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A History of Sanskrit Literature c15: VIII. Bhartṛhari, Amaru, Bilhaṇa, and Jayadeva

A History of Sanskrit Literature c15

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English

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VIII. Bhartṛhari, Amaru, Bilhaṇa, and Jayadeva

1. Bhartṛhari

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A HISTORY of Sanskrit lyric¹ and gnomic verse is impossible in the absence of any chronology, and, apart from minor poems which will be discussed later, our first great monument after Kālidāsa of these kinds of verse, in which Indian poets admittedly excel, is to be found in the Çatakas of Bhartṛhari. As we have them, they are handed down as three collections each theoretically of a hundred stanzas, in varied metres, of pictures of love, *Çṛṅgāraçataka*, of indifference to things of sense, *Vairāgya*, and of wise conduct, *Nīti*. It is obvious that a form like this allows of interpolation and addition, and the task of arriving at a definitive text which we can reasonably assert to be original is probably beyond our means of accomplishment. What we can say is that for a considerable number of stanzas in each of the Çatakas the concurrence of manuscript evidence renders reference to the original extremely probable. A perplexing fact is that the collections contain stanzas from well-known works such as the *Tantrākhyāyika*, the *Çakuntalā* of Kālidāsa, the *Mudrārākṣasa* of Viçākhadatta, and stanzas which in the anthologies are ascribed to authors other than Bhartṛhari. If the anthologies were trustworthy, it would be possible to deduce important results from these facts, but, as they are full of errors and frequently contradict themselves, it is hopeless to draw any chronological conclusions or to derive from these references or the stanzas from other works actually included any support for the theory that the collections are really an early anthology.²

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¹ Cf. P. E. Pavolini, *Poeti d'amore nell' India* (Florence, 1900).

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² Cf. Peterson, *Subhāṣitāvali*, pp. 74 f. ; Aufrecht, *Leipzig Catal.*, No. 417 ; Hertel, WZKM. xvi. 202 ff. ; Pathak, JBRAS. xviii. 348.

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Indian tradition, none of it early, unquestionably sets down the Çatakas as the work of one man, and does not consider them anthologies. Of this man unfortunately no clear memory remained, but, as this applies equally even to Kālidāsa, the only conclusion which can be drawn is that like that writer he belonged to a fairly early date, before authors became sufficiently self-conscious to ensure the handing down of their memory by embodying references to themselves in their poems. But we do learn from the Buddhist pilgrim I-tsing that about forty years before he wrote, therefore about 651, there died in India a grammarian, Bhartṛhari, certainly the author of the *Vākyapadīya*, the last independent contribution to Indian grammatical science. Of him I-tsing¹ tells the tale that he ever wavered between the monastic and the lay life, moving seven times between the cloister and the world in the manner permitted to Buddhists. On one occasion, when entering the monastery, he bade a student have a chariot ready for him without, that he might depart in it if worldly longings overcame his hard-won resolution. I-tsing also cites a verse in which Bhartṛhari reproaches himself for his inability to decide between the attractions of the two lives. It is natural, therefore, to accept the suggestion of Max Müller² that we have here a reference to the author of the Çatakas, though it is certain that I-tsing does not actually refer to them, for the vague terms in which he alludes to his writing on the principles of human life cannot well be treated as a real allusion to the Çatakas. It is also clear that Bhartṛhari in the Çatakas is not a Buddhist, though he, like Buddhists, arrives at counsels of freedom from desire and resignation, but a Çaiva of the Vedānta type, to whom Çiva appears as the most perfect presentation of the final reality, the Brahman. We may, of course, suppose that Bhartṛhari was once a courtier—as his reflections on the miseries of serving the great attest—and a Çaiva, and that in old age he became a Buddhist, and that I-tsing either did not learn of his Çatakas or deliberately ignored them. Or he may even have composed the Çatakas after his investigation of Buddhism had decided him upon abandoning that faith; such a fact I-tsing would not record with any pleasure, even if he knew of it. Or, if he were a mere compiler, the difficulty would disappear. It must, however, be said that it is not probable that we are to explain the notices as a confusion on the part of I-tsing of two Bhartṛharis, one older, the poet, and the grammarian, for it has been shown by very substantial evidence¹ that Bhartṛhari the grammarian was actually a Buddhist, a fact which explains in large measure the neglect accorded to his work. On the whole it seems most probable that Max Müller’s conjecture may stand.

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¹ *Records of the Buddhist Religion*, pp. 178 ff.; cf. Erm. La Terza, OC. xii, i. 201 f.

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² *India* (1883), pp. 347 ff.

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¹ Pathak, JBRAS. xviii. 341 ff.

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The question of compilation is more difficult still, and it seems unnecessary to exclude the probability that in his collections Bhartṛhari may have included work not his own, as well as verses composed by himself. Indeed, it would be difficult to find any convincing ground for suggesting that this is not the case with the *Nīti* and *Vairāgya Çatakas*.² The case of the *Çṛṅgāra-çataka*³ is different, for unquestionably there is a definite structure which may be, of course, the work of a skilled compiler, but which more naturally suggests the product of a creative mind. The Çataka opens with pictures of the beauty of women and the passion of love as it varies with the changing seasons of the year, and the joys of its fruition. We pass thence to stanzas in which the joys of dalliance are contrasted with the abiding peace brought to man by penance and wisdom, and finally the poet reaches the conviction that beauty is a delusion and a snare, that woman is sweet but poisonous as a snake on man’s way in life, that love leads only to worldly attachment, and that the true end of man lies in renunciation and in God, Çiva or Brahman. We may, therefore, adopt with moderate certainty the view that in this Çataka we have much more individual work than in the other two, though we need not suppose that Bhartṛhari held any views—quite foreign to Indian poets—which would have prevented him from including in his poem a predecessor’s work, and still less, of course, a slightly improved edition of such work. Some weight must certainly be allowed to the fact that the Indian tradition is consistent, and that it cannot be explained as in the case of the *Cāṇakya Nītiçāstra* by the fame of a name, for Bhartṛhari stands isolated.

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² Ed. K. T. Telang, BSS. 11, 1885.

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³ Ed. P. von Bohlen, Berlin, 1833; NSP. 1914. Cf. Winternitz, GIL. iii. 139 f.

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Nothing for history or chronology can be derived from the legends which make him out to have been a brother of the famed Vikramāditya, and the attempted identification of him with Bhaṭṭi, author of the *Bhaṭṭikāvya*, has no plausibility.

