THE DAUGHTER.
There is a rift, and downward goes my glance——
THE VOICE.
What sees my child?
THE DAUGHTER.
I see—O beautiful!—with forests green,
With waters blue, white peaks, and yellow fields
THE VOICE.
Yes, beautiful as all that Brahma made—
But still more beautiful it was of yore,
In primal morn of ages. Then occurred
Some strange mishap; the orbit was disturbed;
Rebellion led to crime that called for check——
THE DAUGHTER.
Now from below I hear some sounds arise—
What sort of race is dwelling there?