Hindu literature : Comprising The Book of good counsels, Nala and Damayanti, The Ramayana, and Sakoontala-15

Well! concealed behind this tree, I will watch her without raising her

suspicions. [Conceals himself.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Good Anasúyá, Priyamvadá has drawn this bark-dress too

tightly about my chest. I pray thee, loosen it a little.

ANASÚYÁ.—I will. [Loosens it.

PRIYAMVADÁ [smiling].—Why do you lay the blame on me? Blame rather

your own blooming youthfulness which imparts fulness to your bosom.

KING.—A most just observation!

This youthful form, whose bosom's swelling charms

By the bark's knotted tissue are concealed,

Like some fair bud close folded in its sheath,

Gives not to view the blooming of its beauty.

But what am I saying? In real truth, this bark-dress, though ill-suited

to her figure, sets it off like an ornament.

The lotus with the Saivala entwined

Is not a whit less brilliant: dusky spots

Heighten the lustre of the cold-rayed moon:

This lovely maiden in her dress of bark

Seems all the lovelier. E'en the meanest garb

Gives to true beauty fresh attractiveness.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [looking before her].—Yon Keśara-tree beckons to me with

its young shoots, which, as the breeze waves them to and fro, appear

like slender fingers. I will go and attend to it. [Walks towards it.

PRIYAMVADÁ.—Dear Śakoontalá, prithee, rest in that attitude one moment.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Why so?

PRIYAMVADÁ.—The Keśara-tree, whilst your graceful form bends about its

stem, appears as if it were wedded to some lovely twining creeper.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Ah! saucy girl, you are most appropriately named Priyamvadá

("Speaker of flattering things").

KING.—What Priyamvadá says, though complimentary, is nevertheless true.

Verily,

Her ruddy lip vies with the opening bud;

Her graceful arms are as the twining stalks;

And her whole form is radiant with the glow

Of youthful beauty, as the tree with bloom.

ANASÚYÁ.—See, dear Śakoontalá, here is the young jasmine, which you

named "the Moonlight of the Grove," the self-elected wife of the

mango-tree. Have you forgotten it?

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Rather will I forget myself. [Approaching the plant and

looking at it.] How delightful is the season when the jasmine-creeper

and the mango-tree seem thus to unite in mutual embraces! The fresh

blossoms of the jasmine resemble the bloom of a young bride, and the

newly-formed shoots of the mango appear to make it her natural

protector. [Continues gazing at it.

PRIYAMVADÁ [smiling].—Do you know, my Anasúyá, why Śakoontalá gazes

so intently at the jasmine?

ANASÚYÁ.—No, indeed, I cannot imagine. I pray thee tell me.

PRIYAMVADÁ.—She is wishing that as the jasmine is united to a suitable

tree, so, in like manner, she may obtain a husband worthy of her.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Speak for yourself, girl; this is the thought in your own

mind. [Continues watering the flowers.

KING.—Would that my union with her were permissible! and yet I hardly

dare hope that the maiden is sprung from a caste different from that of

the Head of the hermitage. But away with doubt:—

That she is free to wed a warrior-king

My heart attests. For, in conflicting doubts,

The secret promptings of the good man's soul

Are an unerring index of the truth.

However, come what may, I will ascertain the fact.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [in a flurry].—Ah! a bee, disturbed by the sprinkling of

the water, has left the young jasmine, and is trying to settle on my

face. [Attempts to drive it away.

KING [gazing at her ardently].—Beautiful! there is something charming

even in her repulse.

Where'er the bee his eager onset plies,

Now here, now there, she darts her kindling eyes:

What love hath yet to teach, fear teaches now,

The furtive glances and the frowning brow.

[In a tone of envy.

Ah happy bee! how boldly dost thou try

To steal the lustre from her sparkling eye;

And in thy circling movements hover near,

To murmur tender secrets in her ear;

Or, as she coyly waves her hand, to sip

Voluptuous nectar from her lower lip!

