It would be
interesting
if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_.
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_.
Kalidasa - Shantukala, and More
"
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.
_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_. --This canto is
entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few
stanzas are given here.
As pairs of champions stood forth
To test each other's fighting worth,
The bards who knew the family fame
Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.
As ruthless weapons cut their way
Through quilted armour in the fray,
White tufts of cotton flew on high
Like hoary hairs upon the sky.
Blood-dripping swords reflected bright
The sunbeams in that awful fight;
Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,
They showed how mighty heroes clash.
The archers' arrows flew so fast,
As through a hostile breast they passed,
That they were buried in the ground,
No stain of blood upon them found.
The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,
That hands of heroes firmly grasped,
Flashed out in glory through the fight,
As if they laughed in mad delight.
And many a warrior's eager lance
Shone radiant in the eerie dance,
A curling, lapping tongue of death
To lick away the soldier's breath.
Some, panting with a bloody thirst,
Fought toward the victim chosen first,
But had a reeking path to hew
Before they had him full in view.
Great elephants, their drivers gone
And pierced with arrows, struggled on,
But sank at every step in mud
Made liquid by the streams of blood.
The warriors falling in the fray,
Whose heads the sword had lopped away,
Were able still to fetch a blow
That slew the loud-exulting foe.
The footmen thrown to Paradise
By elephants of monstrous size,
Were seized upon by nymphs above,
Exchanging battle-scenes for love.
The lancer, charging at his foe,
Would pierce him through and bring him low,
And would not heed the hostile dart
That found a lodgment in his heart.
The war-horse, though unguided, stopped
The moment that his rider dropped,
And wept above the lifeless head,
Still faithful to his master dead.
Two lancers fell with mortal wound
And still they struggled on the ground;
With bristling hair, with brandished knife,
Each strove to end the other's life.
Two slew each other in the fight;
To Paradise they took their flight;
There with a nymph they fell in love,
And still they fought in heaven above.
Two souls there were that reached the sky;
From heights of heaven they could spy
Two writhing corpses on the plain,
And knew their headless forms again.
As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief
gods, and charges upon them.
_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_. --Taraka engages the principal
gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by
Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to
retire from the battle.
Stripling, you are the only son
Of Shiva and of Parvati.
Go safe and live! Why should you run
On certain death? Why fight with me?
Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest
Clasp living son to joyful breast.
Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host
Of Indra drowning in the sea
That soon shall close upon his boast
In choking waves of misery.
For Indra is a ship of stone;
Withdraw, and let him sink alone.
Kumara answers with modest firmness.
The words you utter in your pride,
O demon-prince, are only fit;
Yet I am minded to abide
The fight, and see the end of it.
The tight-strung bow and brandished sword
Decide, and not the spoken word.
And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by
Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too
is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara
neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,
Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the
unbounded delight of the universe.
Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It
has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,
partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three
cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.
These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is
not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the
universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter
further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier
part is completed in the seventeenth canto.
It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos
are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the
first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?
Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry
than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when
writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.
Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great
vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not
be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry
of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a
very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,
its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of
the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.
There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic
substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is
lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in
this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the
matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of
the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a
little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly
into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the
adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have
adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays
for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.
It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for
deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The
introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been
written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.
As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My
own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages
in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can
never let die.
* * * * *
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit
literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it
obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though
a precisian might object to the term.
We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what
admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author
of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the
early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated
in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and
death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the
struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made
in an aerial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the
country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of
India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a
whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned
with the aerial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is
perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly
inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.
This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some
transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to
leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak
in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges
basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no
messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to
carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey
which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully
chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in
Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of
the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of
the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the
message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to
the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will
wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify
all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the
cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably
one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of
north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty
straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of
the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.
_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line
stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper. " The English
stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair
a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct
imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation
has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer
syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.
The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in
Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It
saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and
it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to
translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and
though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the
analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.
One minor point calls for notice. The word Himalaya has been accented
on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically
correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more
euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.
FORMER CLOUD
I
_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for
a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the
Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.
On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,
Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,
An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,
Doomed by his master humbly to abide,
And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.
II
_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him
of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to
pine and die_.
Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain
Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day
Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain,
A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,
As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.
III
Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears
Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed
In meditation, choking down his tears--
Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud;
To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.
IV
_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love,
he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.
Longing to save his darling's life, unblest
With joyous tidings, through the rainy days,
He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest,
Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays,
And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.
V
Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind
How all unfitly might his message mate
With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind--
Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate
'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.
VI
_He prefers his request_,
I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line,
Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief,
Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine,
I come a suppliant in my widowed grief--
Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.
VII
O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity;
My bride is far, through royal wrath and might;
Bring her my message to the Yaksha city,
Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright
From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.
VIII
_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour
rewarded by pleasures on the road_,
When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven,
Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep
And bless the sight of thee for comfort given;
Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep
Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?
IX
_and by happy omens_.
While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth,
And while upon thy left the plover sings
His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth
Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings
And for delights anticipated join their rings.
X
_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;
Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see--
Counting the days that bring the lonely smart--
The faithful wife who only lives for me:
A drooping flower is woman's loving heart,
Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.
