First canto. The birth of Parvati.—The poem begins with a description of the great Himalaya mountain-range.

God of the distant north, the Snowy Range O'er other mountains towers imperially; Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change, Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow; One fault for many virtues is forgot, The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds Girding his lower crests, but often seek, When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips And streaked with mountain minerals that blend To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips, Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest, As if the mountain strove to set the pitch For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

Where magic herbs that glitter in the night Are lamps that need no oil within them, when They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

Who offers roof and refuge in his caves To timid darkness shrinking from the day; A lofty soul is generous; he saves Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice; Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad. The great Creator, for this service' price, Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born, as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

She brought him purity and beauty too, As white flames to the lamp that burns at night; Or Ganges to the path whereby the true Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

As pictures waken to the painter's brush, Or lilies open to the morning sun, Her perfect beauty answered to the flush Of womanhood when childish days were done.

Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray; Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid: Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay, That round her red, red lips for ever played.

And when she spoke, the music of her tale Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit, Till listeners felt as if the nightingale Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him from his austerities.

Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation.—At this time, the gods betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a part of which is given here.

Before creation, thou art one; Three, when creation's work is done: All praise and honour unto thee In this thy mystic trinity.

Three various forms and functions three Proclaim thy living majesty; Thou dost create, and then maintain, And last, destroyest all again.

Thy slow recurrent day and night Bring death to all, or living light. We live beneath thy waking eye; Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

Solid and fluid, great and small, And light and heavy—Thou art all; Matter and form are both in thee: Thy powers are past discovery.[]

Thou art the objects that unroll Their drama for the passive soul; Thou art the soul that views the play Indifferently, day by day.

Thou art the knower and the known; Eater and food art thou alone; The priest and his oblation fair; The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and found it useless.

The sun in heaven dare not glow With undiminished heat, but so As that the lilies may awake Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

The wind blows gently as it can To serve him as a soothing fan, And dare not manifest its power, Lest it should steal a garden flower.

The seasons have forgotten how To follow one another now; They simultaneously bring Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

Such adoration makes him worse; He troubles all the universe: Kindness inflames a rascal's mind; He should be recompensed in kind.

And all the means that we have tried Against the rogue, are brushed aside, As potent herbs have no avail When bodily powers begin to fail.

We seek a leader, O our Lord, To bring him to his just reward— As saints seek evermore to win Virtue, to end life's woe and sin—

That he may guide the heavenly host, And guard us to the uttermost, And from our foe lead captive back The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted." But he promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content, and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his necessary co-operation.

Third canto. The burning of Love.—Indra waits upon Love, who asks for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation, and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment, and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes, and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.

Fourth canto. The lament of Charm.—This canto is given entire.

The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon, Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting Was preparation of herself full soon To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought On every spot where he might be, in vain, Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought, The lover she should never see again.

She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live, Lord of my life?" And at the last she found Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive, Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair, She wept and to the forest world complained, As if the forest in her grief might share.

"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish; Perfect its loveliness in every part; I saw that beauty fade away and perish, Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only Endured, and I for ever need its power; Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely, When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish; I never did a thing to work thee harm; Why should I thus in vain affliction languish? Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

Of playful chastisements art thou reminded, Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands, Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded, Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

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 koil-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! Assume again thy radiant beauty! Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty As messenger to bosoms passion-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 gods 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 passion, 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, gods 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 sturdy 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 petition) 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-clusters 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 god, 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 god 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, Gods 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 assumes 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 god 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 bloody 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 lustre white; The bloody 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?

Enough of this! Though every word that you Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please My eager heart all made of passion true For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.

In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise, appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her. Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for "successful effort regenerates."

Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage.—While Parvati departs to inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages, who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that

All actions of a holy life Are rooted in a virtuous wife.

Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by Shiva in impatient longing.

Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding.—The three days are spent in preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the bride is beautiful indeed.

As when the flowers are budding on a vine, Or white swans rest upon a river's shore, Or when at night the stars in heaven shine, Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.

When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same Bright beauty—and the mirror never lies— She waited with impatience till he came: For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.

Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:

For his sake it was well that Parvati Should mortify her body delicate; Thrice happy might his serving-woman be, And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.

Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp. The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva restores the body of Love.

Eighth canto. The honeymoon.—The first month of marital bliss is spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few stanzas are given here.

See, my beloved, how the sun With beams that o'er the water shake From western skies has now begun A bridge of gold across the lake.

Upon the very tree-tops sway The peacocks; even yet they hold And drink the dying light of day, Until their fans are molten gold.

The water-lily closes, but With wonderful reluctancy; As if it troubled her to shut Her door of welcome to the bee.