While rising doubts my heart's fond hopes destroy,

Thou dost the fulness of her charms enjoy.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—This impertinent bee will not rest quiet. I must move

elsewhere. [Moving a few steps off, and casting a glance around.] How

now! he is following me here. Help! my dear friends, help! deliver me

from the attacks of this troublesome insect.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—How can we deliver you? Call Dushyanta to your

aid. The sacred groves are under the king's special protection.

KING.—An excellent opportunity for me to show myself. Fear

not—[Checks himself when the words are half-uttered. Aside.] But

stay, if I introduce myself in this manner, they will know me to be the

King. Be it so, I will accost them, nevertheless.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [moving a step or two further off].—What! it still

persists in following me.

KING [advancing hastily].—When mighty Puru's offspring sways the

earth,

And o'er the wayward holds his threatening rod,

Who dares molest the gentle maids that keep

Their holy vigils here in Kanwa's grove?

[All look at the King, and are embarrassed.

ANASÚYÁ.—Kind Sir, no outrage has been committed;

only our dear friend here was teased by the attacks of a troublesome

bee.

[Points to Śakoontalá.

KING [turning to Śakoontalá].—I trust all is well with your

devotional rites?

[Śakoontalá stands confused and silent.

ANASÚYÁ.—All is well, indeed, now that we are honored by the reception

of a distinguished guest. Dear Śakoontalá, go, bring from the hermitage

an offering of flowers, rice, and fruit. This water that we have brought

with us will serve to bathe our guest's feet.

KING.—The rites of hospitality are already performed; your truly kind

words are the best offering I can receive.

PRIYAMVADÁ.—At least be good enough, gentle Sir, to sit down awhile,

and rest yourself on this seat shaded by the leaves of the Sapta-parna

tree.

KING.—You, too, must all be fatigued by your employment.

ANASÚYÁ.—Dear Śakoontalá, there is no impropriety in our sitting by the

side of our guest: come, let us sit down here.

[All sit down together.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—How is it that the sight of this man has made me

sensible of emotions inconsistent with religious vows?

KING [gazing at them all by turns].—How charmingly your friendship is

in keeping with the equality of your ages and appearance!

PRIYAMVADÁ [aside to Anasúyá].—Who can this person be, whose lively

yet dignified manner, and polite conversation, bespeak him a man of high

rank?

ANASÚYÁ.—I, too, my dear, am very curious to know. I will ask him

myself. [Aloud]. Your kind words, noble Sir, fill me with confidence,

and prompt me to inquire of what regal family our noble guest is the

ornament? what country is now mourning his absence? and what induced a

person so delicately nurtured to expose himself to the fatigue of

visiting this grove of penance?

ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—Be not troubled, O my heart, Anasúyá is giving

utterance to thy thoughts.

KING [aside].—How now shall I reply? shall I make myself known, or

shall I still disguise my real rank? I have it; I will answer her thus.

[Aloud]. I am the person charged by his majesty, the descendant of

Puru, with the administration of justice and religion; and am come to

this sacred grove to satisfy myself that the rites of the hermits are

free from obstruction.

ANASÚYÁ.—The hermits, then, and all the members of our religious

society have now a guardian.

[Śakoontalá gazes bashfully at the King.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ [perceiving the state of her feelings, and of

the King's. Aside to Śakoontalá].—Dear Śakoontalá, if father Kanwa

were but at home to-day———

ŚAKOONTALÁ [angrily].—What if he were?

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—He would honor this our distinguished guest

with an offering of the most precious of his possessions.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Go to! you have some silly idea in your minds. I will not

listen to such remarks.

KING.—May I be allowed, in my turn, to ask you maidens a few

particulars respecting your friend?

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Your request, Sir, is an honor.

KING.—The sage Kanwa lives in the constant practice of austerities.

How, then, can this friend of yours be called his daughter?

