had been their nursing mother, she Could not have tended them more carefully. Not e'en her boy--her own bright boy--shall stay Her 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 compare Her own with eyes that shone as softly there.

Then came the hermits of the holy wood To 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 look Fixt 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 abode Had leafy shrines where fires of worship glowed.

But far too mild her penance, UMÁ thought, To win from heaven the lordly meed she sought. She would not spare her form, so fair and frail, If sterner penance could perchance prevail. Oft had sweet pastime wearied her, and yet Fain would she match in toil the anchoret. Sure the soft lotus at her birth had lent Dear UMÁ'S form its gentle element; But gold, commingled with her being, gave That will so strong, so beautifully brave. Full in the centre of four blazing piles Sate the fair lady of the winning smiles, While on her head the mighty God of Day Shot 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 light A 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 tree The 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 came And throughly drenched the lady's tender frame. So steams the earth, when mighty torrents pour On thirsty fields all dry and parched before. The first clear rain-drops falling on her brow, Gem it one moment with their light, and now Kissing her sweet lip find a welcome rest In the deep valley of the lady's breast; Then wander broken by the fall within The 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 fate Of those poor birds, so fond, so desolate,-- Doomed, hapless pair, to list each other's moan Through 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 flower Sheds 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.

Of all stern penance it is called the chief To 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 essayed The ceaseless penance of this gentle maid.

There came a hermit: reverend was he As 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, bear In thy firm spirit's task its fearful share? Canst thou the grass and fuel duly bring, And still unwearied seek the freshening spring? 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 said That heavenly charms to sin have never led, For even penitents may learn of thee How 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 fling To crown the forehead of the Mountain-King. Yet do thy deeds, O bright-haired maiden, shed A 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 said That 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 learn What noble guerdon would thy penance earn. Say, art thou toiling for a second birth, Where dwells the great Creator? O'er the earth Resistless 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 heart To 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 dare From 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 know Couldst thou e'er love in vain? What heart so cold That 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? 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 neck Which 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 mark Of 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 done Rich store of merit has my labour won. Take then the half, thy secret purpose name; Nor in stern hardships wear thy tender frame."