The Birth of Kumāra 1.15

1.15

bhāgīrathīnirjharasikarāṇāṃ voḍhā muhamaḥ kampitadevadāruḥ |
yadvāyuranviṣṭamṛgaiḥ kirātairāsevyate bhinnaśiśaṇḍibarhaḥ ||

Why lingers yet the Heavenly Minstrel's bride
On the wild path that skirts Himálaya's side?—
Cold to her tender feet—oh, cold—the snow,
Why are her steps—her homeward steps—so slow?
'Tis that her slender ancles scarce can bear
The weight of beauty that impedes her there;
Each rounded limb, and all her peerless charms,
That broad full bosom, those voluptuous arms.
E'en the wild kine that roam his forests bring
The royal symbols to the Mountain-king,—
With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hair
Flashes like moonlight through the parted air;
What monarch's fan more glorious might there be,
More meet to wave before such majesty?
There, when the Nymphs, within the cave's recess,
In modest fear their gentle limbs undress.
Descending clouds hang fondly round to shade
The blushing beauties of each mountain maid.
With pearly dew-drops Ganga loads the gale,
That waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale,
And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the face
Of wearied hunters when they quit the chase.
Spread on the tranquil pool so sweetly sleep
The Lotus-flowers upon Himálaya's steep,
That the bright Seven who star the northern sky
Cull each a blossom from their seats on high;
And when the Sun pours forth his morning glow
In streams of glory from his path below,
They gain new beauty as his kisses break
His darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.