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Bhartṛhari’s poetry exhibits Sanskrit to the best advantage. The epics unquestionably lack life and action, their characters are stereotyped, and their descriptions, admirable in detail, tend to be over-elaborate and to lose force by this very fact. In Bhartṛhari each stanza normally can stand by itself and serves to express one idea, be it a sentiment of love, of resignation, or of policy, in complete and daintily finished form. The extraordinary power of compression which Sanskrit possesses is seen here at its best; the effect on the mind is that of a perfect whole in which the parts coalesce by inner necessity, and the impression thus created on the mind cannot be reproduced in an analytical speech like English, in which it is necessary to convey the same content, not in a single sentence syntactically merged into a whole, like the idea which it expresses, but in a series of loosely connected predications. The effect which the best stanzas of the lyric and gnomic poets achieve is essentially synthetic, as opposed to the analytic methods of modern poetry, and it follows inevitably that a series of stanzas of this kind is too heavy a burden for the mind; considered, however, each in itself, as they should be, these stanzas, like those of the Greek anthology,¹ present us with an almost infinite number of brilliant poems in miniature, on which it would often be hard to improve. It must be remembered that the use of the longer metres gives a Sanskrit poet the opportunity of compressing into a single stanza material sufficient to fill a compact English sonnet, so that there is no need to restrict within too narrow limits either the thought or the expression.

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¹ Cf. J. W. Mackail, *Select Epigrams from the Greek Anthology* (1906).

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Bhartṛhari speaks in many tones; his picture of the magnanimous man is:

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*vipadi dhairyam athābhyudaye kṣamā: sadasi vākpaṭutā yudhi vikramaḥ*
*yaçasi cābhirucir vyasanaḿ çrutau: prakṛtisiddham idaḿ hi mahātmanām.*

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‘Constancy in misfortune, gentleness in prosperity, in the council-chamber eloquence, in battle valour, delight in glory, love of holy writ: these are innate in the noble man.’ His picture of the stages of life is impressive:

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*āyur varṣaçataṁ nṛṇāṁ parimitaṁ rātrau tadardhaṁ gataṁ*
*tasyārdhasya parasya cārdham aparaṁ bālatvavṛddhatvayoḥ*
*çeṣaṁ vyādhiviyogaduḥkhasahitaṁ sevādibhir nīyate*
*jīve vāritaraṅgabudbudasame saukhyaṁ kutaḥ prāṇinām?*

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‘To man is allotted a span of a hundred years; half of that passes in sleep; of the other half, one-half is spent in childhood and old age; the rest is passed in service with illness, separation, and pain as companions. How can mortals find joy in life that is like the bubbles on the waves of the sea?’ The acts of man’s life are finely depicted in a manner in its own way as finished as Shakespeare’s:

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*kṣaṇaṁ bālo bhūtvā kṣaṇam api yuvā kāmarasikaḥ*
*kṣaṇaṁ vittair hīnaḥ kṣaṇam api ca sampūrṇavibhavaḥ*
*jarājīrṇair aṅgair naṭa iva valīmaṇḍitatanur*
*naraḥ saṁsārānte viçati yamadhānīyavanikām.*

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‘For a moment man is a boy, for a moment a lovesick youth, for a moment bereft of wealth, for a moment in the height of prosperity; then at life’s end with limbs worn out by old age and wrinkles adorning his face, like an actor, he retires behind the curtain of death.’ The utter unsatisfactoriness of life is insisted upon:

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*ākrāntaṁ maraṇena janma jarasā yāty uttamaṁ yauvanam*
*saṁtoṣo dhanalipsayā çamasukhaṁ prauḍhāṅganāvibhramaiḥ*
*lokair matsaribhir guṇā vanabhuvo vyālair nṛpā durjanair*
*asthairyeṇa vibhūtayo ’py upahatā grastaṁ na kiṁ kena vā?*

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‘By death is life assailed; by old age the delight of youth departeth, by greed contentment, the calm of inner joy through the coquetries of forward ladies; envy attacks our virtues, snakes trees, villains kings; all power is transient. What is there that another doth not overwhelm or it another?’ The might of time to obliterate all is sadly recognized:

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*sā ramyā nagarī mahān sa nṛpatiḥ sāmantacakraṁ ca tat*
*pārçve tasya ca sā vidagdhapariṣat tāç candrabimbānanāḥ*
*udvṛttaḥ sa ca rājaputranivahas te bandinas tāḥ kathāḥ*
*sarvaṁ yasya vaçād agāt smṛtipathaṁ kālāya tasmai namaḥ.*

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‘That fair city, that mighty king, the circle of vassal princes at his side, that assembly of learned men, those maidens with faces like the moon or the Bimba, that haughty ring of princes of the blood, those minstrels and their ballads—all are but memories, and to time, who hath wrought this deed, let us pay homage due.’ Yet men are blind to the fate that awaits them:

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*ādityasya gatāgatair aharahaḥ saṁkṣīyate jīvitaṁ*
*vyāpārair bahukāryabhāragurubhiḥ kālo na vijñāyate*
*dṛṣṭvā janmajarāvipattimaraṇaṁ trāsaç ca notpadyate*
*pītvā mohamayīṁ pramādamadirām unmattabhūtaṁ jagat.*

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‘With the rising and the setting of the sun man’s life day by day wears away; struggling beneath the burden of active toil we note not the passing of time; birth, age, misfortune, death we see and tremble not; the world is maddened by drinking too deep of the draught of carelessness and confusion.’ The ascetic’s life is compared with that of the king greatly to its advantage, and a touch of quiet humour enlightens the picture of the old age for which the poet pines:

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*Gaṅgātīre himagiriçilābaddhapadmāsanasya*
*brahmadhyānābhyasanavidhinā yoganidrāṁ gatasya*
*kiṁ tair bhāvyaṁ mama sudivasair yeṣu te nirviçaṅkāḥ*
*kaṇḍūyante jaṭharahariṇāḥ çṛṅgam aṅge madīye.*

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‘When will those days come when I can take my seat on Ganges’ bank on a rock of the snowy mountain, and fixing my thoughts for ever on Brahman fall into the deep sleep of contemplation, while the old deer fearlessly rub their horns on my limbs?’ The end is union and merger in the highest spirit, the absolute:

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*mātar medini tāta māruta sakhe jyotiḥ subandho jala*
*bhrātar vyoma nibaddha eṣa bhavatām antyaḥ praṇāmāñjaliḥ*
*yuṣmatsaṅgavaçopajātasukṛtodrekasphurannirmala-*
*jñānāpāstasamastamohamahimā līye pare brahmaṇi.*

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‘O mother earth, father wind, friend fire, loved kinsman water, brother ether, for the last time I clasp my hands before you in homage. I now merge in the highest Brahman, since through my abundance of good deeds, born of union with you, I have won pure and brilliant knowledge and thus have cast aside all the power of confusion.’

