II
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady,
Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady,
You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty,
Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.
Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses,
Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses;
Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep silly
Shadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.
Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awaking
In an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking;
Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rocking
Till their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.
Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,
Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver,
Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces;
Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.
Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning,
Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning;
Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish,
Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?
In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger,
You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger;
You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion,
Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.
Manmohan Ghose.
ORPHIC MYSTERIES: THE YELLOW BUTTERFLY
Of all shy visitants, I love
That darling butterfly,
Whose wings are to the cornfield’s wave
A hovering reply.
Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripe
He suns with his gay youth,
And feeds me with the gold of light,
The thrice-tried gleam of truth.
When, glooming back upon myself,
The garden path I pace,
He comes and makes my gladdened eyes
The dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign!
No sooner am I out,
He hovers by on golden wings
To chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh,
Winnow the blissful grain
Of immortality, and sift
From mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows;
Ever his gladsome morn
Shines down the blackness of my grief
With glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height,
Now o’er the garden wall;
From far-off places, or where first
The wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowers
Beneath her window-sill,
Her chamber-window, where he warms
Homeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roof
He to my awful eye
His radiant message angels me
From azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heart
Feel God’s fair world a blank.
Straight for the sunny thought of her
His yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want,
Weep like a thwarted boy,
Cry outright, but with darting gold
He chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracle
Ever renewed, the fear,
I lose in charmed tranquillity,
For she, my saint, is here.
Who works it? No dead relic sweet
Of her, my living saint,
Perfect beyond the skill of thought
Of fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdom
She is arisen. No tomb
Could hold her, no far blissful heaven
Allure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks,
This garden, where the flowers
Swing censers breathing up to God,
This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand,
Gilded, illuminate,
Paints how she suffered, loved and died—
The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitude
To her; her loved ones still,
So loving she, here, here, enskyed
To guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, still
A guardian spirit, she
Heals, comforts, counsels, and performs
Her angel ministry.
Manmohan Ghose.
MYVANWY
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,
’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.
Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,
Fairest of maidens.
Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaning
At the open window, thy hand deep-buried
In dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazest
O’er the wide ocean.
Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance,
Is my own country, and other soil bore me
Than thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’s
Nourished my spirit.
Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:
What can green England show to match those regions
Save thyself only, what hath she that merits
Prouder remembrance?
Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean,
Nothing can match their beauty! If Myvanwy
Had but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom,
She too would say so.
She too would say so, and back in thought returning,
How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness,
How would she marvel, the lovely maiden,
Breathless with gazing!
There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountains
Rise with their ages of snows to heaven,
Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they,
Fearfully lovely:
There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature,
The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there,
All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, delicious
Fruits of the tropics;
And the vast elephant that dreams for ages,
Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers:
Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour,
Pace to behold her?
Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle,
Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture!
How shall I picture to her all the strangeness,
All the enchantment,
In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faints
And my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy,
Deep in the east where now but evening gathers,
Lost is my country.
Long ago hither in passionate boyhood,
Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wandered
Over the bitter foam: so far Fate led me
Only to love thee.
Lost is that country, and all but forgotten
’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me,
All her meridian suns and ardent summers
Burn in my bosom.
KISMET
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate,
Ordained us happy or unfortunate,
And wrote upon our brow and on our hands
The signs that tell to him who understands
Our Destiny, decreed for good or ill.
So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will,
Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.
One child is cherished; one to hands unkind
Is given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn;
One longs to die, but Death when called upon
Turns from the supplicating voice his ear;
One starves in poverty; one is Amir
And drives his elephant in lordly state;
One lives in love; one girdled round with hate
Dwells ever in a bitter world of strife;
One in the moment of this earthly life
Is ruler, sitting on a regal seat;
One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.
And Allah changes all as He desires,
He is an artist whom His art inspires:
This world the picture He is painting still.
