The Birth of the War-God Part 5

Canto Fifth.

_UMa'S REWARD._

Now woe to UMa, for young Love is slain, Her Lord hath left her, and her hope is vain.

Woe, woe to UMa! how the Mountain-Maid Cursed her bright beauty for its feeble aid!

'Tis Beauty's guerdon which she loves the best, To bless her lover, and in turn be blest.

Penance must aid her now--or how can she Win the cold heart of that stern deity?

Penance, long penance: for that power alone Can make such love, so high a Lord, her own.

But, ah! how troubled was her mother's brow At the sad tidings of the mourner's vow!

She threw her arms around her own dear maid, Kissed, fondly kissed her, sighed, and wept, and prayed: "Are there no G.o.ds, my child, to love thee here?

Frail is thy body, yet thy vow severe.

The lily, by the wild bee scarcely stirred, Bends, breaks, and dies beneath the weary bird."

Fast fell her tears, her prayer was strong, but still That prayer was weaker than her daughter's will.

Who can recall the torrent's headlong force, Or the bold spirit in its destined course?

She sent a maiden to her sire, and prayed He for her sake would grant some bosky shade, That she might dwell in solitude, and there Give all her soul to penance and to prayer.

In gracious love the great HIMaLAYA smiled, And did the bidding of his darling child.

Then to that hill which peac.o.c.ks love she came, Known to all ages by the lady's name.

Still to her purpose resolutely true, Her string of n.o.ble pearls aside she threw, Which, slipping here and there, had rubbed away The sandal dust that on her bosom lay, And clad her in a hermit coat of bark, Rough to her gentle limbs, and gloomy dark, Pressing too tightly, till her swelling breast Broke into freedom through the unwonted vest.

Her matted hair was full as lovely now As when 'twas braided o'er her polished brow.

Thus the sweet beauties of the lotus s.h.i.+ne When bees festoon it in a graceful line; And, though the tangled weeds that crown the rill Cling o'er it closely, it is lovely still.

With zone of gra.s.s the votaress was bound, Which reddened the fair form it girdled round: Never before the lady's waist had felt The ceaseless torment of so rough a belt.

Alas! her weary vow has caused to fade The lovely colours that adorned the maid.

Pale is her hand, and her long finger-tips Steal no more splendour from her paler lips, Or, from the ball which in her play would rest, Made bright and fragrant, on her perfumed breast.

Rough with the sacred gra.s.s those hands must be, And worn with resting on her rosary.

Cold earth her couch, her canopy the skies, Pillowed upon her arm the lady lies: She who before was wont to rest her head In the soft luxury of a sumptuous bed, Vext by no troubles as she slumbered there, But sweet flowers slipping from her loosened hair.

The maid put off, but only for awhile, Her pa.s.sioned glances and her witching smile.

She lent the fawn her moving, melting gaze, And the fond creeper all her winning ways.

The trees that blossomed on that lonely mount She watered daily from the neighbouring fount: If she had been their nursing mother, she Could not have tended them more carefully.

Not e'en her boy--her own bright boy--shall stay Her love for them: her first dear children they.

Her gentleness had made the fawns so tame, To her kind hand for fresh sweet grain they came, And let the maid before her friends compare Her own with eyes that shone as softly there.

Then came the hermits of the holy wood To see the votaress in her solitude; Grey elders came; though young the maid might seem, Her perfect virtue must command esteem.

They found her resting in that lonely spot, The fire was kindled, and no rite forgot.

In hermit's mantle was she clad; her look Fixt in deep thought upon the Holy Book.

So pure that grove: all war was made to cease, And savage monsters lived in love and peace.

Pure was that grove: each newly built abode Had leafy shrines where fires of wors.h.i.+p glowed.

But far too mild her penance, UMa thought, To win from heaven the lordly meed she sought.

She would not spare her form, so fair and frail, If sterner penance could perchance prevail.

Oft had sweet pastime wearied her, and yet Fain would she match in toil the anch.o.r.et.

Sure the soft lotus at her birth had lent Dear UMa'S form its gentle element; But gold, commingled with her being, gave That will so strong, so beautifully brave.

Full in the centre of four blazing piles Sate the fair lady of the winning smiles, While on her head the mighty G.o.d of Day Shot all the fury of his summer ray; Yet her fixt gaze she turned upon the skies, And quenched his splendour with her brighter eyes.

To that sweet face, though scorched by rays from heaven, Still was the beauty of the lotus given, Yet, worn by watching, round those orbs of light A blackness gathered like the shades of night.

She cooled her dry lips in the bubbling stream, And lived on Amrit from the pale moon-beam, Sometimes in hunger culling from the tree The rich ripe fruit that hung so temptingly.

Scorched by the fury of the noon-tide rays, And fires that round her burned with ceaseless blaze, Summer pa.s.sed o'er her: rains of Autumn came And throughly drenched the lady's tender frame.

So steams the earth, when mighty torrents pour On thirsty fields all dry and parched before.

