No More Learning

On stairways where the women once were glad
To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here
Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,
Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,
Receiving each a lily from his mate,
Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,
By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatides
Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,
Wearing in place of garments that should please,
The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,
And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;
They still receive but cannot now reflect
The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,
That used to show their graceful beauty, when
Girls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,
Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

The windows are not lit by lamps at night,
Nor by fair faces shining in the day,
But webs of spiders dim the delicate, light
Smoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

The river is deserted; on the shore
No gaily bathing men and maidens leave
Food for the swans; its reedy bowers no more
Are vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The goddess therefore begs Kusha to return with his court to the old
capital, and when he assents, she smiles and vanishes. The next
morning Kusha announces the vision of the night, and immediately sets
out for Ayodhya with his whole army. Arrived there, King Kusha quickly
restores the city to its former splendour. Then when the hot summer
comes, the king goes down to the river to bathe with the ladies of the
court. While in the water he loses a great gem which his father had
given him. The divers are unable to find it, and declare their belief
that it has been stolen by the serpent Kumuda who lives in the river.
The king threatens to shoot an arrow into the river, whereupon the
waters divide, and the serpent appears with the gem. He is accompanied
by a beautiful maiden, whom he introduces as his sister Kumudvati, and
whom he offers in marriage to Kusha. The offer is accepted, and the
wedding celebrated with great pomp.


_Seventeenth canto. King Atithi_. --To the king and queen is born a
son, who is named Atithi. When he has grown into manhood, his father
Kusha engages in a struggle with a demon, in which the king is killed
in the act of killing his adversary. He goes to heaven, followed by
his faithful queen, and Atithi is anointed king. The remainder of the
canto describes King Atithi's glorious reign.


_Eighteenth canto. The later princes_. --This canto gives a brief,
impressionistic sketch of the twenty-one kings who in their order
succeeded Atithi.


_Nineteenth canto. The loves of Agnivarna_. --After the twenty-one
kings just mentioned, there succeeds a king named Agnivarna, who gives
himself to dissipation. He shuts himself up in the palace; even when
duty requires him to appear before his subjects, he does so merely by
hanging one foot out of a window. He trains dancing-girls himself, and
has so many mistresses that he cannot always call them by their right
names. It is not wonderful that this kind of life leads before long to
a consuming disease; and as Agnivarna is even then unable to resist
the pleasures of the senses, he dies. His queen is pregnant, and she
mounts the throne as regent in behalf of her unborn son. With this
strange scene, half tragic, half vulgar, the epic, in the form in
which it has come down to us, abruptly ends.

If we now endeavour to form some critical estimate of the poem, we are
met at the outset by this strangely unnatural termination. We cannot
avoid wondering whether the poem as we have it is complete. And we
shall find that there are good reasons for believing that Kalidasa did
not let the glorious solar line end in the person of the voluptuous
Agnivarna and his unborn child. In the first place, there is a
constant tradition which affirms that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
originally consisted of twenty-five cantos. A similar tradition
concerning Kalidasa's second epic has justified itself; for some time
only seven cantos were known; then more were discovered, and we now
have seventeen. Again, there is a rhetorical rule, almost never
disregarded, which requires a literary work to end with an epilogue in
the form of a little prayer for the welfare of readers or auditors.
Kalidasa himself complies with this rule, certainly in five of his
other six books. Once again, Kalidasa has nothing of the tragedian in
his soul; his works, without exception, end happily. In the drama
_Urvashi_ he seriously injures a splendid old tragic story for the
sake of a happy ending. These facts all point to the probability that
the conclusion of the epic has been lost. We may even assign a
natural, though conjectural, reason for this. _The Dynasty of Raghu_
has been used for centuries as a text-book in India, so that
manuscripts abound, and commentaries are very numerous. Now if the
concluding cantos were unfitted for use as a text-book, they might
very easily be lost during the centuries before the introduction of
printing-presses into India. Indeed, this very unfitness for use as a
school text seems to be the explanation of the temporary loss of
several cantos of Kalidasa's second epic.