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Thus speaks the old man in Bhartṛhari; a very different note is struck in the stanzas which celebrate love without *arrière-pensée* or thought of the to-morrow:

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*adarçane darçanamātrakāmāḥ : dṛṣṭau pariṣvaṅgarasaikalolāḥ* *āliṅgitāyāṁ punar āyatākṣyām : āçāsmahe vigrahayor abhedam.*

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‘When we see not our loved one, we are content to long to gaze upon her; seen, our one aim is the joy of close embraces; embraced, our one prayer is that her body and our own may be made one.’ Every act, every emotion, in the beloved has its charm:

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*smitena bhāvena ca lajjayā bhiyā: parāṅmukhair ardhaka-ṭākṣavīkṣaṇaiḥ* *vacobhir īrṣyākalahena līlayā : samastabhāvaiḥ khalu bandhanaṁ striyaḥ.*

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‘Smiles, sentiment, shame, fear, glances averted, half-turned towards us, and side-long looks, loving words, jealousy, disputes, and play : all these are the weapons by which women bind us.’ It is absurd to call maidens by that name (*abalā*, feeble):

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*nūnaṁ hi te kavivarā viparītabodhā* *ye nityam āhur abalā iti kāminīnām* *yābhir vilolataratārakādṛṣṭipātaiḥ* *Çakrādayo ’pi vijitās tv abalāḥ kathaṁ tāḥ?*

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‘Feeble-minded indeed those great poets who ever say that loving maids are weak (women); how can they be deemed weak whose flashing star-like glances have laid low Çakra and other gods?’ Another graceful play on words extols love’s archery:

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*mugdhe dhanuṣmattā keyam apūrvā tava dṛçyate* *yayā vidhyasi cetāṁsi guṇair eva na sāyakaiḥ.*

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‘Without parallel, o fair one, assuredly is thy marksmanship. With thy bowstrings (charms), not thine arrows, thou dost pierce our hearts.' A pretty picture shows us the beloved in the forest:

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*viçramya viçramya vane drumāṇāṁ: chāyāsu tanvī vicacāra kācit*

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*stanottarīyeṇa karoddhṛtena: nivārayantī çaçino mayūkhān.*

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‘With many a pause midst the shade of the forest trees moved the slender girl, shielding herself from the moonbeams by raising from her bosom her outer robe.’ Two views of women are possible, as helps or hindrances:

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*saṁsāre ’sminn asāre kunṛpatibhavanadvārasevākalaṅka-

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vyāsaṅgadhvastadhairyāḥ katham amaladhiyo mānasaṁ saṁvidadhyuḥ* *yady etāḥ prodyadindudyutinicayabhṛto na syur ambhojanetrāḥ* *preṅkhatkāñcīkalāpāḥ stanabharavinamanmadhyabhāgās taruṇyaḥ.*

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‘In this unhappy world, where high courage is overwhelmed by the shame brought by waiting in the ante-chambers of evil kings, how could noble men find comfort in their hearts, were it not for the tender maidens, with the beauty of the rising moon, with lotus eyes, whose girdle-bells tinkle as their slender waists bend beneath the burden of their breasts?’

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*saṁsārodadhinistārapadavī na davīyasī*

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*antarā dustarā na syur yadi nāryo mahāpagāḥ.*

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‘The path across the ocean of life would not be long, were it not that women, those mighty unfordable streams, hinder the passage.’

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*kāminīkāyakāntāre kucaparvatadurgame*

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*mā saṁcara manaḥpāntha tatrāste smarataskaraḥ.*

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‘O wandering heart, stray not in the forest of woman’s fair body, nor in the steeps which are her breasts, for there lurks Love, the highwayman.’

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The predominant metre of Bhartṛhari is the Çārdūlavikrīḍita, which in Böhlen’s edition¹ is found in 101 verses; then comes the Çikhariṇī in 48, the Çloka in 37, the Vasantatilaka in 35; the Sragdharā and the Āryā each occur 18 times, while the Gīti variety of the Āryā type is found twice, in one case in an unusual form. Other metres are sporadic; they include the Indravajrā type, Mālinī, Hariṇī, Mandākrāntā, Pṛthvī, Drutavilambita, Vaṅçasthā—in one stanza an Indravajrā line is included—and Çālinī; Rathoddhatā and Vaitālīya each occur twice, while there is a single example of each of the Dodhaka, Puṣpitāgrā, and Mātrāsamaka of 16 *morae*.

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¹ Stanzler, ZDMG. xliv. 34 f.; Gray, JAOS. xx. 157 ff.

2. Amaru

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Like Bhartṛhari, Amaru or Amaruka—the quantity of the *u* varies—is a person of mystery. His century of stanzas,¹ like those of Bhartṛhari, is presented to us in a very different condition in the manuscripts, which have from 90 to 115 verses. Of the four recensions² which have been distinguished only fifty-one stanzas are common to all, and there is much variation in order. Moreover, some of the stanzas in the Çataka are attributed by the anthologies to other writers, while conversely they ascribe to Amaru verses not found therein. Various efforts have been made to decide the original form of the text, but the suggestion that only Çārdūlavikrīḍita verses should be admitted as genuine lacks any proof, incidentally leaving us with only sixty-one such verses to make up the century; there is more plausibility in suggesting the superior value of the text as recognized by the oldest commentator Arjunavarman (*c.* 1215), but no certainty is possible.

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¹ See R. Simon, *Das Amaruçataka* (Kiel, 1893); ZDMG. xlix. 577 ff.

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² South Indian (comm. Vemabhūpāla); Bengal (Ravicandra); that used by Arjunavarman; and a mixed recension (Rāmarudra, Rudramadeva).

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It is equally impossible to decide the date of the author. We know that the Çataka was recognized by Ānandavardhana (*c.* 850) as a work of high repute, for he cites it as a proof that a poet can in single stanzas convey so much sentiment that each appears like a poem in miniature. Further, Vāmana (*c.* 800) cites, without naming the author, three stanzas. These citations establish certainly that the Çataka dates before 750, but it is a long step from this to the conclusion that the work is of the period of Kālidāsa, and, therefore, older than Bhartṛhari. From the elaboration and perfection of the technique it seems much more probable that the poet wrote after rather than before 650.