XI
_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.
And when they hear thy welcome thunders break,
When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks,
The swans who long for the Himalayan lake
Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks,
With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.
XII
One last embrace upon this mount bestow
Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet,
Who yearly strives his love for thee to show,
Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet
With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.
XIII
_He then describes the long journey_,
Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.
XIV
_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company
of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.
Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite;
Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest;
And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight
Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest
The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.
XV
Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines
Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow;
Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines,
Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow,
Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.
XVI
_The Mala plateau_.
The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea,
Though innocent of all coquettish art,
Will give thee loving glances; for on thee
Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part;
Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.
XVII
_The Mango Peak_.
The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid
By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness;
In memory of a former service paid,
Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress
A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.
XVIII
With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem;
And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite;
When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem
Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white,
For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.
XIX
_The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming
against the mountain side_,
His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever;
Do thou upon his crest a moment bide,
Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river
Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side,
Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.
XX
_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of
elephants during the mating season_.
Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state
With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow;
Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate--
Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.
XXI
Spying the madder on the banks, half brown,
Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth,
Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down,
Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth,
The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.
XXII
Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
Yet I foresee delay on every hill
Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.
XXIII
_The Dasharna country_,
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
XXIV
_and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River_.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
XXV
A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then,
Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat
As thrilling to thy touch; where city men
O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat
In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.
XXVI
Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade
On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare
By forest rivers; and with loving shade
Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair,
Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.
XXVII
_The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly
beloved by him_;
Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise
The palace balconies thou mayst not slight
In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes
That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight
Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.
XXVIII
_and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will
meet just before he reaches the city_.
The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants
A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed,
While noisy swans accompany her dance
Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst--
A woman always tells her love in gestures first.
XXIX
Thou only, happy lover! canst repair
The desolation that thine absence made:
Her shrinking current seems the careless hair
That brides deserted wear in single braid,
And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.
XXX
_The city of Ujjain is fully described_,
Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!
XXXI
Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain
From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out
The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane,
To cure the women's languishing, and flout
With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.
XXXII
Enriched with odours through the windows drifting
From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend
By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting,
On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end,
Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.
XXXIII
_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;
Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.
XXXIV
Reaching that temple at another time,
Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
For if thou mayest play the part sublime
Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.
XXXV
The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.
XXXVI
_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.
Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.
XXXVII
_After one night of repose in the city_
Where women steal to rendezvous by night
Through darkness that a needle might divide,
Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.
XXXVIII
On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
For they that labour for a friend do not delay.
XXXIX
The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.
XL
_the cloud is besought to travel to Deep River_.
Thy winsome shadow-soul will surely find
An entrance in Deep River's current bright,
As thoughts find entrance in a placid mind;
Then let no rudeness of thine own affright
The darting fish that seem her glances lotus-white.
XLI
But steal her sombre veil of mist away,
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
To hide her charms; thou hast no time to stay,
Yet who that once has known a dear caress
Could bear to leave a woman's unveiled loveliness?
XLII
_Thence to Holy Peak_,
The breeze 'neath which the breathing acre grants
New odours, and the forest figs hang sleek,
With pleasant whistlings drunk by elephants
Through long and hollow trunks, will gently seek
To waft thee onward fragrantly to Holy Peak.
XLIII
_the dwelling-place of Skanda, god of war, the
child of Shiva and Gauri, concerning whose
birth more than one quaint tale is told_.
There change thy form; become a cloud of flowers
With heavenly moisture wet, and pay the meed
Of praise to Skanda with thy blossom showers;
That sun-outshining god is Shiva's seed,
Fire-born to save the heavenly hosts in direst need.
XLIV
God Skanda's peacock--he whose eyeballs shine
By Shiva's moon, whose flashing fallen plume
The god's fond mother wears, a gleaming line
Over her ear beside the lotus bloom--
Will dance to thunders echoing in the caverns' room.
XLV
_Thence to Skin River, so called because it flowed forth from a
mountain of cattle carcasses, offered in sacrifice by the pious
emperor Rantideva_.
Adore the reed-born god and speed away,
While Siddhas flee, lest rain should put to shame
The lutes which they devoutly love to play;
But pause to glorify the stream whose name
Recalls the sacrificing emperor's blessed fame.
XLVI
Narrow the river seems from heaven's blue;
And gods above, who see her dainty line
Matched, when thou drinkest, with thy darker hue,
Will think they see a pearly necklace twine
Round Earth, with one great sapphire in its midst ashine.
XLVII
_The province of the Ten Cities_.
Beyond, the province of Ten Cities lies
Whose women, charming with their glances rash,
Will view thine image with bright, eager eyes,
Dark eyes that dance beneath the lifted lash,
As when black bees round nodding jasmine-blossoms flash.
XLVIII
_The Hallowed Land, where were fought the awful battles of the ancient
epic time_.
Then veil the Hallowed Land in cloudy shade;
Visit the field where to this very hour
Lie bones that sank beneath the soldier's blade,
Where Arjuna discharged his arrowy shower
On men, as thou thy rain-jets on the lotus-flower.
XLIX
_In these battles, the hero Balarama, whose weapon was a plough-share,
would take no part, because kinsmen of his were fighting in each army.
He preferred to spend the time in drinking from the holy river
Sarasvati, though little accustomed to any other drink than wine_.
