Sweet then the blushing maid replied,
"Among the roses I abide,
I wake the bird, I watch the bee,
No greater toil is set for me;
But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued
You wander in this quiet solitude."
And Atma spoke with joyful fervency,
"I hither came on embassy unguessed,
Most blissful vision of my raptured view,
The dusk delights of quietness and rest
Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu
To all content my fond heart ever knew.
Descending angels of my wisest dreams,
Ye kindly genii, bending from above,
Say, in th'allotment of my life's high themes,
Were hours left for love?
A great design and just my soul employs,
Can high resolve and tranced rest agree?
Or is there aught than loss in changeful joys
Of mortal love, most mortal in its wane
Which I shall see
And call aloud, 'O Love,' in vain, in vain."
"Bloomy roses die,
Sunbeams have no morrow,
Sweetest songs give place to sigh,
Ah, the speechless sorrow,
Pain of by-and-bye.
I too well have known
Gladness lives a-dying,
Joys are often prized when flown,
Loved when past replying,
Sought when left alone.
Sad when roses pine,
Ah, but love is dearer,
Who would dare to quaff this wine
Knowing Fate the bearer,
Guileful fate of mine?
Moti, peerless flower,
Queen of love and gladness,
Tell me in this happy hour,
Will Joy turn to sadness,
And Love's death-night lower?"
Moti, wise as lovely, pondered,
"'Mong the sunbeams I have wandered,
With the flowers friendship made;
Sweetest blossoms wither, But alike they fade,
Roses die together,
Beauteous death is made.
Comrades e'en in death are flowers,
Always sweet are friendship's bowers.
Lightly sorrow touches twain,
Only solitude is pain."
* * * * * Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove,
Who did approve
In myrtle ambuscade this tender lore;
The constant plashing of the fountain spray
Melted in easy numbers, dying away
A quiet cadence, while for evermore
Faded the eve in richest livery wove
Of Tyrian dyes and amber woof t'allure
The soft salaam of slowly sinking day.
Stars shone, and Atma said, "'Tis well to be,
The things of earth are painted pleasantly."
But pleasantness is light and versatile,
And moods must change and tranquil breezes veer,
And o'er this blissful hour there came a chill
And sullen shadows slowly creeping near
In lengthening lines, and murkier dusk took form
Of all things ominous, disastrous, ill,
And as a mid-day gloom portending storm,
A lowering fate made prophecy of fear,
And Atma knew the menace in the air,
As ghostly shudderings of our fearful life
Foretell the advent of th' assassin's knife.
Low sank his heart before the augury
(For life was dearer on this eventide
Than e'er before), and all dismayed, he cried,
"These are the heralds of calamity
That bid me hence, for all too well I know
The pensive pageantry of mortal woe;
O Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee
But ever grief has cruel constancy,
Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow,
And well I know her doleful voice again.
Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow
A heavy burden of lament and pain,
And where Delight held lately sweet hey-day,
Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play,
Very still the little rosebud sleeps,
Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps
Sluggish tears upon the darksome mould."