Part 10

In vain, in vain! Earth will of earth! I mourn more than I blame; If he had known, he would not sit and paint The tilka on her smooth black brow, nor claim Quick kisses from her yielded lips--false, faint-- False, fragrant, fatal! Krishna's quest is o'er By Jumna's shore!

Vain--it was vain! The temptress was too near, the heav'n too far; I can but weep because he sits and ties Garlands of fire-flowers for her loosened hair, And in its silken shadow veils his eyes And buries his fond face. Yet I forgave By Jumna's wave!

Vainly! all vain! Make then the most of that whereto thou'rt given, Feign her thy Paradise--thy Love of loves; Say that her eyes are stars, her face the heaven, Her bosoms the two worlds, with sandal-groves Full-scented, and the kiss-marks--ah, thy dream By Jumna's stream!

It shall be vain! And vain to string the emeralds on her arm, And hang the milky pearls upon her neck, Saying they are not jewels, but a swarm Of crowded, glossy bees, come there to suck The rosebuds of her breast, the sweetest flowers Of Jumna's bowers.

That shall be vain! Nor wilt thou so believe thine own blind wooing, Nor slake thy heart's thirst even with the cup Which at the last she brims for thee, undoing Her girdle of carved gold, and yielding up, Love's uttermost: brief the poor gain and pride By Jumna's tide

Because still vain Is love that feeds on shadow; vain, as thou dost, To look so deep into the phantom eyes For that which lives not there; and vain, as thou must, To marvel why the painted pleasure flies, When the fair, false wings seemed folded for ever By Jumna's river.

And vain! yes, vain! For me too is it, having so much striven, To see this slight snare take thee, and thy soul Which should have climbed to mine, and shared my heaven, Spent on a lower loveliness, whose whole Passion of claim were but a parody Of that kept here for thee.

Ahaha! vain! For on some isle of Jumna's silver stream He gives all that they ask to those hard eyes, While mine which are his angel's, mine which gleam With light that might have led him to the skies-- That almost led him--are eclipsed with tears Wailing my fruitless prayers.

But thou, good Friend, Hang not thy head for shame, nor come so slowly, As one whose message is too ill to tell; If thou must say Krishna is forfeit wholly-- Wholly forsworn and lost--let the grief dwell Where the sin doth,--except in this sad heart, Which cannot shun its part.

O great Hari! purge from wrong The soul of him who writes this song; Purge the souls of those that read From every fault of thought and deed; With thy blessed light assuage The darkness of this evil age! Jayadev the bard of love, Servant of the Gods above, Prays it for himself and you-- Gentle hearts who listen!--too.

Then in this other strain she wailed his loss--

(What follows is to the Music DESHAVARÂDÎ and the Mode RUPAKA.)

She, not Radha, wins the crown Whose false lips seemed dearest; What was distant gain to him When sweet loss stood nearest? Love her, therefore, lulled to loss On her fatal bosom; Love her with such love as she Can give back in the blossom.

Love her, O thou rash lost soul! With thy thousand graces; Coin rare thoughts into fair words For her face of faces; Praise it, fling away for it Life's purpose in a sigh, All for those lips like flower-leaves, And lotus-dark deep eye.

Nay, and thou shalt be happy too Till the fond dream is over; And she shall taste delight to hear The wooing of her lover; The breeze that brings the sandal up From distant green Malay, Shall seem all fragrance in the night, All coolness in the day.

The crescent moon shall seem to swim Only that she may see The glad eyes of my Krishna gleam, And her soft glances he: It shall be as a silver lamp Set in the sky to show The rose-leaf palms that cling and clasp, And the breast that beats below.

The thought of parting shall not lie Cold on their throbbing lives, The dread of ending shall not chill The glow beginning gives; She in her beauty dark shall look-- As long as clouds can be-- As gracious as the rain-time cloud Kissing the shining sea.

And he, amid his playmates old, At least a little while, Shall not breathe forth again the sigh That spoils the song and smile; Shall be left wholly to his choice, Free for his pleasant sin, With the golden-girdled damsels Of the bowers I found him in.

For me, his Angel, only The sorrow and the smart, The pale grief sitting on the brow, The dead hope in the heart; For me the loss of losing, For me the ache and dearth; My king crowned with the wood-flowers! My fairest upon earth!

Hari, Lord and King of love! From thy throne of light above Stoop to help us, deign to take Our spirits to thee for the sake Of this song, which speaks the fears Of all who weep with Radha's tears.

But love is strong to pardon, slow to part, And still the Lady, in her fancies, sang-- Wind of the Indian stream! A little--oh! a little--breathe once more The fragrance like his mouth's! blow from thy shore One last word as he fades into a dream;

Bodiless Lord of love! Show him once more to me a minute's space, My Krishna, with the love-look in his face, And then I come to my own place above;

I will depart and give All back to Fate and her: I will submit To thy stern will, and bow myself to it, Enduring still, though desolate, to live:

If it indeed be life, Even so resigning, to sit patience-mad, To feel the zephyrs burn, the sunlight sad, The peace of holy heaven, a restless strife.

Haho! what words are these? How can I live and lose him? how not go Whither love draws me for a soul loved so? How yet endure such sorrow?--or how cease?

Wind of the Indian wave! If that thou canst, blow poison here, not nard; God of the five shafts! shoot thy sharpest hard, And kill me, Radha,--Radha who forgave!

Or, bitter River, Yamûn! be Yama's sister! be Death's kin! Swell thy wave up to me and gulf me in, Cooling this cruel, burning pain for ever.

Ah! if only visions stir Grief so passionate in her, What divine grief will not take, Spirits in heaven for the sake Of those who miss love? Oh, be wise! Mark this story of the skies; Meditate Govinda ever, Sitting by the sacred river, The mystic stream, which o'er his feet Glides slow, with murmurs low and sweet, Till none can tell whether those be Blue lotus-blooms, seen veiledly Under the wave, or mirrored gems Reflected from the diadems Bound on the brows of mighty Gods, Who lean from out their pure abodes, And leave their bright felicities To guide great Krishna to his sides.