Sweet friend, drink where those holy waters shine
Which the plough-bearing hero--loath to fight
His kinsmen--rather drank than sweetest wine
With a loving bride's reflected eyes alight;
Then, though thy form be black, thine inner soul is bright.
L
_The Ganges River, which originates in heaven.
Its fall is broken by the head of Shiva, who
stands on the Himalaya Mountains;
otherwise the shock would be too great for
the earth. But Shiva's goddess-bride is
displeased_.
Fly then where Ganges o'er the king of mountains
Falls like a flight of stairs from heaven let down
For the sons of men; she hurls her billowy fountains
Like hands to grasp the moon on Shiva's crown
And laughs her foamy laugh at Gauri's jealous frown.
LI
_The dark cloud is permitted to mingle with the clear stream of
Ganges, as the muddy Jumna River does near the city now called
Allahabad_.
If thou, like some great elephant of the sky,
Shouldst wish from heaven's eminence to bend
And taste the crystal stream, her beauties high--
As thy dark shadows with her whiteness blend--
Would be what Jumna's waters at Prayaga lend.
LII
_The magnificent Himalaya range_.
Her birth-place is Himalaya's rocky crest
Whereon the scent of musk is never lost,
For deer rest ever there where thou wilt rest
Sombre against the peak with whiteness glossed,
Like dark earth by the snow-white bull of Shiva tossed.
LIII
If, born from friction of the deodars,
A scudding fire should prove the mountain's bane,
Singeing the tails of yaks with fiery stars,
Quench thou the flame with countless streams of rain--
The great have power that they may soothe distress and pain.
LIV
If mountain monsters should assail thy path
With angry leaps that of their object fail,
Only to hurt themselves in helpless wrath,
Scatter the creatures with thy pelting hail--
For who is not despised that strives without avail?
LV
Bend lowly down and move in reverent state
Round Shiva's foot-print on the rocky plate
With offerings laden by the saintly great;
The sight means heaven as their eternal fate
When death and sin are past, for them that faithful wait.
LVI
The breeze is piping on the bamboo-tree;
And choirs of heaven sing in union sweet
O'er demon foe of Shiva's victory;
If thunders in the caverns drumlike beat,
Then surely Shiva's symphony will be complete.
LVII
_The mountain pass called the Swan-gate_.
Pass by the wonders of the snowy slope;
Through the Swan-gate, through mountain masses rent
To make his fame a path by Bhrigu's hope
In long, dark beauty fly, still northward bent,
Like Vishnu's foot, when he sought the demon's chastisement.
LVIII
_And at Mount Kailasa, the long journey is ended_;
Seek then Kailasa's hospitable care,
With peaks by magic arms asunder riven,
To whom, as mirror, goddesses repair,
So lotus-bright his summits cloud the heaven,
Like form and substance to God's daily laughter given.
LIX
Like powder black and soft I seem to see
Thine outline on the mountain slope as bright
As new-sawn tusks of stainless ivory;
No eye could wink before as fair a sight
As dark-blue robes upon the Ploughman's shoulder white.
LX
Should Shiva throw his serpent-ring aside
And give Gauri his hand, go thou before
Upon the mount of joy to be their guide;
Conceal within thee all thy watery store
And seem a terraced stairway to the jewelled floor.
LXI
I doubt not that celestial maidens sweet
With pointed bracelet gems will prick thee there
To make of thee a shower-bath in the heat;
Frighten the playful girls if they should dare
To keep thee longer, friend, with thunder's harshest blare.
LXII
Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake;
Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide
His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake,
Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide:
With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side.
LXIII
_for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas_.
Then, in familiar Alaka find rest,
Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls,
Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast,
While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls
And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.
LATTER CLOUD
I
_The splendid heavenly city Alaka_,
Where palaces in much may rival thee--
Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers--
Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody--
Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers--
Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.
II
_where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are
all found in bloom the year round_.
Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines,
And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare,
Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines
In women's braids, and summer siris fair,
The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.
III
_Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired_.
Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars
Climb to the open crystal balcony
Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars,
And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree,
And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.
IV
Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed
Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray
In shadows that the trees of heaven spread;
In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play,
Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.
V
Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling
To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,
The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling,
Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side.
Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.
VI
Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops
By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before
Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops;
Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more,
But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.
VII
_Here are the stones from which drops of water
ooze when the moon shines on them_.
Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread
Great drops of water trickle in the night--
When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled--
To ease the languors of the women's plight
Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.
VIII
_Here are the magic gardens of heaven_.
Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,
Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,
Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,
The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung
Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.
IX
Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed
At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls
That fluttered as they stole along afraid,
By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,
By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.
X
_Here the god of love is not seen, because of
the presence of his great enemy, Shiva.
Yet his absence is not severely felt_.
Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,
Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign;
His task is done by clever maids, for lo!
Their frowning missile glances, darting plain
At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.
XI
_Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.
For the Mine of Sentiment declares:
"Women everywhere have four kinds of
ornaments--hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes,
cosmetics; anything else is local_. "
Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance
The loveliness of maidens young and sweet:
Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,
And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,
And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.
XII
_And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha_,
There, northward from the master's palace, see
Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;
And near it grows a little coral-tree,
Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star,
Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.