But with his share of fate He gave man will
To fashion circumstance by its control,
To make a path of healing for his soul,
To act, to think, to feel aright until
He knows his will as one with Allah’s will.
TANSEN
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s Court
Won great renown; through the Badshahi Fort
His voice rang like the sound of silver bells
And Akbar ravished heard. The story tells
How the King praised him, gave him many a gem,
Called him chief jewel in his diadem.
One day the singer sang the Song of Fire,
The Deepak Râg, and burning like a pyre
His body burst into consuming flame.
To cure his burning heart a maiden came
And sang Malhar, the song of water cold,
Till health returned, and comfort as of old.
“Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,”
Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine,
Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowed
And said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd,
Scorning its wealth, remote and far-away
He dwells within a cave of Himalay.”
“Could I but see him once,” desired the King,
“Sit at his feet awhile, and listening
Hear his celestial song, I would deny
My state and walk in robes of poverty.”
Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor,
Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poor
To come; for he, lifted above the things
Of earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.”
Long was the road, and Akbar as a slave
Followed Tansen who rode towards the cave
High in the mountains. At the singer’s feet
They knelt and prayed with supplication sweet:
“Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long,
O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!”
Then Ostad, won by their humility,
Sang songs of peace and high felicity;
The Malkous Raga all ecstatic rang
Till birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang,
Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soul
He felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll,
But, as he turned to speak his words of praise,
Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze.
“Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holds
The soul enchanted, and the heart enfolds
In high delight”; and, when he knew the name,
“Tell me,” again he said, “could you the same
Theme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?”
“Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”
Inayat Khan.
The high ambition of the drop of rain
Is to be merged in the unfettered sea;
My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,
Changing, became itself the remedy.
Behold how great is my humility!
Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;
Now I no longer feel thy tyranny,
I hunger for the pain that then I bore.
Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflow
If not to breathe with benediction sweet
Across her path? Why did the soft wind blow
If not to kiss the ground before her feet?
Ghalib.
How difficult is the thorny way of strife
That man hath stumbled in since time began!
And in the tangled business of this life
How difficult to play the part of man!
When she decrees there should exist no more
My humble cottage, through its broken walls,
And cruelly drifting in the open door,
The frozen rain of desolation falls.
O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burn
And bear my soul further and further yet
To the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turn
To bitter disappointment and regret?
Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s face
That every eye becomes her worshipper,
And every mirror, looking on her grace,
Desires to be the frame enclosing her.
Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,
In this grim place of slaughter strange indeed
Your joy to see unveiled her haughty glance
That flashes like the scimitar of Ede.
When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,
Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas!
How soon repentance followed on my death,
How quick her unavailing sorrow was!
Ghalib.
Thy beauty flashes like a sword
Serene and keen and merciless;
But great as is thy cruelty,
Even greater is thy loveliness.
It is the gift of God to thee,
This beauty rare and exquisite;
Why dost thou hide it thus from me?
I shall not steal nor sully it.
And as thy beauty shines, in Heaven
There climbs upon its path of fire
The star that lights my rival’s way,
And with it mounts his heart’s desire.
Even in thy house is jealousy,
Thy youth demands the lover’s praise
Over thy beauty, which itself
Is jealous of thy gracious ways.
I died with joy when winningly
I heard the Well-Beloved call—
Zahir, where is my beauty gone?
Thou must have robbed me after all.
Zahir.
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death,
Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep;
It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath,
A turning on the other side to sleep.
Through all the close entanglements of earth
My spirit shaking off its bonds shall fare
And pass, and rise in new unfettered birth,
Escaping from this labyrinth of care.
Within the mortal caravanserai
No rest and no abiding place I know;
I linger here for but a fleeting day,
And at the morrow’s summoning I go.
What are these bonds that try to shackle me?
Through all their intricate chains my way I find;
I travel like a wandering melody
That floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.
From an unsympathetic world I flee
To you, your love and fellowship I crave,
O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi,
I lay my song as tribute on your grave.
