The scenes gaily painted were bright to behold,
And in ultra-romantic tints shone.
My knightly, rich mantle was spangled with gold;
Noblest feelings were ever mine own.
But now with grave trouble my thoughts are beset,
Although from the stage I depart;
And my heart is as wretchedly miserable yet,
As though I still acted my part.
Ah God! all unwitting and wholly in jest,
What I felt and I suffered I told.
I have fought against Death who abode in my breast
Like the dying wrestler of old.
XLVII.
The great king Wiswamitra
In dire distress is now.
He seeks with strife and penance
To win Waschischta's cow.
Oh, great King Wiswamitra,
Oh what an ox art thou!
So much to struggle and suffer,
And only for a cow.
XLVIII.
Heart, my heart, oh, be not shaken!
Bravely bear thy fate. Once more
Shall the coming Spring restore
What the Winter rude hath taken.
How abundant is thy measure!
Still, O world, how fair thou art!
And thou yet may'st love, my heart,
Everything that gives thee pleasure.