The Birth of Kumāra 4.p5

4.p5

Yes, I will fly to thee, of thee bereft.
And leave this world which thou, my life, hast left—
Cold, gloomy, now this wretched world must be.
For all its pleasures came from only thee.
When night has veiled the city in its shade
Thou, only thou, canst soothe the wandering maid,
And guide her trembling at the thunder's roar
Safe through the darkness to her lover's door.
In vain the wine-cup, as it circles by,
Lisps in her tongue and sparkles in her eye,
Long locks are streaming, and the cheek glows red,
But all is mockery, Love—dear Love—is dead.
The Moon, sweet spirit, shall lament for thee.
Late, dim, and joyless shall his rising be,—
Days shall fly on, and he forget to take
His full bright glory, mourning for thy sake.
Say, Káma, say, whose arrow now shall be
The soft green shoot of thy dear Mango tree.
The favourite spray which Köils love so well,
And praise in sweetest strain its wondrous spell?
This line of bees which strings thy useless bow
Hums mournful echo to my cries of woe;
Come in thy lovely shape and teach again
The Köil's mate, that knows the tender strain.
Her gentle task to waft to longing ears
The lover's hope, the distant lover's fears.
Come, bring once more that ecstasy of bliss.
The fond dear look, the smile, and ah! that kiss!
Fainting with woe, my soul refuses rest
When memory pictures how I have been blest.
See, thou didst weave a garland, love, to deck
With all Spring's fairest buds thy Reti's neck;
Sweet are those flowers as they were culled to-day,
And is my Káma's form more frail than they?
His pleasant task my lover had begun.
But stern Gods took him ere the work was done;
Return, my Káma, at thy Reti's cry,
One foot 's untinted with the rosy dye.
Now will I hie me to the fatal pile,
And ere Heaven's Maids have hailed thee with a smile,
Or on my love their winning glances thrown,
I will be there, and claim thee for mine own;
Yet though I come, my lasting shame will be
That I have lived one moment after thee.
Ah, how shall I thy funeral rites prepare,
Gone soul and body to the viewless air?
With thy dear Spring I've seen thee talk and smile.
Shaping an arrow for thy bow the while;
Where is he now, thy darling friend, the giver
Of many a bright sweet arrow for thy quiver?
Is he too sent upon death's dreary path,
Scorched by the cruel God's inexorable wrath?"