On the other hand, we are met by the fact that numerous commentators,
living in different parts of India, know the text of only nineteen
cantos. Furthermore, it is unlikely that Kalidasa left the poem
incomplete at his death; for it was, without serious question, one of
his earlier works. Apart from evidences of style, there is the
subject-matter of the introductory stanzas, in which the poet presents
himself as an aspirant for literary fame. No writer of established
reputation would be likely to say:

The fool who seeks a poet's fame,
Must look for ridicule and blame,
Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would try
To pluck the fruit for giants high.

In only one other of his writings, in the drama which was undoubtedly
written earlier than the other two dramas, does the poet thus present
his feeling of diffidence to his auditors.

It is of course possible that Kalidasa wrote the first nineteen cantos
when a young man, intending to add more, then turned to other matters,
and never afterwards cared to take up the rather thankless task of
ending a youthful work.

The question does not admit of final solution. Yet whoever reads and
re-reads _The Dynasty of Raghu_, and the other works of its author,
finds the conviction growing ever stronger that our poem in nineteen
cantos is mutilated. We are thus enabled to clear the author of the
charge of a lame and impotent conclusion.

Another adverse criticism cannot so readily be disposed of; that of a
lack of unity in the plot. As the poem treats of a kingly dynasty, we
frequently meet the cry: The king is dead. Long live the king! The
story of Rama himself occupies only six cantos; he is not born until
the tenth canto, he is in heaven after the fifteenth. There are in
truth six heroes, each of whom has to die to make room for his
successor. One may go farther and say that it is not possible to give
a brief and accurate title to the poem. It is not a _Ramayana_, or
epic of Rama's deeds, for Rama is on the stage during only a third of
the poem. It is not properly an epic of Raghu's line, for many kings
of this line are unmentioned. Not merely kings who escape notice by
their obscurity, but also several who fill a large place in Indian
story, whose deeds and adventures are splendidly worthy of epic
treatment. _The Dynasty of Raghu_ is rather an epic poem in which Rama
is the central figure, giving it such unity as it possesses, but which
provides Rama with a most generous background in the shape of selected
episodes concerning his ancestors and his descendants.

Rama is the central figure. Take him away and the poem falls to pieces
like a pearl necklace with a broken string. Yet it may well be doubted
whether the cantos dealing with Rama are the most successful. They are
too compressed, too briefly allusive. Kalidasa attempts to tell the
story in about one-thirtieth of the space given to it by his great
predecessor Valmiki. The result is much loss by omission and much loss
by compression. Many of the best episodes of the _Ramayana_ are quite
omitted by Kalidasa: for example, the story of the jealous humpback
who eggs on Queen Kaikeyi to demand her two boons; the beautiful scene
in which Sita insists on following Rama into the forest; the account
of the somnolent giant Pot-ear, a character quite as good as
Polyphemus. Other fine episodes are so briefly alluded to as to lose
all their charm: for example, the story of the golden deer that
attracts the attention of Rama while Ravana is stealing his wife; the
journey of the monkey Hanumat to Ravana's fortress and his interview
with Sita.

The Rama-story, as told by Valmiki, is one of the great epic stories
of the world. It has been for two thousand years and more the story
_par excellence_ of the Hindus; and the Hindus may fairly claim to be
the best story-tellers of the world. There is therefore real matter
for regret in the fact that so great a poet as Kalidasa should have
treated it in a way not quite worthy of it and of himself. The reason
is not far to seek, nor can there be any reasonable doubt as to its
truth. Kalidasa did not care to put himself into direct competition
with Valmiki. The younger poet's admiration of his mighty predecessor
is clearly expressed. It is with especial reference to Valmiki that he
says in his introduction:

Yet I may enter through the door
That mightier poets pierced of yore;
A thread may pierce a jewel, but
Must follow where the diamond cut.

