If any asked me whence it came,
This languor of my soul to-day,
And why I muse in piteous frame
While all the glowing world is gay,
I could not tell, I only mourn,
And wonder how to life it stirred,
The memory of that distant morn,
As then I wondered had I heard
That grief could ever sink to sleep
Nor aye that stony vigil keep.
Enter ye dreams of vanished woe,
The spectral griefs of long ago;
I fold my hands, in dreamlike trance,
I see their shadowy train advance--
Phantom forms like shades of eld,
Memory-prints or forms beheld,
I cannot know, they fade away;
Faintly their voices seem to say,
"You loved us not that distant day,"
And, lo, my foolish tears o'erflow.
Can this be I who fain would know
Those bitter griefs of long ago?
As Atma approached the city of Jummoo he found himself again by a
river-side, and seeing a small boat he entered it and was soon gliding
with the current. It was night when he floated among the trees of the
Palace gardens. Thousands of lights glittered through the foliage. The
air was burdened with perfume. High above the sombre umbrage rose
slender snowy spires, around which the moonbeams lingered lovingly. He
left the little skiff and trod the terraced ascent. A meandering
brooklet, tributary of the larger stream, was spanned by fairy-like
bridges. He hesitated among the intersecting ways, mazy, enchanting, and
flower-bordered. The living air was full of subdued sound. Bubbling
water, tinkling bells, and the mingling of many voices made music which
was borne on perfumed winds. This was the fairest spot in all sunny
Kashmir, where the nightingale sings perpetually in groves of citron,
magnolia, and pomegranate.
He reached the splendid portico which was the chief entrance of the
Palace. Its carven and gilded roof was supported by alabaster columns.
It had been a day of pomp and festival, and courtiers still in their
yellow robes of state reclined here, languidly enjoying the cool night
air. Atma ascended the broad steps where officers of state were
marshalled in lines, gold-hilted swords at their sides, and their
gorgeous attire glittering with jewels. Here he requested an audience of
the Rajah, and, preceded by a servant bearing his credentials, he passed
through lofty and magnificent chambers to an ante-room where he rested
until summoned to the presence of Golab Singh, whom he found in an inner
court lit by rose-hued lamps. The air was cool, delicious and fragrant,
the stillness and the softened light were in pleasing contrast to the
dazzling splendour of the halls and room he had traversed. Here in an
alcove were seated three or four men. The Maharajah received him with
affability, and made gravely courteous enquiries for the health and
well-being of Junda Kowr. He welcomed her envoy, and would know of the
difficulties and dangers of his journey thither, and added graceful
flattery to his commiseration. Then, after much courteous discourse, he
confided the young Sikh to the care of attendants, with many injunctions
regarding his comfort and refreshment. And Atma went out from the august
presence with heart elate, for he had instantly observed in the turban
of Golab Singh a gem which by its size and hue he knew must be none
other than the Sapphire of Fate, whose magical renown might yet in his
true hands rally a degenerate Khalsa until such time as the disciples of
Nanuk might again know good from evil, and reverence Truth alone.