Part 48 (1/2)

And one thing more: thou layest once asleep, Clasping my neck, then wakening with a scream; And when I wondered why, thou couldst but weep A while, and then a smile began to beam: ”Rogue! Rogue! I saw thee with another girl in dream.”

XLIX

This memory shows me cheerful, gentle wife; Then let no gossip thy suspicions move: They say the affections strangely forfeit life In separation, but in truth they prove Toward the absent dear, a growing bulk of tenderest love.'”

L

_The Yaksha then begs the cloud to return with a message of comfort_.

Console her patient heart, to breaking full In our first separation; having spoken, Fly from the mountain ploughed by s.h.i.+va's bull; Make strong with message and with tender token My life, so easily, like morning jasmines, broken.

LI

I hope, sweet friend, thou grantest all my suit, Nor read refusal in thy solemn air; When thirsty birds complain, thou givest mute The rain from heaven: such simple hearts are rare, Whose only answer is fulfilment of the prayer.

LII

_and dismisses him, with a prayer for his welfare_.

Thus, though I pray unworthy, answer me For friends.h.i.+p's sake, or pity's, magnified By the sight of my distress; then wander free In rainy loveliness, and ne'er abide One moment's separation from thy lightning bride.

THE SEASONS

_The Seasons_ is an unpretentious poem, describing in six short cantos the six seasons into which the Hindus divide the year. The t.i.tle is perhaps a little misleading, as the description is not objective, but deals with the feelings awakened by each season in a pair of young lovers. Indeed, the poem might be called a Lover's Calendar.

Kalidasa's authors.h.i.+p has been doubted, without very cogent argument.

The question is not of much interest, as _The Seasons_ would neither add greatly to his reputation nor subtract from it.

The whole poem contains one hundred and forty-four stanzas, or something less than six hundred lines of verse. There follow a few stanzas selected from each canto.

SUMMER

Pitiless heat from heaven pours By day, but nights are cool; Continual bathing gently lowers The water in the pool; The evening brings a charming peace: For summer-time is here When love that never knows surcease, Is less imperious, dear.

Yet love can never fall asleep; For he is waked to-day By songs that all their sweetness keep And lutes that softly play, By fans with sandal-water wet That bring us drowsy rest, By strings of pearls that gently fret Full many a lovely breast.

The sunbeams like the fires are hot That on the altar wake; The enmity is quite forgot Of peac.o.c.k and of snake; The peac.o.c.k spares his ancient foe, For pluck and hunger fail; He hides his burning head below The shadow of his tail.

Beneath the garland of the rays That leave no corner cool, The water vanishes in haze And leaves a muddy pool; The cobra does not hunt for food Nor heed the frog at all Who finds beneath the serpent's hood A sheltering parasol.

Dear maiden of the graceful song, To you may summer's power Bring moonbeams clear and garlands long And breath of trumpet-flower, Bring lakes that countless lilies dot, Refres.h.i.+ng water-sprays, Sweet friends at evening, and a spot Cool after burning days.

THE RAINS