The steeds that draw the sun's bright car, With bended neck and falling plume And drooping mane, are seen afar To bury day in ocean's gloom.

The sun is down, and heaven sleeps: Thus every path of glory ends; As high as are the scaled steeps, The downward way as low descends.

Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few stanzas of this description run as follows.

The twilight glow is fading far And stains the west with blood-red light, As when a reeking scimitar Slants upward on a field of fight.

And vision fails above, below, Around, before us, at our back; The womb of night envelops slow The world with darkness vast and black.

Mute while the world is dazed with light, The smiling moon begins to rise And, being teased by eager night, Betrays the secrets of the skies.

Moon-fingers move the black, black hair Of night into its proper place, Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair, As he sets kisses on her face.

Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many years.

Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa.—One day the god of fire appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends. Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.

Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara.—To Indra, king of the gods, Fire betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed, until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child, Kumara, the future god of war.

Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued.—Ganges suckles the beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.

Because her eyes with happy tears were dim, 'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy; Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him, She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.

The vision of the infant made her seem A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss; Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream; Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.

Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven." These evidences of healthy development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.

Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general.—Indra, with the other gods, waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his mother Parvati, and of Indra.

Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general.—Kumara takes an affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the devastation wrought by Taraka.

He saw departed glory, saw the state Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city, As of a woman with a cowardly mate: And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.

He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn: And sadness overcame him as he viewed.

He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers Defiled by elephants grown overbold, Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers, No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,

Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown, Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass: Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown, For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.

Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara, thus consecrating him as their general.

Fourteenth canto. The march.—Kumara prepares for battle, and marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin, and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on its dusty march.

Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash.—The demon Taraka is informed that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle, marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by dreadful omens of evil.

For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see, Above the army of the foes of heaven, And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously The feast of demon corpses to be given.

And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot, Spitting hot poison high into the air, Brought terror to the army underfoot, And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.

The sun a sickly halo round him had; Coiling within it frightened eyes could see Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad Because the demon's death so soon should be.

And in the very circle of the sun Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed; And with impatient haste they seemed to run To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.

There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high A thunderbolt whose agonising crash Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.

There came a pelting rain of blazing coals With blood and bones of dead men mingled in; Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls; The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.

The elephants stumbled and the horses fell, The footmen jostled, leaving each his post, The ground beneath them trembled at the swell Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.

And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul To see the sun that lit that awful day, And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.

Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.

"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven And take my foeman's part, what would you say? Have you forgot so soon the torture given By shafts of mine that never miss their way?

Why should I fear before a six-days child? Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill, Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild, Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?

The boy whom you have chosen as your chief In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry; The upright die, if taken with a thief: First you shall perish, then he too shall die."

And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword, the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies clash.

Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons.—This canto is entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few stanzas are given here.

As pairs of champions stood forth To test each other's fighting worth, The bards who knew the family fame Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.

As ruthless weapons cut their way Through quilted armour in the fray, White tufts of cotton flew on high Like hoary hairs upon the sky.

Blood-dripping swords reflected bright The sunbeams in that awful fight; Fire-darting like the lightning-flash, They showed how mighty heroes clash.

The archers' arrows flew so fast, As through a hostile breast they passed, That they were buried in the ground, No stain of blood upon them found.

The swords that sheaths no longer clasped, That hands of heroes firmly grasped, Flashed out in glory through the fight, As if they laughed in mad delight.

And many a warrior's eager lance Shone radiant in the eerie dance, A curling, lapping tongue of death To lick away the soldier's breath.

Some, panting with a bloody thirst, Fought toward the victim chosen first, But had a reeking path to hew Before they had him full in view.

Great elephants, their drivers gone And pierced with arrows, struggled on, But sank at every step in mud Made liquid by the streams of blood.

The warriors falling in the fray, Whose heads the sword had lopped away, Were able still to fetch a blow That slew the loud-exulting foe.

The footmen thrown to Paradise By elephants of monstrous size, Were seized upon by nymphs above, Exchanging battle-scenes for love.

The lancer, charging at his foe, Would pierce him through and bring him low, And would not heed the hostile dart That found a lodgment in his heart.

The war-horse, though unguided, stopped The moment that his rider dropped, And wept above the lifeless head, Still faithful to his master dead.

Two lancers fell with mortal wound And still they struggled on the ground; With bristling hair, with brandished knife, Each strove to end the other's life.

Two slew each other in the fight; To Paradise they took their flight; There with a nymph they fell in love, And still they fought in heaven above.

Two souls there were that reached the sky; From heights of heaven they could spy Two writhing corpses on the plain, And knew their headless forms again.

As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief gods, and charges upon them.

Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain.—Taraka engages the principal gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to retire from the battle.

Stripling, you are the only son Of Shiva and of Parvati. Go safe and live! Why should you run On certain death? Why fight with me? Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest Clasp living son to joyful breast.

Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host Of Indra drowning in the sea That soon shall close upon his boast In choking waves of misery. For Indra is a ship of stone; Withdraw, and let him sink alone.

Kumara answers with modest firmness.

The words you utter in your pride, O demon-prince, are only fit; Yet I am minded to abide The fight, and see the end of it. The tight-strung bow and brandished sword Decide, and not the spoken word.

And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on, Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the unbounded delight of the universe.

Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote, partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end. These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier part is completed in the seventeenth canto.

It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to? Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best. Fighting is not Kalidasa's forte; love is. Even so, there is great vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete, its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a Birth of the War-god in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.

There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, The Dynasty of Raghu, though in this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have adventures; they must be victorious. The Birth of the War-god pays for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.

It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written before or after The Dynasty of Raghu. But we have no data for deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The introduction to The Dynasty of Raghu seems, indeed, to have been written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.

As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My own preference is for The Dynasty of Raghu, yet there are passages in The Birth of the War-god of a piercing beauty which the world can never let die.

* * * * *



THE CLOUD-MESSENGER

In The Cloud-Messenger Kalidasa created a new genre in Sanskrit literature. Hindu critics class the poem with The Dynasty of Raghu and The Birth of the War-god as a kavya, or learned epic. This it obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though a precisian might object to the term.

We have already seen, in speaking of The Dynasty of Raghu, what admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author of the Ramayana; and it is quite possible that an episode of the early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated in The Cloud-Messenger. In the Ramayana, after the defeat and death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made in an aerial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a whole canto of The Dynasty of Raghu (the thirteenth) is concerned with the aerial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, The Dynasty of Raghu was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly inspired with the plan of The Cloud-Messenger.

This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.

The Cloud-Messenger contains one hundred and fifteen four-line stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper." The English stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.

The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.

One minor point calls for notice. The word Himalaya has been accented on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.

FORMER CLOUD

I

A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride.

On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam, Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified, An erring Yaksha made his hapless home, Doomed by his master humbly to abide, And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.

II

After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to pine and die.

Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain, A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray, As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.

III

Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed In meditation, choking down his tears— Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud; To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.

IV

Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love, he resolves to make the cloud his messenger.

Longing to save his darling's life, unblest With joyous tidings, through the rainy days, He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest, Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays, And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.

V

Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind How all unfitly might his message mate With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind— Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate 'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.

VI

He prefers his request,

I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line, Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief, Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine, I come a suppliant in my widowed grief— Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.

VII

O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity; My bride is far, through royal wrath and might; Bring her my message to the Yaksha city, Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.

VIII

hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour rewarded by pleasures on the road,

When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven, Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep And bless the sight of thee for comfort given; Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?

IX

and by happy omens.

While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth, And while upon thy left the plover sings His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings And for delights anticipated join their rings.

X

He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless;

Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see— Counting the days that bring the lonely smart— The faithful wife who only lives for me: A drooping flower is woman's loving heart, Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.

XI

further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions.

And when they hear thy welcome thunders break, When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks, The swans who long for the Himalayan lake Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks, With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.

XII

One last embrace upon this mount bestow Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet, Who yearly strives his love for thee to show, Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.

XIII

He then describes the long journey,

Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go, Then hear my message ere thou speed away; Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow: When thou art weary, on the mountains stay, And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.

XIV

beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity.

Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite; Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest; And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.

XV

Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow; Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines, Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow, Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.

XVI

The Mala plateau.

The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea, Though innocent of all coquettish art, Will give thee loving glances; for on thee Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part; Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.

XVII

The Mango Peak.

The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness; In memory of a former service paid, Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.

XVIII

With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem; And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite; When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white, For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.

XIX

The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming against the mountain side,

His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever; Do thou upon his crest a moment bide, Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side, Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.

XX

and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of elephants during the mating season.

Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow; Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate— Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.

XXI

Spying the madder on the banks, half brown, Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth, Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down, Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth, The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.

XXII

Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain, Yet I foresee delay on every hill Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill; Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.

XXIII

The Dasharna country,

At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow, With village trees alive with many a nest Abuilding by the old familiar crow, With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.

XXIV

and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River.

There shalt thou see the royal city, known Afar, and win the lover's fee complete, If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet, Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.

XXV

A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then, Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat As thrilling to thy touch; where city men O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.

XXVI

Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare By forest rivers; and with loving shade Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair, Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.

XXVII

The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly beloved by him;

Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise The palace balconies thou mayst not slight In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.