XIII
_with its artificial pool_;
A pool is near, to which an emerald stair
Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold
Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,
The wistful swans are glad when they behold
Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.
XIV
_its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like
the dark cloud girdled by the lightening_;
And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill
Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit;
She loves the spot; and while I marvel still
At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit
About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.
XV
_its two favourite trees, which will not blossom
while their mistress is grieving_;
The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,
The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower
Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;
Like me, they wait to feel the winning power
Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.
XVI
_its tame peacock_;
A golden pole is set between the pair,
With crystal perch above its emerald bands
As green as young bamboo; at sunset there
Thy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,
And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.
XVII
_and its painted emblems of the god
of wealth_.
These are the signs--recall them o'er and o'er,
My clever friend--by which the house is known,
And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:
Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone--
The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.
XVIII
Small as the elephant cub thou must become
For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance
The glory of the hill beside my home,
And peep into the house with lightning-glance,
But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.
XIX
_The Yaksha's bride_.
The supremest woman from God's workshop gone--
Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips,
Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn,
An idly graceful movement, generous hips,
Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips--
XX
Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anew
Passing these heavy days in longings keen,
My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few,
My second life, shall there of thee be seen--
But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.
XXI
Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden;
Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs;
The face that rests upon her hand is hidden
By hanging curls, as when the glory dies
Of the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.
XXII
_The passion of love passes through ten stages,
eight of which are suggested in this stanza
and the stanzas which follow. The first
stage is not indicated; it is called Exchange
of Glances_.
Thou first wilt see her when she seeks relief
In worship; or, half fancying, half recalling,
She draws mine image worn by absent grief;
Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling:
"Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling. "
XXIII
_In this stanza and the preceding one is
suggested the second stage: Wistfulness_.
Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt,
And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain;
For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert,
And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again,
Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.
XXIV
_Here is suggested the third stage: Desire_.
Or counts the months of absence yet remaining
With flowers laid near the threshold on the floor,
Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gaining
The memories recollected o'er and o'er--
woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.
XXV
_Here is suggested the fourth stage: Wakefulness_.
Such daytime labours doubtless ease the ache
Which doubly hurts her in the helpless dark;
With news from me a keener joy to wake,
Stand by her window in the night, and mark
My sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.
XXVI
_Here is suggested the fifth stage: Emaciation_.
Resting one side upon that widowed bed,
Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height,
So slender she, now worn with anguish dread,
Passing with stifling tears the long, sad night
Which, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.
XXVII
_Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss of
Interest in Ordinary Pleasures_.
On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashes
She looks with the old delight, then turns away
And veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes,
Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay,
But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.
XXVIII
_Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss of
Youthful Bashfulness_.
One unanointed curl still frets her cheek
When tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip;
And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seek
That we might be united though in sleep--
Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.
XXIX
_Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness.
For if she were not absent-minded,
she would arrange the braid so
as not to be annoyed by it_.
Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft--
With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness--
So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft:
That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness,
Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.
XXX
_Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration.
The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested_.
The delicate body, weak and suffering,
Quite unadorned and tossing to and fro
In oft-renewing wretchedness, will wring
Even from thee a raindrop-tear, I know--
Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.
XXXI
I know her bosom full of love for me,
And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieve
In this our first divorce; it cannot be
Self-flattery that idle boastings weave--
Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.
XXXII
_Quivering of the eyelids_
Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shine
Of fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly,
Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine--
Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nigh
As water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.
XXXIII
_and trembling of the limbs are omens of
speedy union with the beloved_.
And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove,
Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower,
No longer showing marks of my rough love,
Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power,
The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.
XXXIV
But if she should be lost in happy sleep,
Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace,
And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keep
The dreaming vision of her lover's face--
Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.
XXXV
As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder,
Wake her with breezes blowing mistily;
Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunder
Speak boldly, though she answer haughtily
With eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.
XXXVI
_The cloud is instructed how to announce himself_
"Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friend
Is come to tell thee what himself did say--
A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that send
All weary wanderers hastening on their way,
Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay. "
XXXVII
_in such a way as to win the favour of his auditor_.
Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed,
Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beating
And joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heed
The after message: such a friendly greeting
Is hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.
XXXVIII
_The message itself_.
Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak,
Remembering kindness is its own reward;
"Thy lover lives, and from the holy peak
Asks if these absent days good health afford--
Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.
XXXIX
With body worn as thine, with pain as deep,
With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine,
With sighs more burning than the sighs that keep
Thy lips ascorch--doomed far from thee to pine,
He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.
XL
He used to love, when women friends were near,
To whisper things he might have said aloud
That he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear;
Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud,
He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.
XLI
_According to the treatise called "Virtues
Banner," a lover has four solaces in separation:
first, looking at objects that remind
him of her he loves_;
'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines,
Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer,
Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines,
Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear--
Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.
XLII
_second, painting a picture of her_;
And when I paint that loving jealousy
With chalk upon the rock, and my caress
As at thy feet I lie, I cannot see
Through tears that to mine eyes unbidden press--
So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.
XLIII
_third, dreaming of her_;
And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight,
Mine own though but in visions of a dream--
They who behold the oft-repeated sight,
The kind divinities of wood and stream,
Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.