The first clear rain-drops falling on her brow, Gem it one moment with their light, and now Kissing her sweet lip find a welcome rest In the deep valley of the lady's breast; Then wander broken by the fall within The mazy channels of her dimpled skin.

There as she lay upon her rocky bed, No sumptuous roof above her gentle head, Dark Night, her only witness, turned her eyes, Red lightnings flas.h.i.+ng from the angry skies, And gazed upon her voluntary pain, In wind, in sleet, in thunder, and in rain.

Still lay the maiden on the cold damp ground, Though blasts of winter hurled their snows around, Still pitying in her heart the mournful fate Of those poor birds, so fond, so desolate,-- Doomed, hapless pair, to list each other's moan Through the long hours of night, sad and alone.

Chilled by the rain, the tender lotus sank: She filled its place upon the streamlet's bank.

Sweet was her breath as when that lovely flower Sheds its best odour in still evening's hour.

Red as its leaves her lips of coral hue: Red as those quivering leaves they quivered too.

Of all stern penance it is called the chief To nourish life upon the fallen leaf.

But even this the ascetic maiden spurned, And for all time a glorious t.i.tle earned.

APARNa--Lady of the unbroken fast-- Have sages called her, saints who knew the past.

Fair as the lotus fibres, soft as they, In these stern vows she pa.s.sed her night and day.

No mighty anch.o.r.et had e'er essayed The ceaseless penance of this gentle maid.

There came a hermit: reverend was he As Brahmanhood's embodied sanct.i.ty.

With coat of skin, with staff and matted hair, His face was radiant, and he spake her fair.

Up rose the maid the holy man to greet, And humbly bowed before the hermit's feet.

Though meditation fill the pious breast, It finds a welcome for a glorious guest: The sage received the honour duly paid, And fixed his earnest gaze upon the maid.

While through her frame unwonted vigour ran, Thus, in his silver speech, the blameless saint began: "How can thy tender frame, sweet lady, bear In thy firm spirit's task its fearful share?

Canst thou the gra.s.s and fuel duly bring, And still unwearied seek the freshening spring?

Say, do the creeper's slender shoots expand, Seeking each day fresh water from thy hand, Till like thy lip each ruddy tendril glows, That lip which, faded, still outreds the rose?

With loving glance the timid fawns draw nigh: Say dost thou still with joy their wants supply?

For thee, O lotus-eyed, their glances s.h.i.+ne, Mocking the brightness of each look of thine.

O Mountain-Lady, it is truly said That heavenly charms to sin have never led, For even penitents may learn of thee How pure, how gentle Beauty's self may be.

Bright GANGa falling with her heavenly waves, HIMaLAYA'S head with sacred water laves, Bearing the flowers the seven great Sages fling To crown the forehead of the Mountain-King.

Yet do thy deeds, O bright-haired maiden, shed A richer glory round his awful head.

Purest of motives, Duty leads thy heart: Pleasure and gain therein may claim no part.

O n.o.ble maid, the wise have truly said That friends.h.i.+p soon in gentle heart is bred.

Seven steps together bind the lasting tie: Then bend on me, dear Saint, a gracious eye.

Fain, lovely UMa, would a Brahman learn What n.o.ble guerdon would thy penance earn.

Say, art thou toiling for a second birth, Where dwells the great Creator? O'er the earth Resistless sway? Or fair as Beauty's Queen, Peerless, immortal, shall thy form be seen?

The lonely soul bowed down by grief and pain, By penance' aid some gracious boon may gain.

But what, O faultless one, can move thy heart To dwell in solitude and prayer apart?

Why should the cloud of grief obscure thy brow, 'Mid all thy kindred, who so loved as thou?

Foes hast thou none: for what rash hand would dare From serpent's head the magic gem to tear?

Why dost thou seek the hermit's garb to try, Thy silken raiment and thy gems thrown by?

As though the sun his glorious state should leave, Rayless to harbour 'mid the shades of eve.

Wouldst thou win heaven by thy holy spells?

Already with the G.o.ds thy father dwells.

A husband, lady? O forbear the thought, A priceless jewel seeks not, but is sought.

Maiden, thy deep sighs tell me it is so; Yet, doubtful still, my spirit seeks to know Couldst thou e'er love in vain? What heart so cold That hath not eagerly its wors.h.i.+p told?

Ah! could the cruel loved one, thou fair maid, Look with cold glances on that bright hair's braid?

Thy locks are hanging loosely o'er thy brow, Thine ear is shaded by no lotus now.

See, where the sun hath scorched that tender neck Which precious jewels once were proud to deck.

Still gleams the line where they were wont to cling, As faintly shows the moon's o'ershadowed ring.

Now sure thy loved one, vain in beauty's pride, Dreamed of himself when wandering at thy side, Or he would count him blest to be the mark Of that dear eye, so soft, so l.u.s.trous dark.

But, gentle UMa, let thy labour cease; Turn to thy home, fair Saint, and rest in peace.