XXVIII

and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will meet just before he reaches the city.

The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed, While noisy swans accompany her dance Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst— A woman always tells her love in gestures first.

XXIX

Thou only, happy lover! canst repair The desolation that thine absence made: Her shrinking current seems the careless hair That brides deserted wear in single braid, And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.

XXX

The city of Ujjain is fully described,

Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!

XXXI

Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane, To cure the women's languishing, and flout With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.

XXXII

Enriched with odours through the windows drifting From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting, On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end, Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.

XXXIII

especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala;

Black as the neck of Shiva, very God, Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.

XXXIV

Reaching that temple at another time, Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes; For if thou mayest play the part sublime Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice, Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.

XXXV

The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled, Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please, And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.

XXXVI

and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he commonly wears in his wild dance.

Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory, Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm; He will prefer thee to his mantle gory And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm, Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.

XXXVII

After one night of repose in the city

Where women steal to rendezvous by night Through darkness that a needle might divide, Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side— But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.

XXXVIII

On some rich balcony where sleep the doves, Through the dark night with thy beloved stay, The lightning weary with the sport she loves; But with the sunrise journey on thy way— For they that labour for a friend do not delay.

XXXIX

The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream When he returns at dawn to her embrace— Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face; His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.

XL

the cloud is besought to travel to Deep River.

Thy winsome shadow-soul will surely find An entrance in Deep River's current bright, As thoughts find entrance in a placid mind; Then let no rudeness of thine own affright The darting fish that seem her glances lotus-white.

XLI

But steal her sombre veil of mist away, Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress To hide her charms; thou hast no time to stay, Yet who that once has known a dear caress Could bear to leave a woman's unveiled loveliness?

XLII

Thence to Holy Peak,

The breeze 'neath which the breathing acre grants New odours, and the forest figs hang sleek, With pleasant whistlings drunk by elephants Through long and hollow trunks, will gently seek To waft thee onward fragrantly to Holy Peak.

XLIII

the dwelling-place of Skanda, god of war, the child of Shiva and Gauri, concerning whose birth more than one quaint tale is told.

There change thy form; become a cloud of flowers With heavenly moisture wet, and pay the meed Of praise to Skanda with thy blossom showers; That sun-outshining god is Shiva's seed, Fire-born to save the heavenly hosts in direst need.

XLIV

God Skanda's peacock—he whose eyeballs shine By Shiva's moon, whose flashing fallen plume The god's fond mother wears, a gleaming line Over her ear beside the lotus bloom— Will dance to thunders echoing in the caverns' room.

XLV

Thence to Skin River, so called because it flowed forth from a mountain of cattle carcasses, offered in sacrifice by the pious emperor Rantideva.

Adore the reed-born god and speed away, While Siddhas flee, lest rain should put to shame The lutes which they devoutly love to play; But pause to glorify the stream whose name Recalls the sacrificing emperor's blessed fame.

XLVI

Narrow the river seems from heaven's blue; And gods above, who see her dainty line Matched, when thou drinkest, with thy darker hue, Will think they see a pearly necklace twine Round Earth, with one great sapphire in its midst ashine.

XLVII

The province of the Ten Cities.

Beyond, the province of Ten Cities lies Whose women, charming with their glances rash, Will view thine image with bright, eager eyes, Dark eyes that dance beneath the lifted lash, As when black bees round nodding jasmine-blossoms flash.

XLVIII

The Hallowed Land, where were fought the awful battles of the ancient epic time.

Then veil the Hallowed Land in cloudy shade; Visit the field where to this very hour Lie bones that sank beneath the soldier's blade, Where Arjuna discharged his arrowy shower On men, as thou thy rain-jets on the lotus-flower.

XLIX

In these battles, the hero Balarama, whose weapon was a plough-share, would take no part, because kinsmen of his were fighting in each army. He preferred to spend the time in drinking from the holy river Sarasvati, though little accustomed to any other drink than wine.

Sweet friend, drink where those holy waters shine Which the plough-bearing hero—loath to fight His kinsmen—rather drank than sweetest wine With a loving bride's reflected eyes alight; Then, though thy form be black, thine inner soul is bright.

L

The Ganges River, which originates in heaven. Its fall is broken by the head of Shiva, who stands on the Himalaya Mountains; otherwise the shock would be too great for the earth. But Shiva's goddess-bride is displeased.

Fly then where Ganges o'er the king of mountains Falls like a flight of stairs from heaven let down For the sons of men; she hurls her billowy fountains Like hands to grasp the moon on Shiva's crown And laughs her foamy laugh at Gauri's jealous frown.