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Unfortunately the only tradition recorded is absolutely foolish; the great sage Çaṅkara is alleged to have animated for a period the body of a king of Kashmir in order to obtain knowledge of the pleasures of love, and the Çataka is the record of his experiences with the hundred ladies of the harem. The commentator Ravicandra carries this out to the extent of finding a theosophic sub-meaning in the stanzas. Other commentators have different views. Vemabhūpāla (14th cent.), commentator of the first recension, following up the description of the poem as having as its purpose the exposition of the sentiment of love, contained in the manuscripts, seeks to show for each stanza that it describes the condition of a Nāyikā, or heroine according to the description of the text-books of poetics. Others content themselves with explaining the forms of rhetorical figures found therein. We may, however, dismiss the idea that the work was intended, like Rudra Bhaṭṭa's *Çṛṅgāratilaka*, to illustrate types of anything, whether figures or heroines.¹ The Çataka is essentially a collection of pictures of love, and it differs from the work of Bhartṛhari in that, while Bhartṛhari deals rather with general aspects of love and women as factors in life, Amaru paints the relation of lovers, and takes no thought of other aspects of life. Possibly, if the reference to the purpose in the title in the manuscripts has any value, he may have planned illustrating other sides of life, but that is idle conjecture, and we have sufficient cause to be grateful to him for what he has given us without seeking more.

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¹ See Pischel's ed. of Rudra, pp. 9–11.

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The love which Amaru likes is gay and high-spirited, delighting in tiny tiffs and lovers' quarrels, but ending in smiles; the poet hardly ever contemplates the utter disappearance of love; the maiden may be angry, but she will relent, and she is angry indeed when her lover takes her too seriously:

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*katham api sakhi krīḍākopād vrajeti mayodite*
*kaṭhinahṛdayas tyaktvā çayyāṁ balād gata eva saḥ*
*iti sarabhasadhvastapremṇi vyapetaghṛṇe spṛhām*
*punar api hatavrīḍaṁ cetaḥ karoti karomi kim?*

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‘In feigned anger, dear friend, I said to my beloved, “Depart”, and straightway the hard-hearted one sprang from our couch and left me. Now my shameless heart yearns for that cruel one who so hastily broke off our love, and what can I do?’ Means to win back the errant one may be devised by a kind confidante:

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*datto ’syāḥ praṇayas tvayaiva bhavatā seyaṁ ciraṁ lālitā*
*daivād adya kila tvam eva kṛtavān asyā navaṁ vipriyam*
*manyur duḥsaha eṣa yāty upaśamaṁ no sāntvavādaiḥ sphuṭaṁ*
*he nistriṁśa vimuktakaṇṭhakaruṇaṁ tāvat sakhī roditu.*

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‘ “Thou didst give her thy love; long hast thou cherished her; fate has decreed that to-day thou hast caused her fresh displeasure; her anger is hard to bear and words of comfort cannot stay it, o thou heartless man,” let this her friend say to melt his heart in tones that he can hear.’ The hard-hearted maiden herself is warned:

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*likhann āste bhūmiṁ bahir avanataḥ prāṇadayito*
*nirāhārāḥ sakhyaḥ satataruditocchūnanayanāḥ*
*parityaktaṁ sarvaṁ hasitapaṭhitaṁ pañjaraśukais*
*tavāvasthā ceyaṁ visṛja kaṭhine mānam adhunā.*

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‘The beloved of thy life standeth without, his head bowed down drawing figures on the ground; thy friends can eat nothing, their eyes are swollen with constant weeping; the parrots in their cages no more laugh or speak, and thine own state is this! Ah, lay aside thine anger, o hard-hearted maiden.’ And the punishment of the peccant lover is often sheer joy to both of them and her friends:

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*kopāt komalalolabāhulatikāpāśena baddhvā dṛḍhaṁ*
*nītvā mohanamandiraṁ dayitayā svairaṁ sakhīnāṁ puraḥ*
*bhūyo ’py evam iti skhalanmṛdugirā saṁsūcya duśceṣṭitaṁ*
*dhanyo hanyata eva nihnutiparaḥ preyān rudatyā hasan.*

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‘Happy the lover whom his enraged darling binds firm in the supple embrace of her arms and bears before her friends into love’s abode, to denounce his misdeeds in a soft voice that trembles as she says, “Yet once more he wronged me”, while he keeps on denying everything and laughing as she cries and pummels him.’ But the picture may be more serious if the lover will insist on going despite all:

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*yātāḥ kiṁ na milanti sundari punaś cintā tvayā matkṛte*
*no kāryā nitarāṁ kṛśāsi kathayaty evaṁ sabāṣpe mayi*
*lajjāmantharatārakeṇa nipatatpītāśruṇā cakṣuṣā*
*dṛṣṭvā māṁ hasitena bhāvimaraṇotsāhas tayā sūcitaḥ.*

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‘“Do travellers never return? Thou must not, fair one, vex thyself on my account; thou art all too thin.” So said I midst tears, but, though she laughed, her eyes filled with tears, their pupils dull with shame, betrayed her rash purpose of death to come.’ But more common is the light-hearted treatment of lovers’ quarrels:

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*ekasmiñ śayane vipakṣaramaṇīnāmagrahe mugdhayā*
*sadyaḥ kopaparāṅmukhaglapitayā cāṭūni kurvann api*
*āvegād avadhīritaḥ priyatamas tūṣṇīṁ sthitas tatkṣaṇam*
*mā bhūt supta ivety amandavalitagrīvaṁ punar vīkṣitaḥ.*

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‘As they lay together the fair maiden, hearing her rival’s name, averted her head in anger and vehemently repulsed her lover despite his flatteries. But when he stayed still, straightway she turned her neck fearing he had fallen asleep.’ A lively dialogue is compressed into the following stanza, which is a marvel of brevity:

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*bāle nātha vimuñca mānini ruṣaṁ roṣān mayā kiṁ kṛtaṁ*
*khedo ’smāsu na me ’parādhyati bhavān sarve ’parādhā mayi*
*tat kiṁ rodiṣi gadgadena vacasā kasyāgrato rudyate*
*nanv etan mama kā tavāsmi dayitā nāsmīty ato rudyate.*