He introduces Valmiki into his own epic, making him compose the
_Ramayana_ in Rama's lifetime. Kalidasa speaks of Valmiki as "the
poet," and the great epic he calls "the sweet story of Rama," "the
first path shown to poets," which, when sung by the two boys, was
heard with motionless delight by the deer, and, when sung before a
gathering of learned men, made them heedless of the tears that rolled
down their cheeks.

Bearing these matters in mind, we can see the course of Kalidasa's
thoughts almost as clearly as if he had expressed them directly. He
was irresistibly driven to write the wonderful story of Rama, as any
poet would be who became familiar with it. At the same time, his
modesty prevented him from challenging the old epic directly. He
therefore writes a poem which shall appeal to the hallowed association
that cluster round the great name of Rama, but devotes two-thirds of
it to themes that permit him greater freedom. The result is a formless
plot.

This is a real weakness, yet not a fatal weakness. In general,
literary critics lay far too much emphasis on plot. Of the elements
that make a great book, two, style and presentation of character,
hardly permit critical analysis. The third, plot, does permit such
analysis. Therefore the analyst overrates its importance. It is fatal
to all claim of greatness in a narrative if it is shown to have a bad
style or to be without interesting characters. It is not fatal if it
is shown that the plot is rambling. In recent literature it is easy to
find truly great narratives in which the plot leaves much to be
desired. We may cite the _Pickwick Papers, Les Miserables, War and
Peace_.

We must then regard _The Dynasty of Raghu_ as a poem in which single
episodes take a stronger hold upon the reader than does the unfolding
of an ingenious plot. In some degree, this is true of all long poems.
The _AEneid_ itself, the most perfect long poem ever written, has dull
passages. And when this allowance is made, what wonderful passages we
have in Kalidasa's poem! One hardly knows which of them makes the
strongest appeal, so many are they and so varied. There is the
description of the small boy Raghu in the third canto, the choice of
the princess in the sixth, the lament of King Aja in the eighth, the
story of Dasharatha and the hermit youth in the ninth, the account of
the ruined city in the sixteenth. Besides these, the Rama cantos, ten
to fifteen, make an epic within an epic. And if Kalidasa is not seen
at his very best here, yet his second best is of a higher quality than
the best of others. Also, the Rama story is so moving that a mere
allusion to it stirs like a sentimental memory of childhood. It has
the usual qualities of a good epic story: abundance of travel and
fighting and adventure and magic interweaving of human with
superhuman, but it has more than this. In both hero and heroine there
is real development of character. Odysseus and AEneas do not grow; they
go through adventures. But King Rama, torn between love for his wife
and duty to his subjects, is almost a different person from the
handsome, light-hearted prince who won his bride by breaking Shiva's
bow. Sita, faithful to the husband who rejects her, has made a long,
character-forming journey since the day when she left her father's
palace, a youthful bride. Herein lies the unique beauty of the tale of
Rama, that it unites romantic love and moral conflict with a splendid
story of wild adventure. No wonder that the Hindus, connoisseurs of
story-telling, have loved the tale of Rama's deeds better than any
other story.

If we compare _The Dynasty of Raghu_ with Kalidasa's other books, we
find it inferior to _The Birth of the War-god_ in unity of plot,
inferior to _Shakuntala_ in sustained interest, inferior to _The
Cloud-Messenger_ in perfection of every detail. Yet passages in it are
as high and sweet as anything in these works. And over it is shed the
magic charm of Kalidasa's style. Of that it is vain to speak. It can
be had only at first hand. The final proof that _The Dynasty of Raghu_
is a very great poem, is this: no one who once reads it can leave it
alone thereafter. {}


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: If a king aspired to the title of emperor, or king of
kings, he was at liberty to celebrate the horse-sacrifice. A horse was
set free to wander at will for a year, and was escorted by a band of
noble youths who were not permitted to interfere with his movements.
If the horse wandered into the territory of another king, such king
must either submit to be the vassal of the horse's owner, or must
fight him. If the owner of the horse received the submission, with or
without fighting, of all the kings into whose territories the horse
wandered during the year of freedom, he offered the horse in sacrifice
and assumed the imperial title. ]

