The roses in the gardens of Lehna Singh hung their heads, the sunbeams
danced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plash
on sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floated
apart. Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with the
good, grieved around her. The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumage
is not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed their
wooing that they might not offend the disconsolate.
And this was Moti's garden, where happiness and beauty had once their
dwelling.
Bloomy roses die,
Wan the petals floating,
Whirling on the breeze's sigh,
Ah, the worms were gloating,
This is by-and-bye.
In the great hall princes and nobles feasted with mirth and music.
Laughter and outcries and mad revelry re-echoed through the stately
archways and marble courts. Lal Singh was there, and great honour was
rendered to him, for this was the time of his betrothal, and the bride
was Moti. The festival had lasted for two days, and would be prolonged
for many more. Moti was forgotten. The little maid who loved her lay on
the floor at her feet and wept because Moti wept. Those who with zither
and dance should have beguiled the hours, had stolen away to peep
through latticed screens at the revelry.
Moti thought of Atmâ and moaned, but the little maid thought only of her
mistress, and bewailed the fate that had joined her bright spirit by
unseen bonds of love to one pre-doomed by inheritance to misfortune.
"For adversity loved his father's house," she sighed; "it is ill to
consort with the unfortunate, for in time we share their woe."
But Moti wrung her beautiful hands and cried:
"Ah if this breath of mine might purchase his!
Then death were fair and lovely as he said
In that enchanted even hour when he
Of love, and death, and moans, and constancy
Told till dark things grew lovely, and o'erhead
Sweet stars seemed ghosts, and shadow all that is.
But I have lost my life and yet not death
Have won, and now to me shall joy be strange,
And all my days the kindly winds that breathe
From mirthful groves of Paradise shall change
In my poor songless soul to wail, and sigh,
And moan, and hollow silence--let me die!
Poor me! who fearless snatched at bliss so high,
Witless! and yet to be of slight esteem
And little worth is sometimes well, no dream
Of high unrest, no awful afterglow
Affrights us simple ones when that we die.
Vain flickering lamps soon quenchéd--we but go
From this brief day, this short transition,
This interlude of farcial joy and woe,
Back to our native, kind oblivion.
Can this be Moti, she who prates of being,
And life, and death, and fallacy, and moan?
Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast? seeing
All things about me shift, I need must change;
Things which I thought were plain are waxen strange,
Things are unfathomable which I deemed
Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave,
Sunbeams are mysteries, and Love that seemed
All wingéd joy, and transport light as air,
Ah me, but Love is deeper than the grave,
Is deeper than the grave; I seek it there.
Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die!
And he is doomed to die who loved me!
O bitter, bitter end of tenderness!
O doleful issue of my happiness!
Weep, little maid, for one that loved me!
O might I with my last of mortal breath
Bid him the cruel treachery to flee,
And hear his voice and sink to happy death,
So still might live the one that lovéd me!
Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper low,
As moon to weeping clouds, until there rise
Like pallid rainbow, wan with spectral glow,
A thing of fearful joy athwart my skies,
A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be,
That I should die for him who lovéd me.
I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,
For these brief days of mine are but a morn,
A handful of poor violets, wind-worn,
Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay
Were not the ill that to the perfect flower
Might be if cruel hand should disarray
Its starry splendour when in ripened hour
It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream.
Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam
That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep,
The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath
Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep,
The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.
Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so,
That I shall find my love; speak and we go
On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing
Of banished doves--now, I will chant of woe,
And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing."
O Night!
O Night so true!
The promise of the Day is full of guile.
Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile;
The friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile.
Dear Night!
Bring weeping dew,
And sad enchantments to undo the spells
Of baleful day, while from thy silent cells
Of dusk and slumber, still heart's-peace exhales.
O Night!
O Night, pursue
The bitter Day, and from her keeping wrest
Those cruel spoils, and to my empty breast
Give lethean calm, and dearest death, and rest.