ANASÚYÁ.—I will explain to you, Sir. You have heard of an illustrious

sage of regal caste, Viśwámitra, whose family name is Kaúsika.

KING.—I have.

ANASÚYÁ.—Know that he is the real father of our friend. The venerable

Kanwa is only her reputed father. He it was who brought her up, when she

was deserted by her mother.

KING.—"Deserted by her mother!" My curiosity is excited; pray let me

hear the story from the beginning.

ANASÚYÁ.—You shall hear it, Sir. Some time since, this sage of regal

caste, while performing a most severe penance on the banks of the river

Godávarí, excited the jealousy and alarm of the gods; insomuch that they

despatched a lovely nymph named Menaká to interrupt his devotions.

KING.—The inferior gods, I am aware, are jealous of the power which the

practice of excessive devotion confers on mortals.

ANASÚYÁ.—Well, then, it happened that Viśwámitra, gazing on the

bewitching beauty of that nymph at a season when, spring being in its

glory———

[Stops short, and appears confused.

KING.—The rest may be easily divined. Śakoontalá, then, is the

offspring of the nymph.

ANASÚYÁ.—Just so.

KING.—It is quite intelligible.

How could a mortal to such charms give birth?

The lightning's radiance flashes not from earth.

[Śakoontalá remains modestly seated with downcast eyes.

[Aside]. And so my desire has really scope for its indulgence. Yet I am

still distracted by doubts, remembering the pleasantry of her female

companions respecting her wish for a husband.

PRIYAMVADÁ [looking with a smile at Śakoontalá, and then turning

towards the King].—You seem desirous, Sir, of asking something

further.

[Śakoontalá makes a chiding gesture with her finger.

KING.—You conjecture truly. I am so eager to hear the particulars of

your friend's history, that I have still another question to ask.

PRIYAMVADÁ.—Scruple not to do so. Persons who lead the life of hermits

may be questioned unreservedly.

KING.—I wish to ascertain one point respecting your friend—

Will she be bound by solitary vows

Opposed to love, till her espousals only?

Or ever dwell with these her cherished fawns,

Whose eyes, in lustre vieing with her own,

Return her gaze of sisterly affection?

PRIYAMVADÁ.—Hitherto, Sir, she has been engaged in the practice of

religious duties, and has lived in subjection to her foster-father; but

it is now his fixed intention to give her away in marriage to a husband

worthy of her.

KING [

aside

].—His intention may be easily carried into effect.

Be hopeful, O my heart, thy harrowing doubts

Are past and gone; that which thou didst believe

To be as unapproachable as fire,

Is found a glittering gem that may be touched.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [pretending anger].—Anasúyá, I shall leave you.

ANASÚYÁ.—Why so?

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—That I may go and report this impertinent Priyamvadá to the

venerable matron, Gautamí.

ANASÚYÁ.—Surely, dear friend, it would not be right to leave a

distinguished guest before he has received the rights of hospitality,

and quit his presence in this wilful manner.

[Śakoontalá, without answering a word, moves away.

KING [making a movement to arrest her departure, but checking himself.

Aside].—Ah! a lover's feelings betray themselves by his gestures.

When I would fain have stayed the maid, a sense

Of due decorum checked my bold design:

Though I have stirred not, yet my mien betrays

My eagerness to follow on her steps.

PRIYAMVADÁ [holding Śakoontalá back].—Dear Śakoontalá, it does not

become you to go away in this manner.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [frowning].—Why not, pray?

PRIYAMVADÁ.—You are under a promise to water two more shrubs for me.

When you have paid your debt, you shall go, and not before.

[Forces her to turn back.

KING.—Spare her this trouble, gentle maiden. The exertion of watering

the shrubs has already fatigued her.