LI

The dark cloud is permitted to mingle with the clear stream of Ganges, as the muddy Jumna River does near the city now called Allahabad.

If thou, like some great elephant of the sky, Shouldst wish from heaven's eminence to bend And taste the crystal stream, her beauties high— As thy dark shadows with her whiteness blend— Would be what Jumna's waters at Prayaga lend.

LII

The magnificent Himalaya range.

Her birth-place is Himalaya's rocky crest Whereon the scent of musk is never lost, For deer rest ever there where thou wilt rest Sombre against the peak with whiteness glossed, Like dark earth by the snow-white bull of Shiva tossed.

LIII

If, born from friction of the deodars, A scudding fire should prove the mountain's bane, Singeing the tails of yaks with fiery stars, Quench thou the flame with countless streams of rain— The great have power that they may soothe distress and pain.

LIV

If mountain monsters should assail thy path With angry leaps that of their object fail, Only to hurt themselves in helpless wrath, Scatter the creatures with thy pelting hail— For who is not despised that strives without avail?

LV

Bend lowly down and move in reverent state Round Shiva's foot-print on the rocky plate With offerings laden by the saintly great; The sight means heaven as their eternal fate When death and sin are past, for them that faithful wait.

LVI

The breeze is piping on the bamboo-tree; And choirs of heaven sing in union sweet O'er demon foe of Shiva's victory; If thunders in the caverns drumlike beat, Then surely Shiva's symphony will be complete.

LVII

The mountain pass called the Swan-gate.

Pass by the wonders of the snowy slope; Through the Swan-gate, through mountain masses rent To make his fame a path by Bhrigu's hope In long, dark beauty fly, still northward bent, Like Vishnu's foot, when he sought the demon's chastisement.

LVIII

And at Mount Kailasa, the long journey is ended;

Seek then Kailasa's hospitable care, With peaks by magic arms asunder riven, To whom, as mirror, goddesses repair, So lotus-bright his summits cloud the heaven, Like form and substance to God's daily laughter given.

LIX

Like powder black and soft I seem to see Thine outline on the mountain slope as bright As new-sawn tusks of stainless ivory; No eye could wink before as fair a sight As dark-blue robes upon the Ploughman's shoulder white.

LX

Should Shiva throw his serpent-ring aside And give Gauri his hand, go thou before Upon the mount of joy to be their guide; Conceal within thee all thy watery store And seem a terraced stairway to the jewelled floor.

LXI

I doubt not that celestial maidens sweet With pointed bracelet gems will prick thee there To make of thee a shower-bath in the heat; Frighten the playful girls if they should dare To keep thee longer, friend, with thunder's harshest blare.

LXII

Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake; Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake, Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide: With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side.

LXIII

for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas.

Then, in familiar Alaka find rest, Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls, Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast, While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.

LATTER CLOUD

I

The splendid heavenly city Alaka,

Where palaces in much may rival thee— Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers— Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody— Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers— Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.

II

where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are all found in bloom the year round.

Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines, And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare, Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines In women's braids, and summer siris fair, The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.

III

Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired.

Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars Climb to the open crystal balcony Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars, And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree, And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.

IV

Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray In shadows that the trees of heaven spread; In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play, Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.

V

Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide, The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling, Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side. Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.

VI

Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops; Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more, But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.

VII

Here are the stones from which drops of water ooze when the moon shines on them.

Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread Great drops of water trickle in the night— When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled— To ease the languors of the women's plight Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.

VIII

Here are the magic gardens of heaven.

Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold, Wander each day with nymphs for ever young, Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold, The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

IX

Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls That fluttered as they stole along afraid, By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls, By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

X

Here the god of love is not seen, because of the presence of his great enemy, Shiva. Yet his absence is not severely felt.

Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow, Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign; His task is done by clever maids, for lo! Their frowning missile glances, darting plain At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

XI

Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments. For the Mine of Sentiment declares: "Women everywhere have four kinds of ornaments—hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes, cosmetics; anything else is local."

Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance The loveliness of maidens young and sweet: Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance, And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete, And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

XII

And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha,

There, northward from the master's palace, see Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar; And near it grows a little coral-tree, Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star, Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

XIII

with its artificial pool;

A pool is near, to which an emerald stair Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there, The wistful swans are glad when they behold Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

XIV

its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like the dark cloud girdled by the lightening;

And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit; She loves the spot; and while I marvel still At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.

XV

its two favourite trees, which will not blossom while their mistress is grieving;

The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines, The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines; Like me, they wait to feel the winning power Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.

XVI

its tame peacock;

A golden pole is set between the pair, With crystal perch above its emerald bands As green as young bamboo; at sunset there Thy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands, And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.