XLIV
_fourth, touching something which she
has touched_.
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.
_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_. --This canto is
entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few
stanzas are given here.
As pairs of champions stood forth
To test each other's fighting worth,
The bards who knew the family fame
Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.
As ruthless weapons cut their way
Through quilted armour in the fray,
White tufts of cotton flew on high
Like hoary hairs upon the sky.
Blood-dripping swords reflected bright
The sunbeams in that awful fight;
Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,
They showed how mighty heroes clash.
The archers' arrows flew so fast,
As through a hostile breast they passed,
That they were buried in the ground,
No stain of blood upon them found.
The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,
That hands of heroes firmly grasped,
Flashed out in glory through the fight,
As if they laughed in mad delight.
And many a warrior's eager lance
Shone radiant in the eerie dance,
A curling, lapping tongue of death
To lick away the soldier's breath.
Some, panting with a bloody thirst,
Fought toward the victim chosen first,
But had a reeking path to hew
Before they had him full in view.
Great elephants, their drivers gone
And pierced with arrows, struggled on,
But sank at every step in mud
Made liquid by the streams of blood.
The warriors falling in the fray,
Whose heads the sword had lopped away,
Were able still to fetch a blow
That slew the loud-exulting foe.
The footmen thrown to Paradise
By elephants of monstrous size,
Were seized upon by nymphs above,
Exchanging battle-scenes for love.
The lancer, charging at his foe,
Would pierce him through and bring him low,
And would not heed the hostile dart
That found a lodgment in his heart.
The war-horse, though unguided, stopped
The moment that his rider dropped,
And wept above the lifeless head,
Still faithful to his master dead.
Two lancers fell with mortal wound
And still they struggled on the ground;
With bristling hair, with brandished knife,
Each strove to end the other's life.
Two slew each other in the fight;
To Paradise they took their flight;
There with a nymph they fell in love,
And still they fought in heaven above.
Two souls there were that reached the sky;
From heights of heaven they could spy
Two writhing corpses on the plain,
And knew their headless forms again.
As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief
gods, and charges upon them.
_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_. --Taraka engages the principal
gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by
Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to
retire from the battle.
Stripling, you are the only son
Of Shiva and of Parvati.
Go safe and live! Why should you run
On certain death? Why fight with me?
Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest
Clasp living son to joyful breast.
Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host
Of Indra drowning in the sea
That soon shall close upon his boast
In choking waves of misery.
For Indra is a ship of stone;
Withdraw, and let him sink alone.
Kumara answers with modest firmness.
The words you utter in your pride,
O demon-prince, are only fit;
Yet I am minded to abide
The fight, and see the end of it.
The tight-strung bow and brandished sword
Decide, and not the spoken word.
And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by
Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too
is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara
neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,
Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the
unbounded delight of the universe.
Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It
has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,
partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three
cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.
These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is
not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the
universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter
further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier
part is completed in the seventeenth canto.
It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos
are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the
first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?
Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry
than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when
writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.
Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great
vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not
be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry
of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a
very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,
its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of
the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.
There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic
substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is
lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in
this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the
matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of
the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a
little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly
into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the
adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have
adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays
for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.
It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for
deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The
introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been
written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.
As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My
own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages
in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can
never let die.
* * * * *
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit
literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it
obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though
a precisian might object to the term.
We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what
admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author
of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the
early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated
in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and
death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the
struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made
in an aerial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the
country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of
India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a
whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned
with the aerial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is
perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly
inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.
This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some
transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to
leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak
in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges
basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no
messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to
carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey
which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully
chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in
Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of
the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of
the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the
message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to
the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will
wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify
all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the
cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably
one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of
north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty
straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of
the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.
_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line
stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper. " The English
stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair
a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct
imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation
has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer
syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.
The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in
Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It
saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and
it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to
translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and
though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the
analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.
One minor point calls for notice. The word Himalaya has been accented
on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically
correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more
euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.
FORMER CLOUD
I
_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for
a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the
Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.
On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,
Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,
An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,
Doomed by his master humbly to abide,
And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.
II
_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him
of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to
pine and die_.
Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain
Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day
Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain,
A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,
As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.
III
Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears
Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed
In meditation, choking down his tears--
Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud;
To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.
IV
_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love,
he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.
Longing to save his darling's life, unblest
With joyous tidings, through the rainy days,
He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest,
Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays,
And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.
V
Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind
How all unfitly might his message mate
With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind--
Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate
'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.
VI
_He prefers his request_,
I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line,
Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief,
Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine,
I come a suppliant in my widowed grief--
Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.
VII
O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity;
My bride is far, through royal wrath and might;
Bring her my message to the Yaksha city,
Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright
From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.
VIII
_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour
rewarded by pleasures on the road_,
When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven,
Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep
And bless the sight of thee for comfort given;
Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep
Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?
IX
_and by happy omens_.
While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth,
And while upon thy left the plover sings
His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth
Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings
And for delights anticipated join their rings.
X
_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;
Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see--
Counting the days that bring the lonely smart--
The faithful wife who only lives for me:
A drooping flower is woman's loving heart,
Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.
XI
_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.