[Footnote 2: This is not the place to discuss the many interesting
questions of geography and ethnology suggested by the fourth canto.
But it is important to notice that Kalidasa had at least superficial
knowledge of the entire Indian peninsula and of certain outlying
regions. ]

[Footnote 3: A girl of the warrior caste had the privilege of choosing
her husband. The procedure was this. All the eligible youths of the
neighbourhood were invited to her house, and were lavishly
entertained. On the appointed day, they assembled in a hall of the
palace, and the maiden entered with a garland in her hand. The suitors
were presented to her with some account of their claims upon her
attention, after which she threw the garland around the neck of him
whom she preferred. ]

[Footnote 4: See footnote, p. 128. ]

* * * * *




THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD


_The Birth of the War-god_ is an epic poem in seventeen cantos. It
consists of 1096 stanzas, or about 4400 lines of verse. The subject is
the marriage of the god Shiva, the birth of his son, and the victory
of this son over a powerful demon. The story was not invented by
Kalidasa, but taken from old mythology. Yet it had never been told in
so masterly a fashion as had been the story of Rama's deeds by
Valmiki. Kalidasa is therefore under less constraint in writing this
epic than in writing _The Dynasty of Raghu_. I give first a somewhat
detailed analysis of the matter of the poem.

_First canto. The birth of Parvati_. --The poem begins with a
description of the great Himalaya mountain-range.

God of the distant north, the Snowy Range
O'er other mountains towers imperially;
Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change,
Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not
Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow;
One fault for many virtues is forgot,
The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds
Girding his lower crests, but often seek,
When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds
His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips
And streaked with mountain minerals that blend
To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips,
Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which
Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest,
As if the mountain strove to set the pitch
For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

Where magic herbs that glitter in the night
Are lamps that need no oil within them, when
They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light
And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

Who offers roof and refuge in his caves
To timid darkness shrinking from the day;
A lofty soul is generous; he saves
Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice;
Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad.
The great Creator, for this service' price,
Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born,
as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is
named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes
infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

She brought him purity and beauty too,
As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and
little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

As pictures waken to the painter's brush,
Or lilies open to the morning sun,
Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
Of womanhood when childish days were done.

Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:
Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
That round her red, red lips for ever played.

And when she spoke, the music of her tale
Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the
wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and
also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined
bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and
self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter
wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him
from his austerities.


_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_. --At this time, the gods
betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a
part of which is given here.

Before creation, thou art one;
Three, when creation's work is done:
All praise and honour unto thee
In this thy mystic trinity.

Three various forms and functions three
Proclaim thy living majesty;
Thou dost create, and then maintain,
And last, destroyest all again.

Thy slow recurrent day and night
Bring death to all, or living light.
We live beneath thy waking eye;
Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

Solid and fluid, great and small,
And light and heavy--Thou art all;
Matter and form are both in thee:
Thy powers are past discovery. []

Thou art the objects that unroll
Their drama for the passive soul;
Thou art the soul that views the play
Indifferently, day by day.

Thou art the knower and the known;
Eater and food art thou alone;
The priest and his oblation fair;
The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their
coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon
named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in
opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and
found it useless.

The sun in heaven dare not glow
With undiminished heat, but so
As that the lilies may awake
Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

The wind blows gently as it can
To serve him as a soothing fan,
And dare not manifest its power,
Lest it should steal a garden flower.

The seasons have forgotten how
To follow one another now;
They simultaneously bring
Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

Such adoration makes him worse;
He troubles all the universe:
Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;
He should be recompensed in kind.

And all the means that we have tried
Against the rogue, are brushed aside,
As potent herbs have no avail
When bodily powers begin to fail.

We seek a leader, O our Lord,
To bring him to his just reward--
As saints seek evermore to win
Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--

That he may guide the heavenly host,
And guard us to the uttermost,
And from our foe lead captive back
The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not
feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut
down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted. " But he
promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead
the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,
and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his
necessary co-operation.


