Vain—it was vain!
The temptress was too near, the heav'n too far;
I can but weep because he sits and ties
Garlands of fire-flowers for her loosened hair,
And in its silken shadow veils his eyes
And buries his fond face. Yet I forgave
By Jumna's wave!
Vainly! all vain!
Make then the most of that whereto thou'rt given,
Feign her thy Paradise—thy Love of loves;
Say that her eyes are stars, her face the heaven,
Her bosoms the two worlds, with sandal-groves
Full-scented, and the kiss-marks—ah, thy dream
By Jumna's stream!
It shall be vain!
And vain to string the emeralds on her arm,
And hang the milky pearls upon her neck,
Saying they are not jewels, but a swarm
Of crowded, glossy bees, come there to suck
The rosebuds of her breast, the sweetest flowers
Of Jumna's bowers.
That shall be vain!
Nor wilt thou so believe thine own blind wooing,
Nor slake thy heart's thirst even with the cup
Which at the last she brims for thee, undoing
Her girdle of carved gold, and yielding up,
Love's uttermost: brief the poor gain and pride
By Jumna's tide
Because still vain
Is love that feeds on shadow; vain, as thou dost,
To look so deep into the phantom eyes
For that which lives not there; and vain, as thou must,
To marvel why the painted pleasure flies,
When the fair, false wings seemed folded for ever
By Jumna's river.
And vain! yes, vain!
For me too is it, having so much striven,
To see this slight snare take thee, and thy soul
Which should have climbed to mine, and shared my heaven,
Spent on a lower loveliness, whose whole
Passion of claim were but a parody
Of that kept here for thee.
Ahaha! vain!
For on some isle of Jumna's silver stream
He gives all that they ask to those hard eyes,
While mine which are his angel's, mine which gleam
With light that might have led him to the skies—
That almost led him—are eclipsed with tears
Wailing my fruitless prayers.
But thou, good Friend,
Hang not thy head for shame, nor come so slowly,
As one whose message is too ill to tell;
If thou must say Krishna is forfeit wholly—
Wholly forsworn and lost—let the grief dwell
Where the sin doth,—except in this sad heart,
Which cannot shun its part.
O great Hari! purge from wrong
The soul of him who writes this song;
Purge the souls of those that read
From every fault of thought and deed;
With thy blessed light assuage
The darkness of this evil age!
Jayadev the bard of love,
Servant of the Gods above,
Prays it for himself and you—
Gentle hearts who listen!—too.
Then in this other strain she wailed his loss—