And when they hear thy welcome thunders break,
When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks,
The swans who long for the Himalayan lake
Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks,
With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.
XII
One last embrace upon this mount bestow
Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet,
Who yearly strives his love for thee to show,
Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet
With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.
XIII
_He then describes the long journey_,
Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.
XIV
_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company
of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.
Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite;
Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest;
And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight
Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest
The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.
XV
Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines
Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow;
Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines,
Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow,
Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.
XVI
_The Mala plateau_.
The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea,
Though innocent of all coquettish art,
Will give thee loving glances; for on thee
Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part;
Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.
XVII
_The Mango Peak_.
The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid
By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness;
In memory of a former service paid,
Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress
A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.
XVIII
With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem;
And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite;
When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem
Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white,
For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.
XIX
_The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming
against the mountain side_,
His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever;
Do thou upon his crest a moment bide,
Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river
Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side,
Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.
XX
_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of
elephants during the mating season_.
Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state
With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow;
Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate--
Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.
XXI
Spying the madder on the banks, half brown,
Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth,
Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down,
Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth,
The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.
XXII
Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
Yet I foresee delay on every hill
Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.
XXIII
_The Dasharna country_,
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
XXIV
_and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River_.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
XXV
A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then,
Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat
As thrilling to thy touch; where city men
O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat
In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.
XXVI
Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade
On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare
By forest rivers; and with loving shade
Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair,
Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.
XXVII
_The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly
beloved by him_;
Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise
The palace balconies thou mayst not slight
In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes
That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight
Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.
XXVIII
_and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will
meet just before he reaches the city_.
The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants
A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed,
While noisy swans accompany her dance
Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst--
A woman always tells her love in gestures first.
XXIX
Thou only, happy lover! canst repair
The desolation that thine absence made:
Her shrinking current seems the careless hair
That brides deserted wear in single braid,
And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.
XXX
_The city of Ujjain is fully described_,
Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!
XXXI
Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain
From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out
The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane,
To cure the women's languishing, and flout
With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.
XXXII
Enriched with odours through the windows drifting
From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend
By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting,
On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end,
Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.
XXXIII
_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;
Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.
XXXIV
Reaching that temple at another time,
Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
For if thou mayest play the part sublime
Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.
XXXV
The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.
XXXVI
_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.
Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.
XXXVII
_After one night of repose in the city_
Where women steal to rendezvous by night
Through darkness that a needle might divide,
Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.
XXXVIII
On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
For they that labour for a friend do not delay.
XXXIX
The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.
XL
_the cloud is besought to travel to Deep River_.
Thy winsome shadow-soul will surely find
An entrance in Deep River's current bright,
As thoughts find entrance in a placid mind;
Then let no rudeness of thine own affright
The darting fish that seem her glances lotus-white.
XLI
But steal her sombre veil of mist away,
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
To hide her charms; thou hast no time to stay,
Yet who that once has known a dear caress
Could bear to leave a woman's unveiled loveliness?
XLII
_Thence to Holy Peak_,
The breeze 'neath which the breathing acre grants
New odours, and the forest figs hang sleek,
With pleasant whistlings drunk by elephants
Through long and hollow trunks, will gently seek
To waft thee onward fragrantly to Holy Peak.
XLIII
_the dwelling-place of Skanda, god of war, the
child of Shiva and Gauri, concerning whose
birth more than one quaint tale is told_.
There change thy form; become a cloud of flowers
With heavenly moisture wet, and pay the meed
Of praise to Skanda with thy blossom showers;
That sun-outshining god is Shiva's seed,
Fire-born to save the heavenly hosts in direst need.
XLIV
God Skanda's peacock--he whose eyeballs shine
By Shiva's moon, whose flashing fallen plume
The god's fond mother wears, a gleaming line
Over her ear beside the lotus bloom--
Will dance to thunders echoing in the caverns' room.
XLV
_Thence to Skin River, so called because it flowed forth from a
mountain of cattle carcasses, offered in sacrifice by the pious
emperor Rantideva_.
Adore the reed-born god and speed away,
While Siddhas flee, lest rain should put to shame
The lutes which they devoutly love to play;
But pause to glorify the stream whose name
Recalls the sacrificing emperor's blessed fame.
XLVI
Narrow the river seems from heaven's blue;
And gods above, who see her dainty line
Matched, when thou drinkest, with thy darker hue,
Will think they see a pearly necklace twine
Round Earth, with one great sapphire in its midst ashine.
XLVII
_The province of the Ten Cities_.
Beyond, the province of Ten Cities lies
Whose women, charming with their glances rash,
Will view thine image with bright, eager eyes,
Dark eyes that dance beneath the lifted lash,
As when black bees round nodding jasmine-blossoms flash.
XLVIII
_The Hallowed Land, where were fought the awful battles of the ancient
epic time_.
Then veil the Hallowed Land in cloudy shade;
Visit the field where to this very hour
Lie bones that sank beneath the soldier's blade,
Where Arjuna discharged his arrowy shower
On men, as thou thy rain-jets on the lotus-flower.
XLIX
_In these battles, the hero Balarama, whose weapon was a plough-share,
would take no part, because kinsmen of his were fighting in each army.
He preferred to spend the time in drinking from the holy river
Sarasvati, though little accustomed to any other drink than wine_.
