Translations Of Shakuntala And Other Works Part 39

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often 'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true, But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften: Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken So newly, I should fail to find thy track; Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken, For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden Through veils of midnight darkness in the town To the eager heart with loving fancies laden, And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances, That bids the love-word trippingly to glide, Is now deception; for if flashing glances Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance, Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain, Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance, And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding On twigs where pink is struggling with the green, Greeted by kol-birds sweet concert holding-- Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention, To speed the missile when the bow is bent?

They buzz about me now with kind intention, And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! a.s.sume again thy radiant beauty!

Rebuke the kol-bird, whom nature taught Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty As messenger to bosoms pa.s.sion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion, Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest By fervent, self-surrendering devotion-- And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland, Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!

Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel G.o.ds demanded, Meant service to thy wife left incomplete, My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded-- Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given, A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire, Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven, Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated For evermore a deep reproach to prove, A stain that may not be obliterated, If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?

So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow, The bow slung careless on thy breast the while, Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow, Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of pa.s.sion, Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?"

Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm, Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

And at the sight of him, she wept the more, And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast; For lamentation finds an open door In the presence of the friends we love the best.

Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!

In place of him thou seekest, what is found?

A something that the winds of heaven scatter, A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging, Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot; Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing; Man's love for man abides and changes not.

With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string, Reduced men, giants, G.o.ds to thy dominion-- The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning, A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain; And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning, Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter, For I am left. And yet the clinging vine Must fall, when falls the st.u.r.dy tree that taught her Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

So then, fulfil for me the final mission Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part; Commit me to the flames (my last pet.i.tion) And speed the widow to her husband's heart.

The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking; Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far; Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making, Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes Of him I loved with all a woman's powers; Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes, As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped; Unto the end thy friendly office keeping, Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

And fan the flame to which I am committed With southern winds; I would no longer stay; Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted For Love, my love, when I was far away.

And sprinkle some few drops of water, given In friendship, on his ashes and on me; That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying; Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower Sweet mango-cl.u.s.ters to the winds replying; For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower."

As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry, That showed her mercy, as the early rain Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:

"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why He perished like the moth, when he had crossed The dreadful G.o.d, in fire from Shiva's eye.

When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame, To shame his daughter with impure desire, He checked the horrid sin without a name, And cursed the G.o.d of love to die by fire.

But Virtue interceded in behalf Of Love, and won a softening of the doom: 'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,

He shall unite Love's body with the soul, A marriage-present to his mountain bride.'

As clouds hold fire and water in control, G.o.ds are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.

So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet For dear reunion after present pain; The stream that dwindles in the summer heat, Is reunited with the autumn rain."

Invisibly and thus mysteriously The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death; And Spring, believing where he might not see, Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.

The wife of Love awaited thus the day, Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power, As the waning moon laments her darkened ray And waits impatient for the twilight hour.

_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_.--Parvati reproaches her own beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover." She therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and a.s.sumes the hermit's dress of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered, for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the G.o.d Shiva himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a b.l.o.o.d.y elephant-hide upon his back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself and the object of her love.

Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought Of such as you: then speak no more to me.

Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.

They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears, Or they who fain would rise a little higher; The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.

Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source; This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone; Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force: Think you his inmost nature can be known?

All forms are his; and he may take or leave At will, the snake, or gem with l.u.s.tre white; The b.l.o.o.d.y skin, or silk of softest weave; Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.

For poverty he rides upon a bull, While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne, Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful, Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.

Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate One thing you uttered worthy of his worth: How could the author of the uncreate Be born? How could we understand his birth?