Читать книгу Indian Poetry - Sir Edwin Arnold - Страница 13

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Thus lingered Krishna in the deep, green wood,

And gave himself, too prodigal, to those;

But Radha, heart-sick at his falling-off,

Seeing her heavenly beauty slighted so,

Withdrew; and, in a bower of Paradise—

Where nectarous blossoms wove a shrine of shade,

Haunted by birds and bees of unknown skies—

She sate deep-sorrowful, and sang this strain,

(What follows is to the Music Gurjjarî and the Mode Yati.)

Ah, my Beloved! taken with those glances,

Ah, my Beloved! dancing those rash dances,

Ah, Minstrel! playing wrongful strains so well;

Ah, Krishna! Krishna with the honeyed lip!

Ah, Wanderer into foolish fellowship!

My Dancer, my Delight!—I love thee still.

O Dancer! strip thy peacock-crown away,

Rise! thou whose forehead is the star of day,

With beauty for its silver halo set;

Come! thou whose greatness gleams beneath its shroud

Like Indra's rainbow shining through the cloud—

Come, for I love thee, my Beloved! yet.

Must love thee—cannot choose but love thee ever,

My best Beloved—set on this endeavor,

To win thy tender heart and earnest eye

From lips but sadly sweet, from restless bosoms,

To mine, O Krishna with the mouth of blossoms!

To mine, thou soul of Krishna! yet I sigh

Half hopeless, thinking of myself forsaken,

And thee, dear Loiterer, in the wood o'ertaken

With passion for those bold and wanton ones,

Who knit thine arms as poison-plants gripe trees

With twining cords—their flowers the braveries

That flash in the green gloom, sparkling stars and stones.

My Prince! my Lotus-faced! my woe! my love!

Whose broad brow, with the tilka-spot above,

Shames the bright moon at full with fleck of cloud;

Thou to mistake so little for so much!

Thou, Krishna, to be palm to palm with such!

O Soul made for my joys, pure, perfect, proud!

Ah, my Beloved! in thy darkness dear;

Ah, Dancer! with the jewels in thine ear,

Swinging to music of a loveless love;

O my Beloved! in thy fall so high

That angels, sages, spirits of the sky

Linger about thee, watching in the grove.

I will be patient still, and draw thee ever,

My one Beloved, sitting by the river

Under the thick kadambas with that throng:

Will there not come an end to earthly madness?

Shall I not, past the sorrow, have the gladness?

Must not the love-light shine for him ere long?

Shine, thou Light by Radha given, Shine, thou splendid star of heaven! Be a lamp to Krishna's feet, Show to all hearts secrets sweet, Of the wonder and the love Jayadev hath writ above. Be the quick Interpreter Unto wisest ears of her Who always sings to all, "I wait, He loveth still who loveth late."

For (sang on that high Lady in the shade)

My soul for tenderness, not blame, was made;

Mine eyes look through his evil to his good;

My heart coins pleas for him; my fervent thought

Prevents what he will say when these are naught,

And that which I am shall be understood.

Then spake she to her maiden wistfully—

(What follows is to the Music Mâlavagauda and the Mode Ekatâlî.)