XVII

and its painted emblems of the god of wealth.

These are the signs—recall them o'er and o'er, My clever friend—by which the house is known, And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door: Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone— The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.

XVIII

Small as the elephant cub thou must become For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance The glory of the hill beside my home, And peep into the house with lightning-glance, But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.

XIX

The Yaksha's bride.

The supremest woman from God's workshop gone— Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips, Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn, An idly graceful movement, generous hips, Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips—

XX

Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anew Passing these heavy days in longings keen, My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few, My second life, shall there of thee be seen— But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.

XXI

Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden; Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs; The face that rests upon her hand is hidden By hanging curls, as when the glory dies Of the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.

XXII

The passion of love passes through ten stages, eight of which are suggested in this stanza and the stanzas which follow. The first stage is not indicated; it is called Exchange of Glances.

Thou first wilt see her when she seeks relief In worship; or, half fancying, half recalling, She draws mine image worn by absent grief; Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling: "Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling."

XXIII

In this stanza and the preceding one is suggested the second stage: Wistfulness.

Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt, And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain; For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert, And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again, Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.

XXIV

Here is suggested the third stage: Desire.

Or counts the months of absence yet remaining With flowers laid near the threshold on the floor, Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gaining The memories recollected o'er and o'er— woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.

XXV

Here is suggested the fourth stage: Wakefulness.

Such daytime labours doubtless ease the ache Which doubly hurts her in the helpless dark; With news from me a keener joy to wake, Stand by her window in the night, and mark My sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.

XXVI

Here is suggested the fifth stage: Emaciation.

Resting one side upon that widowed bed, Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height, So slender she, now worn with anguish dread, Passing with stifling tears the long, sad night Which, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.

XXVII

Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss of Interest in Ordinary Pleasures.

On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashes She looks with the old delight, then turns away And veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes, Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay, But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.

XXVIII

Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss of Youthful Bashfulness.

One unanointed curl still frets her cheek When tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip; And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seek That we might be united though in sleep— Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.

XXIX

Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness. For if she were not absent-minded, she would arrange the braid so as not to be annoyed by it.

Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft— With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness— So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft: That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness, Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.

XXX

Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration. The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested.

The delicate body, weak and suffering, Quite unadorned and tossing to and fro In oft-renewing wretchedness, will wring Even from thee a raindrop-tear, I know— Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.

XXXI

I know her bosom full of love for me, And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieve In this our first divorce; it cannot be Self-flattery that idle boastings weave— Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.

XXXII

Quivering of the eyelids

Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shine Of fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly, Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine— Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nigh As water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.

XXXIII

and trembling of the limbs are omens of speedy union with the beloved.

And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove, Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower, No longer showing marks of my rough love, Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power, The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.

XXXIV

But if she should be lost in happy sleep, Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace, And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keep The dreaming vision of her lover's face— Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.

XXXV

As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder, Wake her with breezes blowing mistily; Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunder Speak boldly, though she answer haughtily With eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.

XXXVI

The cloud is instructed how to announce himself

"Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friend Is come to tell thee what himself did say— A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that send All weary wanderers hastening on their way, Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay."

XXXVII

in such a way as to win the favour of his auditor.

Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed, Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beating And joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heed The after message: such a friendly greeting Is hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.

XXXVIII

The message itself.

Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak, Remembering kindness is its own reward; "Thy lover lives, and from the holy peak Asks if these absent days good health afford— Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.

XXXIX

With body worn as thine, with pain as deep, With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine, With sighs more burning than the sighs that keep Thy lips ascorch—doomed far from thee to pine, He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.

XL

He used to love, when women friends were near, To whisper things he might have said aloud That he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear; Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud, He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.

XLI

According to the treatise called "Virtues Banner," a lover has four solaces in separation: first, looking at objects that remind him of her he loves;

'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines, Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer, Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines, Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear— Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.

XLII

second, painting a picture of her;

And when I paint that loving jealousy With chalk upon the rock, and my caress As at thy feet I lie, I cannot see Through tears that to mine eyes unbidden press— So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.

XLIII

third, dreaming of her;

And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight, Mine own though but in visions of a dream— They who behold the oft-repeated sight, The kind divinities of wood and stream, Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.

XLIV

fourth, touching something which she has touched.

Himalaya's breeze blows gently from the north, Unsheathing twigs upon the deodar And sweet with sap that it entices forth— I embrace it lovingly; it came so far, Perhaps it touched thee first, my life's unchanging star!

XLV

Oh, might the long, long night seem short to me! Oh, might the day his hourly tortures hide! Such longings for the things that cannot be, Consume my helpless heart, sweet-glancing bride, In burning agonies of absence from thy side.