The water-jar has overtasked the strength

Of her slim arms; her shoulders droop, her hands

Are ruddy with the glow of quickened pulses;

E'en now her agitated breath imparts

Unwonted tremor to her heaving breast;

The pearly drops that mar the recent bloom

Of the Śirísha pendant in her ear,

Gather in clustering circles on her cheek;

Loosed is the fillet of her hair: her hand

Restrains the locks that struggle to be free.

Suffer me, then, thus to discharge the debt for you.

[Offers a ring to Priyamvadá. Both the maidens, reading the name

Dushyanta on the seal, look at each other with surprise.

KING.—Nay, think not that I am King Dushyanta. I am only the king's

officer, and this is the ring which I have received from him as my

credentials.

PRIYAMVADÁ.—The greater the reason you ought not to part with the ring

from your finger. I am content to release her from her obligation at

your simple request. [With a smile.] Now, Śakoontalá my love, you are

at liberty to retire, thanks to the intercession of this noble stranger,

or rather of this mighty prince.

ŚAKOONTALÁ [aside].—My movements are no longer under my own control.

[Aloud.] Pray, what authority have you over me, either to send me away

or keep me back?

KING [gazing at Śakoontalá. Aside].—Would I could ascertain whether

she is affected towards me as I am towards her! At any rate, my hopes

are free to indulge themselves. Because,

Although she mingles not her words with mine,

Yet doth her listening ear drink in my speech;

Although her eye shrinks from my ardent gaze,

No form but mine attracts its timid glances.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—O hermits, be ready to protect the

animals belonging to our hermitage. King Dushyanta, amusing himself with

hunting, is near at hand.

Lo! by the feet of prancing horses raised,

Thick clouds of moving dust, like glittering swarms

Of locusts in the glow of eventide,

Fall on the branches of our sacred trees;

Where hang the dripping vests of woven bark,

Bleached by the waters of the cleansing fountain.

And see!

Scared by the royal chariot in its course,

With headlong haste an elephant invades

The hallowed precincts of our sacred grove;

Himself the terror of the startled deer,

And an embodied hindrance to our rites.

The hedge of creepers clinging to his feet,

Feeble obstruction to his mad career,

Is dragged behind him in a tangled chain;

And with terrific shock one tusk he drives

Into the riven body of a tree,

Sweeping before him all impediments.

KING [aside].—Out upon it! my retinue are looking for me, and are

disturbing this holy retreat. Well! there is no help for it; I must go

and meet them.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—Noble Sir, we are terrified by the accidental

disturbance caused by the wild elephant. Permit us to return into the

cottage.

KING [hastily].—Go, gentle maidens. It shall be our care that no

injury happen to the hermitage. [All rise up.

PRIYAMVADÁ AND ANASÚYÁ.—After such poor hospitality we are ashamed to

request the honor of a second visit from you.

KING.—Say not so. The mere sight of you, sweet maidens, has been to me

the best entertainment.

ŚAKOONTALÁ.—Anasúyá, a pointed blade of Kuśa-grass has pricked my

foot; and my bark-mantle is caught in the branch of a Kuruvaka-bush. Be

so good as to wait for me until I have disentangled it.

[Exit with her two companions, after making pretexts for delay, that

she may steal glances at the King.

KING.—I have no longer any desire to return to the city. I will

therefore rejoin my attendants, and make them encamp somewhere in the

vicinity of this sacred grove. In good truth, Śakoontalá has taken such

possession of my thoughts, that I cannot turn myself in any other

direction.

My limbs drawn onward leave my heart behind,

Like silken pennon borne against the wind.

ACT SECOND

Scene.—A Plain on the Skirts of the Forest

Enter the Jester, Máthavya, in a melancholy mood.

MÁTHAVYA [sighing].—Heigh-ho! what an unlucky fellow I am! worn to a

shadow by my royal friend's sporting propensities. "Here's a deer!"

