The Birth of Kumāra 4.46

4.46

atha madanavadhūrupaplavāntaṃ vyasanakṛśā paripālayāṃ babhūva |
śaśina iva divātanasya lekhā kiraṇaparikṣayadhūsarā pradoṣam ||

A heavenly voice breathed round her from above
As Reti thus complained in faithful love.
Falling in pity like the gentle rain
That brings the dying herbs to life again:—
"Bride of the flower-armed God, thy lord shall be
Not ever distant, ever deaf to thee;
Give me thine ear, sad lady, I will tell
Why perished Káma, whom thou lovedst well—
The Lord of Life in every troubled sense
Too warmly felt his fair child's influence;
He quenched the fire, but mighty vengeance came
On Káma, fanner of the unholy flame;
When Siva by her penance won has led
Himálaya's daughter to her bridal bed,
His bliss to Káma shall the God repay
And give again the form he snatched away.
Thus did the gracious God, at Justice' prayer,
The term of Love's sad punishment declare—
The High, like clouds, are fierce and gentle too.
Now hurl the bolt, now drop sweet heavenly dew.
Live, widowed lady, for thy lover's arms
Shall clasp again—oh, fondly clasp—thy charms;
In summer-heat the streamlet dies away
Beneath the fury of the God of Day;
Then, in due season, comes the pleasant rain,
And all is fresh, and fair, and full again."
Thus breathed the spirit from the viewless air,
And stilled the raging of her wild despair;
While Spring consoled with every soothing art,
Cheered by that voice from heaven, the mourner's heart,
Who watched away the hours, so sad and slow,
That brought the limit of her weary woe,
As the pale Moon, quenched by the conquering light
Of garish day, longs for its own dear night.

4.46.p1

iti śrīkālidāsakṛtau kumārasambhave mahākāvye rativilāpo nāma caturthaḥ sargaḥ sampūrṇaḥ ||