XLVI

The bride is besought not to lose heart at hearing of her lover's wretchedness,

Yet much reflection, dearest, makes me strong, Strong with an inner strength; nor shouldst thou feel Despair at what has come to us of wrong; Who has unending woe or lasting weal? Our fates move up and down upon a circling wheel.

XLVII

and to remember that the curse has its appointed end, when the rainy season is over and the year of exile fulfilled. Vishnu spends the rainy months in sleep upon the back of the cosmic serpent Shesha.

When Vishnu rises from his serpent bed The curse is ended; close thine eyelids tight And wait till only four months more are sped; Then we shall taste each long-desired delight Through nights that the full autumn moon illumines bright.

XLVIII

Then is added a secret which, as it could not possibly be known to a third person, assures her that the cloud is a true messenger.

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 Shiva'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 friendship'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 title 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 authorship 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 peacock and of snake; The peacock 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, Refreshing water-sprays, Sweet friends at evening, and a spot Cool after burning days.

THE RAINS

The rain advances like a king In awful majesty; Hear, dearest, how his thunders ring Like royal drums, and see His lightning-banners wave; a cloud For elephant he rides, And finds his welcome from the crowd Of lovers and of brides.

The clouds, a mighty army, march With drumlike thundering And stretch upon the rainbow's arch The lightning's flashing string; The cruel arrows of the rain Smite them who love, apart From whom they love, with stinging pain, And pierce them to the heart.

The forest seems to show its glee In flowering nipa plants; In waving twigs of many a tree Wind-swept, it seems to dance; Its ketak-blossom's opening sheath Is like a smile put on To greet the rain's reviving breath, Now pain and heat are gone.

To you, dear, may the cloudy time Bring all that you desire, Bring every pleasure, perfect, prime, To set a bride on fire; May rain whereby life wakes and shines Where there is power of life, The unchanging friend of clinging vines, Shower blessings on my wife.

AUTUMN

The autumn comes, a maiden fair In slenderness and grace, With nodding rice-stems in her hair And lilies in her face. In flowers of grasses she is clad; And as she moves along, Birds greet her with their cooing glad Like bracelets' tinkling song.

A diadem adorns the night Of multitudinous stars; Her silken robe is white moonlight, Set free from cloudy bars; And on her face (the radiant moon) Bewitching smiles are shown: She seems a slender maid, who soon Will be a woman grown.

Over the rice-fields, laden plants Are shivering to the breeze; While in his brisk caresses dance The blossom-burdened trees; He ruffles every lily-pond Where blossoms kiss and part, And stirs with lover's fancies fond The young man's eager heart.

WINTER

The bloom of tenderer flowers is past And lilies droop forlorn, For winter-time is come at last, Rich with its ripened corn; Yet for the wealth of blossoms lost Some hardier flowers appear That bid defiance to the frost Of sterner days, my dear.

The vines, remembering summer, shiver In frosty winds, and gain A fuller life from mere endeavour To live through all that pain; Yet in the struggle and acquist They turn as pale and wan As lonely women who have missed Known love, now lost and gone.

Then may these winter days show forth To you each known delight, Bring all that women count as worth Pure happiness and bright; While villages, with bustling cry, Bring home the ripened corn, And herons wheel through wintry sky, Forget sad thoughts forlorn.

EARLY SPRING

Now, dearest, lend a heedful ear And listen while I sing Delights to every maiden dear, The charms of early spring: When earth is dotted with the heaps Of corn, when heron-scream Is rare but sweet, when passion leaps And paints a livelier dream.

When all must cheerfully applaud A blazing open fire; Or if they needs must go abroad, The sun is their desire; When everybody hopes to find The frosty chill allayed By garments warm, a window-blind Shut, and a sweet young maid.

Then may the days of early spring For you be rich and full With love's proud, soft philandering And many a candy-pull, With sweetest rice and sugar-cane: And may you float above The absent grieving and the pain Of separated love.

SPRING

A stalwart soldier comes, the spring, Who bears the bow of Love; And on that bow, the lustrous string Is made of bees, that move With malice as they speed the shaft Of blossoming mango-flower At us, dear, who have never laughed At love, nor scorned his power.

Their blossom-burden weights the trees; The winds in fragrance move; The lakes are bright with lotuses, The women bright with love; The days are soft, the evenings clear And charming; everything That moves and lives and blossoms, dear, Is sweeter in the spring.

The groves are beautifully bright For many and many a mile With jasmine-flowers that are as white As loving woman's smile: The resolution of a saint Might well be tried by this; Far more, young hearts that fancies paint With dreams of loving bliss.