Sweet friend, drink where those holy waters shine
Which the plough-bearing hero--loath to fight
His kinsmen--rather drank than sweetest wine
With a loving bride's reflected eyes alight;
Then, though thy form be black, thine inner soul is bright.
L
_The Ganges River, which originates in heaven.
Its fall is broken by the head of Shiva, who
stands on the Himalaya Mountains;
otherwise the shock would be too great for
the earth. But Shiva's goddess-bride is
displeased_.
Fly then where Ganges o'er the king of mountains
Falls like a flight of stairs from heaven let down
For the sons of men; she hurls her billowy fountains
Like hands to grasp the moon on Shiva's crown
And laughs her foamy laugh at Gauri's jealous frown.
LI
_The dark cloud is permitted to mingle with the clear stream of
Ganges, as the muddy Jumna River does near the city now called
Allahabad_.
If thou, like some great elephant of the sky,
Shouldst wish from heaven's eminence to bend
And taste the crystal stream, her beauties high--
As thy dark shadows with her whiteness blend--
Would be what Jumna's waters at Prayaga lend.
LII
_The magnificent Himalaya range_.
Her birth-place is Himalaya's rocky crest
Whereon the scent of musk is never lost,
For deer rest ever there where thou wilt rest
Sombre against the peak with whiteness glossed,
Like dark earth by the snow-white bull of Shiva tossed.
LIII
If, born from friction of the deodars,
A scudding fire should prove the mountain's bane,
Singeing the tails of yaks with fiery stars,
Quench thou the flame with countless streams of rain--
The great have power that they may soothe distress and pain.
LIV
If mountain monsters should assail thy path
With angry leaps that of their object fail,
Only to hurt themselves in helpless wrath,
Scatter the creatures with thy pelting hail--
For who is not despised that strives without avail?
LV
Bend lowly down and move in reverent state
Round Shiva's foot-print on the rocky plate
With offerings laden by the saintly great;
The sight means heaven as their eternal fate
When death and sin are past, for them that faithful wait.
LVI
The breeze is piping on the bamboo-tree;
And choirs of heaven sing in union sweet
O'er demon foe of Shiva's victory;
If thunders in the caverns drumlike beat,
Then surely Shiva's symphony will be complete.
LVII
_The mountain pass called the Swan-gate_.
Pass by the wonders of the snowy slope;
Through the Swan-gate, through mountain masses rent
To make his fame a path by Bhrigu's hope
In long, dark beauty fly, still northward bent,
Like Vishnu's foot, when he sought the demon's chastisement.
LVIII
_And at Mount Kailasa, the long journey is ended_;
Seek then Kailasa's hospitable care,
With peaks by magic arms asunder riven,
To whom, as mirror, goddesses repair,
So lotus-bright his summits cloud the heaven,
Like form and substance to God's daily laughter given.
LIX
Like powder black and soft I seem to see
Thine outline on the mountain slope as bright
As new-sawn tusks of stainless ivory;
No eye could wink before as fair a sight
As dark-blue robes upon the Ploughman's shoulder white.
LX
Should Shiva throw his serpent-ring aside
And give Gauri his hand, go thou before
Upon the mount of joy to be their guide;
Conceal within thee all thy watery store
And seem a terraced stairway to the jewelled floor.
LXI
I doubt not that celestial maidens sweet
With pointed bracelet gems will prick thee there
To make of thee a shower-bath in the heat;
Frighten the playful girls if they should dare
To keep thee longer, friend, with thunder's harshest blare.
LXII
Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake;
Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide
His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake,
Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide:
With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side.
LXIII
_for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas_.
Then, in familiar Alaka find rest,
Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls,
Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast,
While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls
And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.
LATTER CLOUD
I
_The splendid heavenly city Alaka_,
Where palaces in much may rival thee--
Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers--
Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody--
Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers--
Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.
II
_where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are
all found in bloom the year round_.
Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines,
And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare,
Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines
In women's braids, and summer siris fair,
The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.
III
_Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired_.
Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars
Climb to the open crystal balcony
Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars,
And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree,
And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.
IV
Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed
Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray
In shadows that the trees of heaven spread;
In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play,
Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.
V
Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling
To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,
The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling,
Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side.
Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.
VI
Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops
By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before
Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops;
Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more,
But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.
VII
_Here are the stones from which drops of water
ooze when the moon shines on them_.
Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread
Great drops of water trickle in the night--
When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled--
To ease the languors of the women's plight
Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.
VIII
_Here are the magic gardens of heaven_.
Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,
Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,
Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,
The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung
Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.
IX
Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed
At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls
That fluttered as they stole along afraid,
By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,
By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.
X
_Here the god of love is not seen, because of
the presence of his great enemy, Shiva.
Yet his absence is not severely felt_.
Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,
Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign;
His task is done by clever maids, for lo!
Their frowning missile glances, darting plain
At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.
XI
_Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.
For the Mine of Sentiment declares:
"Women everywhere have four kinds of
ornaments--hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes,
cosmetics; anything else is local_. "
Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance
The loveliness of maidens young and sweet:
Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,
And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,
And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.
XII
_And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha_,
There, northward from the master's palace, see
Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;
And near it grows a little coral-tree,
Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star,
Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.