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‘“Dear girl.” “My lord.” “Stay thine anger, dearest.” “What anger have I shown?” “I am sorry.” “No blame is thine, all the fault is mine.” “Then why dost thou weep and why doth thy voice tremble?” “Before whom do I weep?” “Surely before me.” “What am I to thee?” “My beloved.” “Not that am I, and so I weep.”’ A more serious note still may be struck:

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*dṛṣṭas kātaranetrayā cirataraṁ baddhvāñjaliṁ yācitaḥ*
*paścād aṁśukapallave ca vidhṛto nirvyājam āliṅgitaḥ*
*ity ākṣipya samastam evam aghṛṇo gantum pravṛttaḥ śaṭhaḥ*
*pūrvaṁ prāṇaparigraho dayitayā muktas tato vallabhaḥ.*

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‘Long she gazed on him with timid eyes, then entreated him with folded hands, then grasped the hem of his garment, next frankly embraced him; but all her advances he rejected and started to leave her, cruel deceiver; then first she abandoned her life for love, and last her beloved.' Contrast is afforded by a pretty idea:

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*kva prasthitāsi karabhoru ghane niçīthe: prāṇeçvaro vasati yatra manaḥpriyo me*
*ekākinī vada kathaṁ na bibheṣi bāle: nanv asti puṅkhitaçaro madanaḥ sahāyaḥ.*

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‘“Whither away, o fair-limbed one, in this dark night?” “Where the lord of my life, my heart’s love dwelleth.” “But tell me, lady, dost not fear to go alone?” “Is not Love with his feathered arrows my companion?”’ Very pretty is the fancy:

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*mugdhe mugdhatayaiva netum akhilaṁ kālaṁ kim ārabhyate mānaṁ dhatsva dhṛtiṁ badhāna ṛjutāṁ dūre kuru preyasi*
*sakhyaivam pratibodhitā prativacas tām āha bhītānanā nīcaiḥ çaṁsa hṛdi sthito hi nanu me prāṇeçvaraḥ çroṣyati.*

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‘“Foolish one, dost mean to spend all thy time in simple faith? Show proper pride, take courage, heed not loyalty to thy loved one.” So did her friend advise; but she all afraid made reply, “Speak low, for my beloved dwells in my heart and he will hear you.”’ Sly humour, reminding us a little of the homelier style of the poets of Mahārāṣṭra whose work is preserved in Hāla’s anthology, may be found in:

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*dampatyor niçi jalpator gṛhaçukenākarṇitaṁ yad vacas tat prātar gurusaṁnidhau nigadatas tasyātimātraṁ vadhūḥ*
*karṇālambitapadmarāgaçakalaṁ vinyasya cañcūpuṭe vrīḍārtā vidadhāti dāḍimaphalavyājena vāgbandhanam.*

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‘The house parrot overheard at night some dalliance of the young pair and in the morning began to repeat it unduly before their elders; so the young wife in shame stays his speech by putting in his beak a fragment of ruby from her earring, on the pretext of giving him a pomegranate fruit.’

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The stanzas cited show adequately the elegance and precision of Amaru’s style, his avoidance of unduly long or difficult compounds, and the effectiveness of his verse. His normal metre is the Çārdūlavikrīḍita; but the Hariṇī, Vasantatilaka, Çikhariṇī, and Sragdharā occur fairly often, while the Çloka, Drutavilambita, Mālinī, and Mandākrāntā are sporadically employed.

3. Bilhaṇa

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The author of the *Vikramāṅkadevacarita* has left us a much more interesting relic in the shape of the poem often called *Caurapañcāçikā*,¹ perhaps more correctly *Caurīsuratapañcāçikā*, fifty stanzas on a secret love. In two of the versions in which it is found, that of Kashmir² and that of South India,³ it is embedded in a poem styled *Bilhaṇakāvya*, in which, as also by the commentators, the poem is asserted to have been composed to record a secret intrigue with a princess. Discovered by the king, the poet was sentenced to death and led out for this purpose, but his recitation of the glowing verses, in which he called to his memory for the last time the joys of their secret union, induced the king to relent and permit his marriage to the princess. Thus far there is agreement, but the Kashmir version asserts that the princess was Candralekhā, daughter of Vīrasiṅha of Mahilapattana, while the southern version makes her Yāminīpūrṇatilakā, daughter of Madanābhirāma of Pañcāla. The commentator Rāma Tarkavāgīça (1798) insists⁴ that the poem is an appeal to Kālikā by the prince Sundara of Caurapallī when condemned to death by Vīrasiṅha for his intrigue with Vidyā, while the title has been explained as indicating that the poet was Caura, of whom indeed verses are extant. It is quite clear from Bilhaṇa's autobiography in his epic that he made no claim to royal intrigues, and common sense suggests that he portrayed the love of a robber chief and a princess, placing the robber in the delicate situation to which tradition assigned himself. The poem as a matter of fact merely makes it clear that the heroine was a princess; it refers to the poet's hour of death only in a probably spurious stanza, and the two stanzas prefixed to it in the Kashmir recension, even assuming their genuineness, are hard to interpret satisfactorily. The popularity of the text has rendered it most uncertain, but, as the author was a Kashmirian, and lived at a southern court, there is doubtless some reason for accepting as genuine the thirty-four stanzas vouched for by both these recensions. That from northern India agrees with both the others in seven stanzas only.

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¹ Ed. Haeberlin, 227 ff.; KM. xiii. 145-69.

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² Ed. W. Solf, Kiel, 1886.

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³ Ed. J. Ariel, JA. s. 4, xi. 469 ff. Cf. *Madras Catal.*, xx. 8004 ff. (ascribed to Corakavi).

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⁴ So in Bhāratacandra's *Vidyāsundara* (18th cent.); D. C. Sen, *Bengali Lang. and Lit.*, pp. 650 f.; *I. O. Catal.*, i. 1524.

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The Vasantatilaka stanzas depict with minute and often charming detail the past scenes of happy love, and possess an elegance which is not exhibited in the *Vikramāṅkadevacarita*, though with that poem the *Pañcāçikā* agrees in its simplicity of style, which has the great advantage of being in harmony with the tone of the poem and the feigned occasion of its recital. Nor can it be termed too long; there is sufficient variety in the ideas to prevent it becoming wearisome:

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*adyāpi tāṁ avigaṇayya kṛtāparādham: māṁ pādamūlapatitaṁ sahasā galantīm*
*vastrāñcalaṁ mama karān nijaṁ ākṣipantīm: mā meti roṣaparuṣaṁ bruvatīṁ smarāmi.*

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‘Even to-day do I see her, as, heedless of my falling at her feet to expiate my offence, she rushed away, flung off my hand from the hem of her garment, and in anger cried out, “No, never!”’