"There goes a boar!" "Yonder's a tiger!" This is the only burden of our

talk, while in the heat of the meridian sun we toil on from jungle to

jungle, wandering about in the paths of the woods, where the trees

afford us no shelter. Are we thirsty? We have nothing to drink but the

foul water of some mountain stream, filled with dry leaves which give it

a most pungent flavor. Are we hungry? We have nothing to eat but roast

game, which we must swallow down at odd times, as best we can. Even at

night there is no peace to be had. Sleeping is out of the question, with

joints all strained by dancing attendance upon my sporting friend; or if

I do happen to doze, I am awakened at the very earliest dawn by the

horrible din of a lot of rascally beaters and huntsmen, who must needs

surround the wood before sunrise, and deafen me with their clatter. Nor

are these my only troubles. Here's a fresh grievance, like a new boil

rising upon an old one! Yesterday, while we were lagging behind, my

royal friend entered yonder hermitage after a deer; and there, as

ill-luck would have it? caught sight of a beautiful girl, called

Śakoontalá, the hermit's daughter. From that moment, not another thought

about returning to the city! and all last night, not a wink of sleep did

he get for thinking of the damsel. What is to be done? At any rate, I

will be on the watch for him as soon as he has finished his toilet.

[[Walking and looking about.] Oh! here he comes, attended by the

Yavana women with bows in their hands, and wearing garlands of wild

flowers. What shall I do? I have it. I will pretend to stand in the

easiest attitude for resting my bruised and crippled limbs.

[Stands leaning on a staff.

Enter King Dushyanta, followed by a retinue in the manner described.

KING.—True, by no easy conquest may I win her,

Yet are my hopes encouraged by her mien.

Love is not yet triumphant; but, methinks,

The hearts of both are ripe for his delights.

[

Smiling

.] Ah! thus does the lover delude himself; judging of the

state of his loved one's feelings by his own desires. But yet,

The stolen glance with half-averted eye,

The hesitating gait, the quick rebuke

Addressed to her companion, who would fain

Have stayed her counterfeit departure; these

Are signs not unpropitious to my suit.

So eagerly the lover feeds his hopes,

Claiming each trivial gesture for his own.

MÁTHAVYA [still in the same attitude].—Ah, friend, my hands cannot

move to greet you with the usual salutation. I can only just command my

lips to wish your majesty victory.

KING.—Why, what has paralyzed your limbs?

MÁTHAVYA.—You might as well ask me how my eye comes to water after you

have poked your finger into it.

KING.—I don't understand you; speak more intelligibly.

MÁTHAVYA.—Ah, my dear friend, is yonder upright reed transformed into a

crooked plant by its own act, or by the force of the current?

KING.—The current of the river causes it, I suppose.

MÁTHAVYA.—Aye; just as you are the cause of my crippled limbs.

KING.—How so?

MÁTHAVYA.—Here are you living the life of a wild man of the woods in a

savage, unfrequented region, while your state affairs are left to shift

for themselves; and as for poor me, I am no longer master of my own

limbs, but have to follow you about day after day in your chases after

wild animals, till my bones are all crippled and out of joint. Do, my

dear friend, let me have one day's rest.

KING [aside].—This fellow little knows, while he talks in this

manner, that my mind is wholly engrossed by recollections of the

hermit's daughter, and quite as disinclined to the chase as his own.

No longer can I bend my well-braced bow

Against the timid deer; nor e'er again

With well-aimed arrows can I think to harm

These her beloved associates, who enjoy

The privilege of her companionship;

Teaching her tender glances in return.

MÁTHAVYA [looking in the King's face].—I may as well speak to the

winds, for any attention you pay to my requests. I suppose you have

something on your mind, and are talking it over to yourself.

KING [smiling].—I was only thinking that I ought not to disregard a

friend's request.

MÁTHAVYA.—Then may the King live forever!

[Moves off.

KING.—Stay a moment, my dear friend. I have something else to say to

you.

MÁTHAVYA.—Say on, then.

KING.—When you have rested, you must assist me in another business,

which will give you no fatigue.