* * * * *



EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

By Ernest Rhys

MADE AT THE TEMPLE

PRESS LETCHWORTH IN GREAT BRITAIN



Victor Hugo said a Library was "an act of faith," and some unknown essayist spoke of one so beautiful, so perfect, so harmonious in all its parts, that he who made it was smitten with a passion. In that faith the promoters of Everyman's Library planned it out originally on a large scale; and their idea in so doing was to make it conform as far as possible to a perfect scheme. However, perfection is a thing to be aimed at and not to be achieved in this difficult world; and since the first volumes appeared, now several years ago, there have been many interruptions. A great war has come and gone; and even the City of Books has felt something like a world commotion. Only in recent years is the series getting back into its old stride and looking forward to complete its original scheme of a Thousand Volumes. One of the practical expedients in that original plan was to divide the volumes into sections, as Biography, Fiction, History, Belles Lettres, Poetry, Romance, and so forth; with a compartment for young people, and last, and not least, one of Reference Books. Beside the dictionaries and encyclopaedias to be expected in that section, there was a special set of literary and historical atlases. One of these atlases dealing with Europe, we may recall, was directly affected by the disturbance of frontiers during the war; and the maps had to be completely revised in consequence, so as to chart the New Europe which we hope will now preserve its peace under the auspices of the League of Nations set up at Geneva. That is only one small item, however, in a library list which runs already to the final centuries of the Thousand. The largest slice of this huge provision is, as a matter of course, given to the tyrannous demands of fiction. But in carrying out the scheme, publishers and editors contrived to keep in mind that books, like men and women, have their elective affinities. The present volume, for instance, will be found to have its companion books, both in the same section and even more significantly in other sections. With that idea too, novels like Walter Scott's Ivanhoe and Fortunes of Nigel, Lytton's Harold and Dickens's Tale of Two Cities, have been used as pioneers of history and treated as a sort of holiday history books. For in our day history is tending to grow more documentary and less literary; and "the historian who is a stylist," as one of our contributors, the late Thomas Seccombe, said, "will soon be regarded as a kind of Phoenix." But in this special department of Everyman's Library we have been eclectic enough to choose our history men from every school in turn. We have Grote, Gibbon, Finlay, Macaulay, Motley, Frescott. We have among earlier books the Venerable Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, have completed a Livy in an admirable new translation by Canon Roberts, while Caesar, Tacitus, Thucydides and Herodotus are not forgotten. "You only, O Books," said Richard de Bury, "are liberal and independent; you give to all who ask." The delightful variety, the wisdom and the wit which are at the disposal of Everyman in his own library may well, at times, seem to him a little embarrassing. He may turn to Dick Steele in The Spectator and learn how Cleomira dances, when the elegance of her motion is unimaginable and "her eyes are chastised with the simplicity and innocence of her thoughts." He may turn to Plato's Phaedrus and read how every soul is divided into three parts (like Caesar's Gaul). He may turn to the finest critic of Victorian times, Matthew Arnold, and find in his essay on Maurice de Guerin the perfect key to what is there called the "magical power of poetry." It is Shakespeare, with his

"daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty;"

it is Wordsworth, with his

"voice ... heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides;"

or Keats, with his

".... moving waters at their priest-like task Of cold ablution round Earth's human shores."

William Hazlitt's "Table Talk," among the volumes of Essays, may help to show the relationship of one author to another, which is another form of the Friendship of Books. His incomparable essay in that volume, "On Going a Journey," forms a capital prelude to Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria" and to his and Wordsworth's poems. In the same way one may turn to the review of Moore's Life of Byron in Macaulay's Essays as a prelude to the three volumes of Byron's own poems, remembering that the poet whom Europe loved more than England did was as Macaulay said: "the beginning, the middle and the end of all his own poetry." This brings us to the provoking reflection that it is the obvious authors and the books most easy to reprint which have been the signal successes out of the many hundreds in the series, for Everyman is distinctly proverbial in his tastes. He likes best of all an old author who has worn well or a comparatively new author who has gained something like newspaper notoriety. In attempting to lead him on from the good books that are known to those that are less known, the publishers may have at times been too adventurous. The late Chief himself was much more than an ordinary book-producer in this critical enterprise. He threw himself into it with the zeal of a book-lover and indeed of one who, like Milton, thought that books might be as alive and productive as dragons' teeth, which, being "sown up and down the land, might chance to spring up armed men." Mr. Pepys in his Diary writes about some of his books, "which are come home gilt on the backs, very handsome to the eye." The pleasure he took in them is that which Everyman may take in the gilt backs of his favourite books in his own Library, which after all he has helped to make good and lasting.