_Third canto. The burning of Love_. --Indra waits upon Love, who asks
for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame
Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied
by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain
where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the
trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The
only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of
season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself
is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes
heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,
and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,
and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great
god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his
eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,
and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.


_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_. --This canto is given entire.
The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
Was preparation of herself full soon
To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
On every spot where he might be, in vain,
Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
The lover she should never see again.

She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
Lord of my life? " And at the last she found
Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
She wept and to the forest world complained,
As if the forest in her grief might share.

"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
Perfect its loveliness in every part;
I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
Endured, and I for ever need its power;
Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
I never did a thing to work thee harm;
Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
Is now deception; for if flashing glances
Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
Greeted by koil-birds sweet concert holding--
Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
To speed the missile when the bow is bent?
They buzz about me now with kind intention,
And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!
Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught
Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--
And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!
Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--
Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
A stain that may not be obliterated,
If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning
Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?
So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion
The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath
Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,
Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path? "

Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief
Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,
Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief
As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

And at the sight of him, she wept the more,
And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;
For lamentation finds an open door
In the presence of the friends we love the best.

Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!
In place of him thou seekest, what is found?
A something that the winds of heaven scatter,
A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging,
Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;
Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;
Man's love for man abides and changes not.

With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion
Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,
Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion--
The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,
A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;
And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning,
Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,
For I am left. And yet the clinging vine
Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her
Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

So then, fulfil for me the final mission
Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part;
Commit me to the flames (my last petition)
And speed the widow to her husband's heart.

The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;
Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;
Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making,
Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes
Of him I loved with all a woman's powers;
Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,
As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping
On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;
Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,
Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

And fan the flame to which I am committed
With southern winds; I would no longer stay;
Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted
For Love, my love, when I was far away.

And sprinkle some few drops of water, given
In friendship, on his ashes and on me;
That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven
As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;
Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower
Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;
For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower. "

As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain
In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry,
That showed her mercy, as the early rain
Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:

"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost
For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why
He perished like the moth, when he had crossed
The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.

When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame,
To shame his daughter with impure desire,
He checked the horrid sin without a name,
And cursed the god of love to die by fire.

But Virtue interceded in behalf
Of Love, and won a softening of the doom:
'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh
In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,

He shall unite Love's body with the soul,
A marriage-present to his mountain bride. '
As clouds hold fire and water in control,
Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.

So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet
For dear reunion after present pain;
The stream that dwindles in the summer heat,
Is reunited with the autumn rain. "

Invisibly and thus mysteriously
The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death;
And Spring, believing where he might not see,
Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.

The wife of Love awaited thus the day,
Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power,
As the waning moon laments her darkened ray
And waits impatient for the twilight hour.


_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_. --Parvati reproaches her own
beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover. " She
therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping
that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother
tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit
mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all
ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress
of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited
by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid
devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the
proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered,
for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore
asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her
desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva
himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him
except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by
recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how
he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his
back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified
bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened
by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself
and the object of her love.

Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought
Of such as you: then speak no more to me.
Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought
By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.

They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears,
Or they who fain would rise a little higher;
The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears
Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.

Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source;
This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone;
Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force:
Think you his inmost nature can be known?

All forms are his; and he may take or leave
At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white;
The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave;
Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.

For poverty he rides upon a bull,
While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne,
Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful,
Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.

Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate
One thing you uttered worthy of his worth:
How could the author of the uncreate
Be born? How could we understand his birth?

Enough of this! Though every word that you
Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please
My eager heart all made of passion true
For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.

In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise,
appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her.
Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for
"successful effort regenerates. "


_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_. --While Parvati departs to
inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages,
who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's
parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them
Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing
her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that

All actions of a holy life
Are rooted in a virtuous wife.

Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the
formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the
brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain
god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven
sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of
Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage
shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by
Shiva in impatient longing.


_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_. --The three days are spent in
preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty
that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect
the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the
bride is beautiful indeed.

As when the flowers are budding on a vine,
Or white swans rest upon a river's shore,
Or when at night the stars in heaven shine,
Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.