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*adyāpi tāṁ rahasi darpaṇaṁ īkṣamāṇāṁ: saṁkrāntamatpratinibhaṁ mayi pṛṣṭhalīne*
*paçyāmi vepathumatīṁ ca sasambhramāṁ ca: lajjākulāṁ samadanāṁ ca savibhramāṁ ca.*

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‘Even to-day I do see her secretly gazing at the mirror in which I was pictured while I stood behind her, all atremble and confused, utterly shamed between love and distraction.’

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*adyāpi tāṁ mayi samīpakavāṭalīne: manmārgamuktadṛçaṁ ānanadattahastām*
*madgotraliṅgitapadaṁ mṛdukākalībhiḥ: kiṁcic ca gātumanasaṁ manasā smarāmi.*

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‘Even to-day do I see her, as, head resting on her hand and eyes fixed on my path—though in truth I was hidden behind the door near by—she sought to sing in sweet tones a verse into which she had woven my name.’ The imitation of the *Meghadūta* is obvious, but elegant and attractive.

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*adyāpi tāṁ bhujalatārpitakaṇṭhapāçāṁ: vakṣaḥsthalaṁ mama pidhāya payodharābhyām*
*īṣannimīlitasalīlavilocanāntāṁ: paçyāmi mugdhavadanāṁ vadanaṁ pibantīm.*

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‘Even to-day do I see the fair arms that encircled my neck, when she clasped me close to her breast, and pressed her dear face against my own in a kiss, while her playful eyes half closed in ecstasy.’

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*adyāpi me varatanor madhurāṇi tasyā: yāny arthavanti na ca yāni nirarthakāni*
*nidrānimīlitadṛco madamantharāyās: tāny akṣarāṇi hṛdaye kim api dhvananti.*

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‘Even to-day here echo in my heart the words—sweet whether they bore meaning or not—of my fair one, when her eyes were shut in sleep and she was heavy with our love-play.’ It seems as if there were deliberate purpose in mentioning the princess’s rank in a verse with a distinct touch of humour, alluding as it does to the Indian fashion of addressing a man who sneezed with the words ‘Live on’:

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*adyāpi tan manasi samparivartate me: rātrau mayi kṣutavati kṣitipālaputryā*
*jīveti maṅgalavacaḥ parihṛtya kopāt: karṇe kṛtaṁ kanakapattram anālapantyā.*

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‘Even to-day do I think how, when I sneezed at night, the princess would not wish me the wonted blessing of “Live on”, but in silence placed on my ear an ornament of gold.’ The gold brings life, and thus served in lieu of the benediction.

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*adyāpi tām praṇayinīm mṛgaçābakākṣīm: pīyūṣavarṇakucakumbhayugaṁ vahantīm*
*paçyāmy ahaṁ yadi punar divasāvasāne: svargāpavargavararājyasukhaṁ tyajāmi.*

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‘Could I but see at the close of day once more my love with the eyes of a fawn, and milk-white rounded breasts, gladly would I sacrifice the highest joys of here and hereafter.’

4. Jayadeva

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To the reign of Lakṣmaṇasena¹ in Bengal belongs the last great name in Sanskrit poetry, Jayadeva, son of Bhojadeva of Kindubilva, and with Govardhana, Dhoī, Çaraṇa, and Umāpatidhara, one of the five jewels which adorned the court. We have preserved of him one tiny Hindī poem, a eulogy of Hari Govind, claimed to be the oldest in the *Ādi Granth* of the Sikhs, and many legends are told in the *Bhakt Mālā* of his devotion to Kṛṣṇa, who himself aided him to describe the loveliness of Rādhā when his mortal powers failed. It is strange that we should have nothing else from a man so talented, but at any rate he achieved in its own way a perfect and very novel work of art in the *Gītagovindakāvyam*, or *Gītagovinda*,¹ the poem in which Govinda, Kṛṣṇa as lord of the herdsmen and their wives, is sung. The fame of the author is attested by the fact that in his honour for centuries there was held each year at his birthplace a festival, in which during the night the songs of his poem were sung. Pratāparudradeva in 1499 ordered that the dancers and Vaiṣṇava singers should learn his songs only, and an inscription of 1292 already cites a verse. Hence his own claim that he is over-king of poets (*kavirājarāja*) has been justified in his own land, while even through the distorting medium of Sir William Jones’s version his high qualities attracted the praise which Goethe² also lavished on Kālidāsa’s *Meghadūta* and *Çakuntalā*.

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¹ Cf. EHI. pp. 419 ff., 431 ff. ; M. Chakravarti, JPASB. 1906, pp. 163 ff. ; R. C Majumdar, JPASB. 1921, pp. 7 ff. (1175–1200); above, p. 53 n. 4.

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¹ Ed. C. Lassen (1836); NSP. 1923; trans. F. Rückert, ZKM. i. 128 ff.; G. Courtillier, *Paris*, 1904.

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² *Werke*, xxxvii. 210 f.

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The form of the poem is extremely original, and has led to the belief that we have in the poem a little pastoral drama, as Jones called it, or a lyric drama, as Lassen styled it, or a refined Yātrā, as von Schroeder preferred to term it. Pischel and Lévi, on the other hand, placed it in the category between song and drama, on the ground *inter alia* that it is already removed from the Yātrā type of dramatic performance by the fact that the transition verses are put in definite form and not left to improvisation, but Pischel also styles it a melodrama. The facts are, however, satisfactorily clear and allow of greater precision of statement. The poet divides the poem into cantos, which is a clear sign that he recognized it to belong to the generic type Kāvya, and that he did not mean it to be a dramatic performance with the division into acts, interludes, and so forth. On the other hand, he had before his mind when he wrote the Yātrās of Bengal, where in honour of Kṛṣṇa in a primitive form of drama dances accompanied by music and song were performed, and in inserting as the most vital element in his poem such songs he doubtless foresaw the use that would be made of them both in the temples and at festivals. The songs are given to us in the manuscripts with precise indication by technical terms of the melody (*rāga*) and time (*tāla*) of the music¹ and dance which they were to accompany, and the poet definitely bids us think of songs as being performed in this way before our mental eyes. To conceive of writing such a poem was a remarkable piece of originality, for it was an immense step from the popular songs of the Yātrās to produce so remarkably beautiful and finished a work.

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¹ Soma, son of Mudgala, in his *Rāgavibodha* gives the music for the songs; cf. S. M. Tagore, *Hindu Music* (1875), i. 159.