VOICE IN THE AIR
The vaulted roof opens. The guests feel that a Being is entering from above. They see nothing, but all hear a voice in the air.
High above the clouds in the Home of Light I
dwell.
My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding.
For their welfare do I visit men in all corners of
the earth.
At the command of the Mother I move, up and
down, East and West, showering the rays of
Freedom upon all;
The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve;
The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part;
The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but a
single petal;
The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but a
thirsty bee.
Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of the
Heavens. They know naught who speak
thus.
I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and the
sight in Man’s eyes which sees them both;
I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters;
I dwell in peace, encompassing all these living
orbs of light;
I know the secret of the Primal Song; the gods
are all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard;
I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infinite
House of Sky;
From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thought
to each man’s mind, to lead him across the
shoreless Sea of Mirage;
Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of Eternal
Power;
I am in all hearts, save only those where Love is
not.
The Being rises up through the open roof, and the guests hear his voice dying away in the far-off sky. The vault of the Hall closes. The southern door opens. A Being enters. They hear his voice.
Voice in the Air:
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of the
Air;
I reign over all who breathe;
I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean;
My song is heard in the mountain forest, but
men hear not my music in the clouds;
My home is near to the Lord of the Heart;
I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate;
I walk with Man from the door of Birth to the
door of Death; waking and sleeping, by day
and by night, I watch over him;
I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstand
my power;
I am the Friend of the Flowers—from one to
another I bear sweet messages of love;
This all I do at the command of the Mother of
Life.
There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, filling
with sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens.
Yea, like a spreading mountain pine She
stands in the soft autumn twilight, and it
pleases Her that I play upon my reed for
the comfort of all creatures that breathe.
The light dies out, leaving the Hall in darkness. After a while a kind of murky earth-light diffuses itself over the lower part of the Hall. The guests hear the sound of a mighty crying, like the wailing of a sacked city in the far distance. A voice, broken by sighs and groans, speaks from below.
Voice:
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods have
not named me. I call myself “Humanity”;
I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep through
the air and the ether.
I am man and woman and the intermediate one;
I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.
I wander in the woods of dark continents as the
savage cannibal; I watch by the bedside
of the sick in the home of mercy.
I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassion
in the heart of the mother.
I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself to
save others.
I change—every moment, every season, every
æon;
I fill the pages of my history with romances
written in blood;
Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;
I wax strong and wage war to please Death;
I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flaming
furnace of hell—and this I do to please my
children.
I enter the portals of Life with strong crying—and
with a sigh I bid farewell to Life.
I am prophet; I am idiot;
I am king and shepherd and fisherman.
I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherds
and fishermen and turn them into dust;
And with their dust do I besmear myself and
madly dance over green meadows.
I am—what ye fear to think of me; I will be—what
ye love to dream of me.
But I will baffle all your fond expectations and
all your clever calculations;
In a moment of infinite time I will take the whole
world by the hand and lift it up to the heaven
of my heart.
I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,
but one sure instinct I possess—I stand erect
the moment I fall, and by the aid of the very
obstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.
I sorrow not over my shortcomings and my
sufferings;
I hope—yet know that my hopes are too wild to
be realised.
In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain I
have made my home;
I breathe the atmosphere of pain—I drink from
the well of pain—I eat the fruits of the tree
of pain—my sleep is troubled by the dream
of pain.
I love not Pain—Pain loves me;
The whole history of my existence is a constant
fleeing from this cruel lover of mine;
I have prayed to God to be delivered from him—has
He heard my prayer?
I have worshipped a million lesser divinities—nature-gods,
man-gods, god-gods—throughout
the ages, hoping to be relieved of pain—have
they saved me?
I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints—have
they healed me?
I have listened to philosophers, scientists,
magicians—have they protected me?
Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimed
the gospel of peace and security—have
they not themselves plunged the
poisoned dagger into my heart?