XIII
_with its artificial pool_;
A pool is near, to which an emerald stair
Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold
Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,
The wistful swans are glad when they behold
Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.
XIV
_its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like
the dark cloud girdled by the lightening_;
And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill
Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit;
She loves the spot; and while I marvel still
At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit
About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.
XV
_its two favourite trees, which will not blossom
while their mistress is grieving_;
The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,
The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower
Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;
Like me, they wait to feel the winning power
Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.
XVI
_its tame peacock_;
A golden pole is set between the pair,
With crystal perch above its emerald bands
As green as young bamboo; at sunset there
Thy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,
And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.
XVII
_and its painted emblems of the god
of wealth_.
These are the signs--recall them o'er and o'er,
My clever friend--by which the house is known,
And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:
Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone--
The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.
XVIII
Small as the elephant cub thou must become
For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance
The glory of the hill beside my home,
And peep into the house with lightning-glance,
But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.
XIX
_The Yaksha's bride_.
The supremest woman from God's workshop gone--
Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips,
Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn,
An idly graceful movement, generous hips,
Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips--
XX
Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anew
Passing these heavy days in longings keen,
My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few,
My second life, shall there of thee be seen--
But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.
XXI
Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden;
Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs;
The face that rests upon her hand is hidden
By hanging curls, as when the glory dies
Of the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.
XXII
_The passion of love passes through ten stages,
eight of which are suggested in this stanza
and the stanzas which follow. The first
stage is not indicated; it is called Exchange
of Glances_.
Thou first wilt see her when she seeks relief
In worship; or, half fancying, half recalling,
She draws mine image worn by absent grief;
Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling:
"Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling. "
XXIII
_In this stanza and the preceding one is
suggested the second stage: Wistfulness_.
Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt,
And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain;
For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert,
And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again,
Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.
XXIV
_Here is suggested the third stage: Desire_.
Or counts the months of absence yet remaining
With flowers laid near the threshold on the floor,
Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gaining
The memories recollected o'er and o'er--
woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.
XXV
_Here is suggested the fourth stage: Wakefulness_.
Such daytime labours doubtless ease the ache
Which doubly hurts her in the helpless dark;
With news from me a keener joy to wake,
Stand by her window in the night, and mark
My sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.
XXVI
_Here is suggested the fifth stage: Emaciation_.
Resting one side upon that widowed bed,
Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height,
So slender she, now worn with anguish dread,
Passing with stifling tears the long, sad night
Which, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.
XXVII
_Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss of
Interest in Ordinary Pleasures_.
On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashes
She looks with the old delight, then turns away
And veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes,
Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay,
But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.
XXVIII
_Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss of
Youthful Bashfulness_.
One unanointed curl still frets her cheek
When tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip;
And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seek
That we might be united though in sleep--
Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.
XXIX
_Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness.
For if she were not absent-minded,
she would arrange the braid so
as not to be annoyed by it_.
Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft--
With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness--
So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft:
That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness,
Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.
XXX
_Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration.
The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested_.
The delicate body, weak and suffering,
Quite unadorned and tossing to and fro
In oft-renewing wretchedness, will wring
Even from thee a raindrop-tear, I know--
Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.
XXXI
I know her bosom full of love for me,
And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieve
In this our first divorce; it cannot be
Self-flattery that idle boastings weave--
Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.
XXXII
_Quivering of the eyelids_
Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shine
Of fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly,
Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine--
Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nigh
As water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.
XXXIII
_and trembling of the limbs are omens of
speedy union with the beloved_.
And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove,
Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower,
No longer showing marks of my rough love,
Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power,
The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.
XXXIV
But if she should be lost in happy sleep,
Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace,
And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keep
The dreaming vision of her lover's face--
Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.
XXXV
As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder,
Wake her with breezes blowing mistily;
Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunder
Speak boldly, though she answer haughtily
With eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.
XXXVI
_The cloud is instructed how to announce himself_
"Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friend
Is come to tell thee what himself did say--
A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that send
All weary wanderers hastening on their way,
Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay. "
XXXVII
_in such a way as to win the favour of his auditor_.
Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed,
Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beating
And joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heed
The after message: such a friendly greeting
Is hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.
XXXVIII
_The message itself_.
Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak,
Remembering kindness is its own reward;
"Thy lover lives, and from the holy peak
Asks if these absent days good health afford--
Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.
XXXIX
With body worn as thine, with pain as deep,
With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine,
With sighs more burning than the sighs that keep
Thy lips ascorch--doomed far from thee to pine,
He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.
XL
He used to love, when women friends were near,
To whisper things he might have said aloud
That he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear;
Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud,
He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.
XLI
_According to the treatise called "Virtues
Banner," a lover has four solaces in separation:
first, looking at objects that remind
him of her he loves_;
'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines,
Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer,
Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines,
Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear--
Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.
XLII
_second, painting a picture of her_;
And when I paint that loving jealousy
With chalk upon the rock, and my caress
As at thy feet I lie, I cannot see
Through tears that to mine eyes unbidden press--
So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.
XLIII
_third, dreaming of her_;
And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight,
Mine own though but in visions of a dream--
They who behold the oft-repeated sight,
The kind divinities of wood and stream,
Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.
XLIV
_fourth, touching something which she
has touched_.