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The art of the poet displays itself effectively in the mode in which song and recitative are blended and the skill with which monotony of form is avoided by not restricting the recitative to mere introductory verses explaining the situation, while the songs express in their turn the feelings of the personnel of the poem, Kṛṣṇa, his favourite Rādhā, and the faithful friend, who is the essential confidante of every Indian heroine. Recitative is used for occasional narrative verses to explain the situation, but also in brief descriptions, and, as a mode of securing variety, in speeches which serve as an alternative to songs as the mode of intimating the sentiments of the characters. There is thus no stereotyped form; the recitative and the song, narrative, description, and speeches are cunningly interwoven, all with deliberate purpose. The first canto, which contains four of the twenty-four Prabandhas, songs, into which the poem is also divided, exhibits in perfection the complex structure. The poet begins with four verses, in the last of which he celebrates himself and his fellow-poets; then the first Prabandha begins, consisting of a hymn in eleven stanzas sung in honour of the ten incarnations of Viṣṇu, and ending with a mention of the author, whose hymn Kṛṣṇa is entreated to hear; each stanza ends with the refrain, ‘Conquer, o lord of the world, o Hari.’ This closes the Prabandha, and a single stanza, doubtless recited, follows, in which the poet sums up the forms of Viṣṇu which the hymn has glorified. Prabandha ii opens with another hymn in nine stanzas sung in honour of the god, each ending with the refrain, ‘Conquer, conquer, o god, o Hari.' At the close of the Prabandha and before the next is a recited stanza invoking a benediction from Kṛṣṇa. Prabandha iii consists of a recited verse telling how Rādhā's friend spoke to her in the spring and then sings in eight stanzas¹ how Kṛṣṇa is dancing with the cowherdesses in the groves. Three stanzas in recitative follow, describing the spring, and ending with the statement that Rādhā's friend once more addressed her, and Prabandha iv consists of a song in eight stanzas in which she describes how the loving maidens flock to Kṛṣṇa and embrace him in their passion. Then three stanzas of recitative follow, the first two descriptive, the last a benediction. Canto ii tells us first of Rādhā's dejection and gives her song of complaint against her lover (Prabandha v), followed by a stanza of recitative, introducing another song (vi) in which she expresses her deep longing for the god. Then in two recited stanzas she celebrates the god, while the poet in the last stanza invokes the usual benediction.

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¹ This is the normal number, and hence the poem figures as *Aṣṭapadī* in the south. Cf. Śeshagiri, *Report*, 1893–4, pp. 60 ff.

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In Canto iii Kṛṣṇa appears in person; remorse and longing for Rādhā have seized him; two recited verses describe his state, and Prabandha vii gives his song of love. This is followed by recited verses addressed by him, first to the god of love, and then to Rādhā herself, and the poet closes the canto with a prayer to Kṛṣṇa as the lover of Rādhā to confer fortune and happiness on the hearers. In Canto iv Rādhā s friend addresses Kṛṣṇa and in two songs (viii and ix) depicts the yearnings of her mistress and her deep sorrow at separation from her beloved. A benediction ends the canto. In the next two we find Rādhā's friend urging in three fine songs (x–xii) reconciliation of her mistress with Kṛṣṇa. But in Canto vii we find that the faithless god has not come, and the moon's rising heightens Rādhā's love, to which she gives expression in four passionate songs (xiii–xvi). He appears, but she addresses hím again in a song (xvii) expressing her resentment, followed by recitative in the same sense (viii). Her companion seeks by a song (xviii) to console her (ix), and Kṛṣṇa himself appears and sings (xix) to her (x). There still remains Rādhā's reluctance and shyness to be overcome in three songs by her friend (xi); but all is secure at last, and the poem closes with songs in which Kṛṣṇa addresses his beloved and she replies.

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The poet invokes the usual benediction, and extols his own knowledge of music, his devotion to Viṣṇu, his delicate discrimination of sentiments, and his poetical charm and grace.

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Efforts have been made to establish that the poem has a mystical significance and to interpret it in this sense. The desire in part at least has been prompted by the feeling that the loves of Kṛṣṇa and Rādhā are too essentially of the body rather than of the mind, and that to ascribe them to the divinity is unworthy. But this is to misunderstand Indian feeling. The classical poets one and all see no harm in the love-adventures of the greatest deities, and what Kālidāsa did in the *Kumārasambhava* was repeated by all his successors in one form or another. But, on the other hand, it must not be forgotten that the religion of Jayadeva was the fervent Kṛṣṇa worship which found in the god the power which is ever concerned with all the wishes, the hopes and fears of men, which, if in essence infinite and ineffable, yet expresses itself in the form of Kṛṣṇa, and which sanctions in his amours the loves of mankind. In this sense Jayadeva’s work is deeply touched with the spirit of religion, and stands like the *Bakchai* of Euripides utterly apart from the attitude of the Alexandrine poets or Propertius and Ovid in their treatment of the legends of the gods. To Kallimachos as much as to his Roman imitators the gods and goddesses were no more than names, at best elegant symbols of a higher reality, but without real life of their own. Roman poets could here and there catch the tone of seriousness as in the atheist Lucretius’ famous exordium to the mother of the Aeneidae, darling of gods and men, increase-giving Venus, and still more in Catullus’ extraordinary if repellent picture of the adorer of Cybele who becomes as Attis. But neither Lucretius nor Catullus was himself a believer, and all doubt, all scepticism are far from Jayadeva, to whom alike in his play with others and in his more abiding love for Rādhā Kṛṣṇa remained not merely divine, but the embodiment of the highest of gods.

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Jayadeva’s work is a masterpiece, and it surpasses in its completeness of effect any other Indian poem. It has all the perfection of the miniature word-pictures which are so common in Sanskrit poetry, with the beauty which arises as Aristotle asserts from magnitude and arrangement. All the sides of love, save that of utter despair and final separation, are brilliantly described; all the emotions of longing, of awakened hope, of disappointment, of hot anger against the unfaithful one, of reconciliation, are portrayed by the actors themselves or Rādhā's friend in songs which are perfect in metrical form and display at its highest point the sheer beauty of words of which Sanskrit is pre-eminently capable. There can be no doubt that in their wider range of interests, in which love plays a part important indeed but not paramount in human affairs, Aischylos, Sophokles, and Euripides can attain in their choruses effects more appealing to our minds than Jayadeva, but their medium is not capable of producing so complete a harmony of sound and sense. We are apt to regard with impatience the insistence of the writers on poetics on classing styles largely by the sounds preferred by different writers, but there is no doubt that the effects of different sounds were more keenly appreciated in India than they are by us, and in the case of the *Gītagovinda* the art of wedding sound and meaning is carried out with such success that it cannot fail to be appreciated even by ears far less sensitive than those of Indian writers on poetics. The result, however, of this achievement is to render any translation useless as a substitute for the original; if to be untranslatable is a proof of the attainment of the highest poetry Jayadeva has certainly claim to that rank.