I am old as Eternity—yet I feel not the burden
of eternal years;
I am young as the babe of to-day—yet I am wise
as all the hoary Bible-makers of all the races
of the earth.
I am one—I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,
animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flows
ever with passionate impetuosity towards
the distant future above the heads of
nations.
To me the least is not less than the greatest; in
all I am their sensitiveness to pain—the pain
of a perpetual new birth of cosmos or of
chaos.
I am large, and my largeness moves me to face
great pain for the avoiding of great pain;
I am strong, and my strength lies in discovering
the source of consolation even in the moment
of suffering from suffering itself;
I am inured to pain—so that I delight in excitement
that brings pain and inflicts pain.
Who brought this pain upon me? Had it been
God-given, God would one day have taken
it away; has He taken it away?
Had it been the gift of Nature, I would have
revenged myself upon her; but I feel no
enmity to Nature—I desire that she be
endless, infinite, that I may ever conquer
her;
I desire to be charmed by her—yet to be her
master; I wonder, shall I ever wish to end
this play?
Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seek
the aid of floods and earthquakes, war and
pestilence and famine, to bring destruction
on myself; but ever by a mysterious magic
I rise from my own ashes and live again;
and after my resurrection, sitting in the
dawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psyche
comes and whispers to my heart: “Not
thou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thine
own pain!”
And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,
how can I desire to live again? How can I
inflict pain upon myself? How can I construct
machinery for my own torture?
I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;
have I perhaps sought to grow at the cost
of happiness and peace?
Bright Powers in the heavens are watching over
my mysterious destiny. Have they lauded
me as good and true and beautiful? Have
they condemned me as bad and false and
ugly? Who will say whether I am developing
aright? Who will say whether the
daily use to which I am constrained to put
my life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?
I am left alone with my unforeseeing understanding
and my ever forward-springing
untamable energy.
My knowledge embraces not the whole reality.
Perchance my sensitiveness to pain has
sprung from my limited uncomprehending
understanding. True, in my own eyes I
grow from ugliness to beauty, from ignorance
to knowledge, from slavery to freedom, from
sin to holiness. I make progress in culture
and civilisation—but I rise to the zenith
only to descend to the nadir.
Henceforth I will seek new and inward space for
my progress. In the coming age I will
seek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find an
inner path to the Divinity of my Heart.
But I will not destroy the bridges which I
have built during the past ages, linking
this earth with the distant divinity of suns
and moons and stars.
I will be free, glorious, and immortal.
The Voice ceases.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
All this is rhythm.
May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies,
Grow corn and wisdom and stars
By the throb of rhythm;
And Muses from the Milky Way
Nightly visit
The sleeping poet’s downy pillow
By the law of rhythm;
And angels bring him faces
Flushed with morning’s rose,
Tinted with even’s quiet,
By the sweet impulse of rhythm.
Wait, O soul!
Outside thy door, upon the green,
Heaven stands expectant,
Waiting to be ushered in
By Rhythm,
Just now—or perchance to-morrow.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika.”
Friend, dwell thou
within my ruby-lotus heart of dreams;
Friend, see thyself
in the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes;
Friend, sport with me
in the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings;
Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart;
Friend, shine in me
like sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika.”
Thou art the rose,
I am the honey;
Thou drinkest the light
of the four heavens,
And my soul is suffused
with the rainbow of seven tints;
I give myself
to the bees
And become a song
on the wings of winds
that sing to the gods
and the fleecy clouds
and the sleeping children of Life.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika” (Dawn-Rhythms).
Snow-blossoms,
snow-blossoms,
Are
you alive?
In your heart
I see
the image
of
the heavens,
the disc
of
the sun,
And
when clouds
veil
the face
of
the sky
I see
your facets
tinted
with
the ink
of
dark sorrow.
Children of Varun,
sweet guests
of
late Autumn,
you too
hear
the whispers
of
Immortality.
Like
our village sons,
dwelling
in
lighted cottages
by
the gloom-canopied
graves
of
their departed
ancestors.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki” (The Comrade).