MÁTHAVYA.—In eating something nice, I hope.

KING.—You shall know at some future time.

MÁTHAVYA.—No time better than the present.

KING.—What ho! there.

WARDER [entering].—What are your Majesty's commands?

KING.—O Raivataka! bid the General of the forces attend.

WARDER.—I will, Sire. [Exit and reënters with the General]

Come forward, General; his Majesty is looking towards you, and has some

order to give you.

GENERAL [looking at the King].—Though hunting is known to produce ill

effects, my royal master has derived only benefit from it. For

Like the majestic elephant that roams

O'er mountain wilds, so does the King display

A stalwart frame, instinct with vigorous life.

His brawny arms and manly chest are scored

By frequent passage of the sounding string;

Unharmed he bears the mid-day sun; no toil

His mighty spirit daunts; his sturdy limbs,

Stripped of redundant flesh, relinquish nought

Of their robust proportions, but appear

In muscle, nerve, and sinewy fibre cased.

[Approaching the King.] Victory to the King! We have tracked the wild

beasts to their lairs in the forest. Why delay, when everything is

ready?

KING.—My friend Máthavya here has been disparaging the chase, till he

has taken away all my relish for it.

GENERAL [aside to Máthavya].—Persevere in your opposition, my good

fellow; I will sound the King's real feelings, and humor him

accordingly. [Aloud]. The blockhead talks nonsense, and your Majesty,

in your own person, furnishes the best proof of it. Observe, Sire, the

advantage and pleasure the hunter derives from the chase.

Freed from all grosser influences, his frame

Loses its sluggish humors, and becomes

Buoyant, compact, and fit for bold encounter.

'Tis his to mark with joy the varied passions,

Fierce heats of anger, terror, blank dismay,

Of forest animals that cross his path.

Then what a thrill transports the hunter's soul,

When, with unerring course, his driven shaft

Pierces the moving mark! Oh! 'tis conceit

In moralists to call the chase a vice;

What recreation can compare with this?

MÁTHAVYA [angrily].—Away! tempter, away! The King has recovered his

senses, and is himself again. As for you, you may, if you choose, wander

about from forest to forest, till some old bear seizes you by the nose,

and makes a mouthful of you.

KING.—My good General, as we are just now in the neighborhood of a

consecrated grove, your panegyric upon hunting is somewhat ill-timed,

and I cannot assent to all you have said. For the present,

All undisturbed the buffaloes shall sport

In yonder pool, and with their ponderous horns

Scatter its tranquil waters, while the deer,

Couched here and there in groups beneath the shade

Of spreading branches, ruminate in peace.

And all securely shall the herd of boars

Feed on the marshy sedge; and thou, my bow,

With slackened string enjoy a long repose.

GENERAL.—So please your Majesty, it shall be as you desire.

KING.—Recall, then, the beaters who were sent in advance to surround

the forest. My troops must not be allowed to disturb this sacred

retreat, and irritate its pious inhabitants.

Know that within the calm and cold recluse

Lurks unperceived a germ of smothered flame,

All-potent to destroy; a latent fire

That rashly kindled bursts with fury forth:—

As in the disc of crystal that remains

Cool to the touch, until the solar ray

Falls on its polished surface, and excites

The burning heat that lies within concealed.

GENERAL.—Your Majesty's commands shall be obeyed.

MÁTHAVYA.—Off with you, you son of a slave! Your nonsense won't go down

here, my fine fellow.

[Exit General.

KING [looking at his attendants].—Here, women, take my hunting-dress;

and you, Raivataka, keep guard carefully outside.

ATTENDANTS.—We will, sire.

[Exeunt.

MÁTHAVYA.—Now that you have got rid of these plagues, who have been

buzzing about us like so many flies, sit down, do, on that stone slab,

with the shade of the tree as your canopy, and I will seat myself by you

quite comfortably.

KING.—Go you, and sit down first.

MÁTHAVYA.—Come along, then.