When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same
Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies--
She waited with impatience till he came:
For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.

Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding
journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his
journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through
streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the
faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:

For his sake it was well that Parvati
Should mortify her body delicate;
Thrice happy might his serving-woman be,
And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.

Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with
bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp.
The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva
restores the body of Love.


_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_. --The first month of marital bliss is
spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a
time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at
sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few
stanzas are given here.

See, my beloved, how the sun
With beams that o'er the water shake
From western skies has now begun
A bridge of gold across the lake.

Upon the very tree-tops sway
The peacocks; even yet they hold
And drink the dying light of day,
Until their fans are molten gold.

The water-lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.

The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,
With bended neck and falling plume
And drooping mane, are seen afar
To bury day in ocean's gloom.

The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:
Thus every path of glory ends;
As high as are the scaled steeps,
The downward way as low descends.

Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his
bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to
soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few
stanzas of this description run as follows.

The twilight glow is fading far
And stains the west with blood-red light,
As when a reeking scimitar
Slants upward on a field of fight.

And vision fails above, below,
Around, before us, at our back;
The womb of night envelops slow
The world with darkness vast and black.

Mute while the world is dazed with light,
The smiling moon begins to rise
And, being teased by eager night,
Betrays the secrets of the skies.

Moon-fingers move the black, black hair
Of night into its proper place,
Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,
As he sets kisses on her face.

Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess
of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many
years.


_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_. --One day the god of fire
appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with
him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends.
Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the
burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who
journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the
god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.


_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_. --To Indra, king of the gods, Fire
betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his
burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore
travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs
much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed,
until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find
Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child,
Kumara, the future god of war.


_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_. --Ganges suckles the
beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the
child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and
Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and
at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When
Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.

Because her eyes with happy tears were dim,
'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy;
Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him,
She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.

The vision of the infant made her seem
A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss;
Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream;
Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.

Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child
spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human
infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a
good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to
count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven. " These evidences of healthy
development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.


_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_. --Indra, with the other gods,
waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them
as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are
graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers
their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the
gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his
mother Parvati, and of Indra.


_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_. --Kumara takes an
affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When
they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they
find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each
courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their
embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees
with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and
the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the
devastation wrought by Taraka.

He saw departed glory, saw the state
Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city,
As of a woman with a cowardly mate:
And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.

He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn
By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed
With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn:
And sadness overcame him as he viewed.

He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers
Defiled by elephants grown overbold,
Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers,
No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,

Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown,
Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass:
Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown,
For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.

Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara,
thus consecrating him as their general.


_Fourteenth canto. The march_. --Kumara prepares for battle, and
marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni
on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin,
and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on
its dusty march.


_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_. --The demon Taraka is informed
that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered
Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle,
marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by
dreadful omens of evil.

For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see,
Above the army of the foes of heaven,
And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously
The feast of demon corpses to be given.

And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot,
Spitting hot poison high into the air,
Brought terror to the army underfoot,
And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.

The sun a sickly halo round him had;
Coiling within it frightened eyes could see
Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad
Because the demon's death so soon should be.

And in the very circle of the sun
Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed;
And with impatient haste they seemed to run
To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.

There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash
Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high
A thunderbolt whose agonising crash
Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.

There came a pelting rain of blazing coals
With blood and bones of dead men mingled in;
Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls;
The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.

The elephants stumbled and the horses fell,
The footmen jostled, leaving each his post,
The ground beneath them trembled at the swell
Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.

And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul
To see the sun that lit that awful day,
And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl
Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.

Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he
refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances
even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven
call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of
Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his
peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.

"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven
And take my foeman's part, what would you say?
Have you forgot so soon the torture given
By shafts of mine that never miss their way?

Why should I fear before a six-days child?
Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill,
Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild,
Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?

The boy whom you have chosen as your chief
In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry;
The upright die, if taken with a thief:
First you shall perish, then he too shall die. "

And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword,
the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs
horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of
the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies
clash.