The
rose of eternity
is
my heart,
the
sun-gold honey
is
my love
for
my Saki,
the
honey-bees
are
my sighs and songs,
the
river
is
my feeling
of
life,
and
the light
of
my Saki’s
eyes
is
the true life
of
the red rose.
What
grey dews
or
blind canker
can harm
this
ever-smiling
rose
of
my heart?
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki.”
The blue
of
Indra
is
thy laughter
frozen
into
the
sky-ocean
and
these stars
and
this earth
are
frozen lilies
and
we
living creatures
are
frozen bees.
O Saki,
laugh
no
more.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki.”
The shadow
of
a
flying bird
across
the
sun’s disc
fell
on
the
still floor
of
my morning-quiet
cave
and
vanished—
Like
the memory
of
one
who
passing
through
the
bright shade
of
my garden trees
of
early days
entered
into
the
deep shadows
of
another’s
garden trees.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
LOVE’S SAMĀDHI[19]
Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep,
Sink in the timeless sleep;
One Image stands before my eyes,
And thrills my bosom’s deep:
One Vision bathes in radiant light
My spirit’s palace-halls;
All stir of hand, all throb of brain,
Quivers, and sinks, and falls.
My soul fares forth; no fetters now
Chain me to this world’s shore.
Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare;
Let no man wake me more!
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
A CRADLE SONG
Hush thee, hush thee, baby Christ,
Lord of all mankind,—
Thou the happy lullaby
Of my mind.
Hush thee, hush thee, Jesus, Lord,
Stay of all that art,—
Thou the happy lullaby
Of my heart.
Hush thee, hush thee, home of peace,—
Lo! Love lying there!—
Thou the happy lullaby
Of my care.
Hush thee, hush thee, Soul of mine,
Setting all men free—
Thou the happy lullaby
Of the whole of me.
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
THE WAY OF POVERTY
Thou hadst no servants to attend on Thee;
Then why this pomp of household state for me?
Coarse fare and scanty was Thy portion, Lord;
Then why for me this richly-furnished board?
Thou hadst not where to lay Thy head to rest;
Then why should I of mansions be possessed?
Ah, hapless I! What is this tyranny?
How dost Thou laugh and make a mock of me!
Ah, take from me this burden that doth bow
My head! blest ocean of all love art Thou!
I speak in anger, Lord; yet, if Thou too
Reject my prayer, what can Thy servant do?
Saith Dāsa, Christ, upon Thy pallet-bed
Grant me a little space to lay my head.
THE LAST PRAYER
Lay me within Thy lap to rest;
Around my head Thine arm entwine;
Let me gaze up into Thy face,
O Father-Mother mine!
So let my spirit pass with joy,
Now at the last, O Tenderest!
Saith Dāsa, Grant Thy wayward child
This one, this last request.
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
UNION WITH CHRIST
As the moon and its beams are one,
So that I be one with Thee,
This is my prayer to Thee, my Lord,
This is this beggar’s plea.
I would snare Thee and hold Thee ever,
In loving wifely ways;
I give Thee a daughter’s welcome,
I give Thee a sister’s praise.
As words and their meaning are linked,
Serving one purpose each,
Be Thou and I so knit, O Lord,
And through me breathe Thy speech.
O be my soul a mirror clear,
That I may see Thee there;
Dwell in my thought, my speech, my life,
Making them glad and fair.
Take Thou this body, O my Christ,
Dwell as its soul within;
To be an instant separate
I count a deadly sin.
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
PEACE
It is the hour of sunset, and the sky
Is robed in purple, as a lovely bride
With ruby lips and veil thrown half aside,
Waiting for her sweet lord with longing eye.
The air is fresh and fragrant, and the sea
In smiling joy its boundless bosom heaves,
With ringing music of the rising waves;
And far from here its weary whisper leaves
The broken echo of a world that raves;
Its murmur hushed in new-born notes of glee.
