Part 6

(From the Persian)

When from my cheek I lift my veil, The roses turn with envy pale, And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain, Send forth their fragrance like a wail.

Or if perchance one perfumed tress Be lowered to the wind's caress, The honeyed hyacinths complain, And languish in a sweet distress.

And, when I pause, still groves among, (Such loveliness is mine) a throng Of nightingales awake and strain Their souls into a quivering song.

INDIAN DANCERS

Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth heavens that glimmer around them in fountains of light; O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music that cleaveth the stars like a wail of desire, And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces bewitch the voluptuous watches of night.

The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair, And smiles are entwining like magical serpents the poppies of lips that are opiate-sweet; Their glittering garments of purple are burning like tremulous dawns in the quivering air, And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet.

Now silent, now singing and swaying and swinging, like blossoms that bend to the breezes or showers, Now wantonly winding, they flash, now they falter, and, lingering, languish in radiant choir; Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-long fingers enchant through melodious hours, Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire!

MY DEAD DREAM

Have you found me, at last, O my Dream? Seven aeons ago You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow. Why have you come hither? Who bade you awake from your sleep And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep?

Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves? Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves? Would you touch and defile with dead fingers the robes of my priest? Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast?

Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow, Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven aeons ago. Who bade you arise from your darkness? I bid you depart! Profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart.

DAMAYANTE TO NALA IN THE HOUR OF EXILE

(A fragment)

Shalt thou be conquered of a human fate My liege, my lover, whose imperial head Hath never bent in sorrow of defeat? Shalt thou be vanquished, whose imperial feet Have shattered armies and stamped empires dead? Who shall unking thee, husband of a queen? Wear thou thy majesty inviolate. Earth's glories flee of human eyes unseen, Earth's kingdoms fade to a remembered dream, But thine henceforth shall be a power supreme, Dazzling command and rich dominion, The winds thy heralds and thy vassals all The silver-belted planets and the sun. Where'er the radiance of thy coming fall, Shall dawn for thee her saffron footcloths spread, Sunset her purple canopies and red, In serried splendour, and the night unfold Her velvet darkness wrought with starry gold For kingly raiment, soft as cygnet-down. My hair shall braid thy temples like a crown Of sapphires, and my kiss upon thy brows Like cithar-music lull thee to repose, Till the sun yield thee homage of his light.

O king, thy kingdom who from thee can wrest? What fate shall dare uncrown thee from this breast, O god-born lover, whom my love doth gird And armour with impregnable delight Of Hope's triumphant keen flame-carven sword?

THE QUEEN'S RIVAL

QUEEN Gulnaar sat on her ivory bed, Around her countless treasures were spread;

Her chamber walls were richly inlaid With agate, porphory, onyx and jade;

The tissues that veiled her delicate breast, Glowed with the hues of a lapwing's crest;

But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed "O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

King Feroz bent from his ebony seat: "Is thy least desire unfulfilled, O Sweet?

"Let thy mouth speak and my life be spent To clear the sky of thy discontent."

"I tire of my beauty, I tire of this Empty splendour and shadowless bliss;

"With none to envy and none gainsay, No savour or salt hath my dream or day."

Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose: "Give me a rival, O King Feroz."

King Feroz spoke to his Chief Vizier: "Lo! ere to-morrow's dawn be here,

"Send forth my messengers over the sea, To seek seven beautiful brides for me;