Is heavy with its grief: the streams of sorrow
Choked at the source, repress my faltering voice.
I have no words to speak; mine eyes are dimmed
By the dark shadows of the thoughts that rise
Within my soul. If such the force of grief
In an old hermit parted from his nursling,
What anguish must the stricken parent feel—
Bereft forever of an only daughter?
[Advances towards Śakoontalá
PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Now, dearest Śakoontalá, we have finished decorating you. You have only to put on the two linen mantles. [Śakoontalá rises and puts them on.
GAUTAMÍ.—Daughter, see, here comes thy foster-father; he is eager to fold thee in his arms; his eyes swim with tears of joy. Hasten to do him reverence.
ŚAKOONTALÁ [reverently].—My father, I salute you.
KANWA.—My daughter,
May'st thou be highly honored by thy lord,
E'en as Yayáti Śarmishthá adored!
And, as she bore him Puru; so may'st thou
Bring forth a son to whom the world shall bow!
GAUTAMÍ.—Most venerable father, she accepts your benediction as if she already possessed the boon it confers.
KANWA.—Now come this way, my child, and walk reverently round these sacrificial fires. [They all walk round.
KANWA [repeats a prayer in the metre of the Rig-veda].—