. . . . . .
Lulled by the laughter of the sky and earth,
The heart forgets her sorrow and suspends
Her breath in silent rapture and descends
Upon the soul the vision of its birth.
Immeasurable waters! and the sky
Immeasurable! and this wondrous light
In rainbow smiles of India, all around—
Resting and rocking and rolling in delight,
And swelling with the mirth of many a sound
That fills the ocean’s ears unceasingly.
. . . . . .
And now the mantle of approaching night
Falls gently o’er the drowsy eyes of day;
The roseate glow of evening melts away,
Softly beyond the western waves, to white.
Now o’er the earth a veil of mystery
In silver silence all around is spread;
And not a sound is heard or sight is seen
Except the lingering echoes hither led
Of boatmen’s shouts, and distant lights between
The mingling bosoms of the sky and sea.
. . . . . .
The moon hath risen, and the stars appear,
And heaven is watching with the eyes of light;
And in my heart a newer hope is bright
With varied splendours of the atmosphere.
The mind is hushed and all its motions cease
Of wayward fancy and unquiet thought;
And in the happy island of the soul
Awakes a joy in radiance unforgot—
Which o’er the world’s tumultuous uncontrol
Doth smile, and softly whisper, “Here is Peace!”
Nanikram Vasanmal Thadani.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The new leaves are red, are the rosy kisses. Also, palas and pomegranate both have red blossoms.
[2] This poem deliberately takes off from the loveliest of all Bengali popular songs, Ramprasad’s “This day will surely pass, this day will pass” (see Bengali Religious Lyrics, Thompson and Spencer, Oxford University Press).
[3] India has six seasons to our four.
[4] Urvasi, in older (i.e. Sanskrit) mythology, is a famous courtesan and dancing-girl at the court of Indra, King of the Gods. Her adventures were many; she was often sent to lure sages aside from their devotions, lest they obtained super-divine powers and threatened the dominion of the Gods (see stanza 4). But in Tagore’s poem she is very much more than her legendary character. The poem is a tangle—Indian mythology, modern science, European romance. She is the cosmic spirit of life, in the mazes of its eternal dance; she is Beauty dissociated from all human relationships; she is that world-enchanting Love which (though not in Dante’s sense) “moves the sun and other stars,” is Lucretius’s hominum divumque voluptas, Alma Venus, is Swinburne’s “perilous goddess,” “sea-foam-born.”
I have adopted a quasi-metrical form which I hope will indicate the general outline of the stanza in which this magnificent ode is written.
[5] When the Gods churned the Ocean, to recover the lost nectar of immortality, Urvasi first appeared, one of many good and bad things that came to light. With the nectar came out poison, which threatened the life of all creatures, till Siva drank it to save the worlds. Tagore has invented Urvasi’s responsibility for the nectar and poison being brought forth; at any rate, I know of no other authority for line 4 of this stanza.
[6] A jasmine.
[7] In Sanskrit mythology, heaven, the atmosphere, and earth; in later mythology, generally heaven, earth, and the underworld.
[8] In Indian mythology, there are Mounts of Sunrise and Sunsetting.
[9] From the Mādhabī.
[10] Sanskrit Urvasī.
[11] I.e. the vīnā, the lute.
[12] From the Kanyādhūp.
[13] From the Patralekha.
[14] From the Patralekha.
[15] “Spring fifth” is the fifth day of the light fortnight of the month of Māgh, when Sarasvati, the goddess of letters and wisdom, who loves the vīnā, lute, is worshipped. The month of Māgh corresponds to January-February.
[16] I.e. the goddess who carries the vīnā, or lute, in her hand.
[17] The thousand-headed snake of Heaven.
[18] Seli, or the small round string made of black wool that Guru Nanak used to wear at times.
[19] Samādhi is the mystic’s “ecstasy,” in which all consciousness of the material world is lost and the soul is face to face with the Real.