Last Poems Part 8

Three months I waited: all the village talked, And ever anxiously she urged our flight.

Yet still I lingered, till her beauty paled, And wearily she came to me at night.

Then, seeing Love, subservient to Revenge, Had well achieved his own creative end, And in his work must soon be manifest, Compa.s.sing thus my duty to my friend,

One tranquil, sultry night I rode away Till far behind the purple hills were dim, Exulting in my spirit, "Thus I leave Her to her fate, and my revenge to him!"

Swiftly he struck, her lord; the body lay With hacked-off b.r.e.a.s.t.s, dishonoured, in the Pa.s.s.

Months later, riding lonely through the gorge, I saw it still, among the long-grown gra.s.s.

It was well done; my soul is satisfied.

Friendship is sweet, and Love is sweeter still, But Vengeance has a savour all its own-- A strange delight--well known to those who kill.

Such was the story Afzul told to me, While wood-fires crackled in the evening breeze, And blows on hammered tent-pegs stirred the air Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees.

Tent-like, above, up-held by jagged peaks, The heavy purple of the tranquil sky Shed its oft-broken promises of peace, While twinkling stars bemocked the worn-out lie!

Nay, not To-night

Nay, not to-night;--the slow, sad rain is falling Sorrowful tears, beneath a grieving sky, Far off a famished jackal, faintly calling, Renders the dusk more lonely with its cry.

The mighty river rushes, sobbing, seawards, The shadows shelter faint mysterious fears, I turn mine eyes for consolation theewards, And find thy lashes tremulous with tears.

If some new soul, asearch for incarnation, Should, through our kisses, enter Life again, It would inherit all our desolation, All the soft sorrow of the slanting rain.

When thou desirest Love's supreme surrender, Come while the morning revels in the light, Bulbuls around us, pa.s.sionately tender, Singing among the roses red and white.

Thus, if it be my sweet and sacred duty, Subservient to the G.o.ds' divine decree, To give the world again thy vivid beauty, I should transmit it with my joy in thee.

I could not if I would, Beloved, deceive thee.

Wouldst thou not feel at once a feigned caress?

Yet, do not rise, I would not have thee leave me, My soul needs thine to share its loneliness.

Let the dim starlight, when the low clouds sunder, Silver the perfect outline of thy face.

Such faces had the saints; I only wonder That thine has sought my heart for resting-place.

The Dying Prince

There are no days for me any more, for the dawn is dark with tears, There is no rest for me any more, for the night is thick with fears.

There are no flowers nor any fruit, for the sorrowful locusts came, And the garden is but a memory, the vineyard only a name.

There is no light in the empty sky, no sail upon the sea, Birds are yet on their nests perchance, but they sing no more to me.

Past--vanished--faded away--all the joys that were.

My youth died down in a swift decline when they married her to despair.

"My lord, the crowd in the Audience Hall; how long wilt thou have them wait?"

I have given my father's younger son the guidance of the State.

"The steeds are saddled, the Captains call for the orders of the day."

Tell them that I shall ride no more to the hunting or the fray.

"Sweet the scent of the Moghra flowers;" Brother, it may be so.

"The young, flushed spring is with us again." Is it? I did not know.

"The Zamorin's daughter draweth near, on slender golden feet;"

Oh, a curse upon all sweet things say I, to whom they are no more sweet!

Dost think that a man as sick as I can compa.s.s a woman's ease?

That the sons of a man who is like to me could ever find rest or peace?

Tell them to marry them where they will, if their longing be so sore, Such are the things that all men seek, but I shall seek no more.

All my muscles are fallen in, and the blood deserts my veins, Every fibre and bone of me is waxen full of pains, The iron feet of mine enemy's curse are heavy upon my head, Look at me and judge for thyself, thou seest I am but dead.

"Then, who is it, Prince, who has done this thing, has sown such a bitter seed, That we hale him forth to the Market-place, bind him and let him bleed, That the flesh may shudder and wince and writhe, reddening 'neath the rod."

Love is the evil-doer, alas! and how shalt thou scourge a G.o.d?

The Hut

Dear little Hut by the rice-fields circled, That cocoa-nuts shade above.

I hear the voices of children singing, And that means love.

When shall the traveller's march be over, When shall his wandering cease?

This little homestead is bare and simple, And that means peace.

Nay! to the road I am not unfaithful; In tents let my dwelling be!

I am not longing for Peace or Pa.s.sion From any one else but thee, My Krishna, Any one else but thee!

My Paramour was Loneliness

My paramour was loneliness And lying by the sea, Soft songs of sorrow and distress He did beget in me.

Later another lover came More meet for my desire, "Radiant Beauty" was his name; His sons had wings of fire!

The Rice was under Water

The Rice was under water, and the land was scourged with rain, The nights were desolation, and the day was born in pain.

Ah, the famine and the fever and the cruel, swollen streams, I had died, except for Krishna, who consoled me--in my dreams!

The Burning-Ghats were smoking, and the jewels melted down, The Temples lay deserted, for the people left the town.

Yet I was more than happy, though pa.s.sing strange it seems, For I spent my nights with Krishna, who loved me--in my dreams!