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The poet's effects are not produced by any apparently elaborate effort, nor is he guilty of straining language; his compounds are often fairly long but they are not obscure; in poems which were to be sung and to be used at popular festivals artificiality was obviously out of place, and, though they can never have been intelligible to the mass of their admirers without the readily given aid of vernacular interpretations, the songs are such as, once explained, would doubtless easily be comprehended and learned. Canto ix exhibits the poet's effective simplicity:

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*Harir abhisarati vahati madhupavane: kim aparam adhika-sukhaṁ sakhi bhavane*
*Mādhave mā kuru mānini mānam aye.*
*tālaphalād api gurum atirasasam: kiṁ viphalīkuruṣe kucaka-lasam: Mādhave*
*kati na kathitam idam anupadam aciram: mā parihara Harim atiçayaruciram: Mādhave*

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*kim iti viṣīdasi rodiṣi vikalā: vihasati yuvatisabhā tava sakalā: Mādhave*
*mṛdunalinīdalaçītalaçayane: Harim avalokaya saphalaya nayane: Mādhave*
*janayasi manasi kim iti gurukhedam: çṛṇu mama vacanam anīhitabhedam: Mādhave*
*Harir upayātu vadatu bahumadhuram: kim iti karoṣi hṛdayam atividhuram: Mādhave*
*çrījayadevabhaṇitam atilalitam: sukhayatu rasikajanaṁ Haricaritam: Mādhave*
‘Hari cometh, as the spring wind bloweth; what joy more perfect hast thou in thy home, dear one? Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. Why dost thou waste the fairness of thy bosom, lovelier far than the palm fruit? Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. How often have I not told thee, at every moment? Reject not Hari who is exceeding fair. Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. Why art despondent, tearful and dejected? All the young company doth make mock of thee. Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. On the couch cooled by the soft lotus petals gaze upon Hari, give thine eyes their fruition. Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. Why dost kindle in thy mind deep sorrow? Hearken to my warning that seeketh not to part you. Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. Let Hari come and speak to thee long and tenderly. Why dost thou so harden thy heart against him? Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava. May this tale of Hari, spoken by Jayadeva, by its sweetness delight all men of taste. Noble one, be not wroth with Mādhava.’

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Not less pretty is the invitation to Rādhā by her companion to enter into the grove where Kṛṣṇa, pining for reconciliation and the fruition of his love, awaits her:

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*mañjutarakuñjatalakelisadane: praviça Rādhe Mādhavasamīpam iha*
*vilasa ratirabhasahasitavadane.*
*navabhavadaçokadalaçayanasāre: praviça Rādhe Mādhavasamīpam iha*
*vilasa kucakalasataralahāre.*
*kusumacayaracitaçucivāsagehe: praviça Rādhe Mādhavasamīpam iha*
*vilasa kusumasukumāradehe.*

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‘In his playground neath the lovely thicket, come, o Rādhā, to Mādhava, thy face all smiling with the eagerness of love. In his grove with young Açoka shoots as thy couch, come, o Rādhā, to Mādhava, play with him, as thy necklet quivers on the cups of thy bosom. In this bright home wrought of many a flower, come, o Rādhā, to Mādhava, play with him, thou whose body is tender as a flower.’ Equally brilliant is the picture drawn by her friend of the delights of Kṛṣṇa with his loving maidens around him in the grove, though the effect is produced by the accumulation of long compounds:

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*candanacarcitanīlakalevarapītavasanavanamālī*
*kelicalanmaṇikuṇḍalamaṇḍitagaṇḍayugasmitaçālī*
*Harir iha mugdhavadhūnikare: vilasini vilasati kelipare.*
*pīnapayodharabhārabhareṇa Harim parirabhya sarāgam*
*gopavadhūr anugāyati kācid udañcitapañcamarāgam: Harir*
*kāpi vilāsavilolavilocanakhelanajanitamanojam*
*dhyāyati gopavadhūr adhikam Madhusūdanavadanasarojam:*
*Harir*

c15.s4.20

‘His black body sandal-bedecked, clad in yellow, begarlanded, with his earrings dancing on his cheeks as he sporteth, smiling ever, Hari here midst the band of loving maidens maketh merry in the merriment of their sport. One of the maidens claspeth Hari fast to her throbbing heart, and singeth in the high Pañcama key. Yet another doth stand deeply dreaming of Madhusūdana’s lotus face, whose sportive glances have caught and won her heart for its own.’

c15.s4.21

It has been claimed¹ that the work goes back to an original in Apabhraṅça, and the ground adduced is the use of rime. This, however, clearly overstates the position; it is utterly improbable that the original of the poem was ever in anything but Sanskrit, and the most that can be said is that the use of rime which is regular in Apabhraṅça poems may have influenced the author of the *Gītagovinda*. But in Sanskrit poetry such rime² as we find probably is to be derived from the fondness for Yamakas, the repetition of groups of syllables; when this repetition takes place at the end of lines in a stanza we have an approximation to rime. Yamakas are dealt with at length by the older school of poetics, and they are frequently found in Prākrit; indeed, Hemacandra prescribes for the Galitaka metre, frequently used in Prākrit poems, the use of Yamakas at the end of the lines. In Apabhraṁça poetry Yamakas seem to have been allowed also. True rime, that is when the consonant preceding the corresponding vowel differs, is ignored by the earlier writers on poetics and is first defined as Antyānuprāsa, alliteration at the end, by the *Sāhityadarpaṇa*; Hemacandra, however, in his *Chando'nuçāsana* has occasion to mention it and to distinguish it as Anuprāsa from the mere Yamaka. When used in Sanskrit poetry, it is in the main more or less accidental and is not regularly employed, nor is it common in Prākrit. The frequency with which it is approached in Jayadeva may, therefore, be due in some degree to Apabhraṁça influence. It may be noted also that the metre of the poem is essentially based on the Gaṇa system¹ in which the determining principle is the number of feet of four *morae*, substitution of a long for two shorts and vice versa thus being permitted and freely resorted to.²

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