[Both walk on a little way, and seat themselves.

KING.—Máthavya, it may be said of you that you have never beheld

anything worth seeing: for your eyes have not yet looked upon the

loveliest object in creation.

MÁTHAVYA.—How can you say so, when I see your Majesty before me at this

moment?

KING.—It is very natural that everyone should consider his own friend

perfect; but I was alluding to Śakoontalá, the brightest ornament of

these hallowed groves.

MÁTHAVYA [aside].—I understand well enough, but I am not going to

humor him. [Aloud.] If, as you intimate, she is a hermit's daughter,

you cannot lawfully ask her in marriage. You may as well, then, dismiss

her from your mind, for any good the mere sight of her can do.

KING.—Think you that a descendant of the mighty Puru could fix his

affections on an unlawful object?

Though, as men say, the offspring of the sage,

The maiden to a nymph celestial owes

Her being, and by her mother left on earth,

Was found and nurtured by the holy man

As his own daughter, in this hermitage;—

So, when dissevered from its parent stalk,

Some falling blossom of the jasmine, wafted

Upon the sturdy sunflower, is preserved

By its support from premature decay.

MÁTHAVYA [smiling].—This passion of yours for a rustic maiden, when

you have so many gems of women at home in your palace, seems to me very

like the fancy of a man who is tired of sweet dates, and longs for sour

tamarinds as a variety.

KING.—You have not seen her, or you would not talk in this fashion.

MÁTHAVYA.—I can quite understand it must require something surpassingly

attractive to excite the admiration of such a great man as you.

KING.—I will describe her, my dear friend, in a few words—

Man's all-wise Maker, wishing to create

A faultless form, whose matchless symmetry

Should far transcend Creation's choicest works,

Did call together by his mighty will,

And garner up in his eternal mind,

A bright assemblage of all lovely things:—

And then, as in a picture, fashion them

Into one perfect and ideal form.

Such the divine, the wondrous prototype,

Whence her fair shape was moulded into being.

MÁTHAVYA.—If that's the case, she must indeed throw all other beauties

into the shade.

KING.—To my mind she really does.

This peerless maid is like a fragrant flower,

Whose perfumed breath has never been diffused;

A tender bud, that no profaning hand

Has dared to sever from its parent stalk;

A gem of priceless water, just released

Pure and unblemished from its glittering bed.

Or may the maiden haply be compared

To sweetest honey, that no mortal lip

Has sipped; or, rather to the mellowed fruit

Of virtuous actions in some former birth,

Now brought to full perfection? Lives the man

Whom bounteous heaven has destined to espouse her?

MÁTHAVYA.—Make haste, then, to her aid; you have no time to lose, if

you don't wish this fruit of all the virtues to drop into the mouth of

some greasy-headed rustic of devout habits.

KING.—The lady is not her own mistress, and her foster-father is not at

home.

MÁTHAVYA.—Well, but tell me, did she look at all kindly upon you?

KING.—Maidens brought up in a hermitage are naturally shy and reserved;

but for all that,

She did look towards me, though she quick withdrew

Her stealthy glances when she met my gaze;

She smiled upon me sweetly, but disguised

With maiden grace the secret of her smiles.

Coy love was half unveiled; then, sudden checked

By modesty, left half to be divined.

MÁTHAVYA.—Why, of course, my dear friend, you never could seriously

expect that at the very first sight she would fall over head and ears in

love with you, and without more ado come and sit in your lap.

KING.—When we parted from each other, she betrayed her liking for me by

clearer indications, but still with the utmost modesty.

Scarce had the fair one from my presence passed,

When, suddenly, without apparent cause,

She stopped, and counterfeiting pain, exclaimed,

"My foot is wounded by this prickly grass."

Then glancing at me tenderly, she feigned

Another charming pretext for delay,

Pretending that a bush had caught her robe,

And turned as if to disentangle it.

MÁTHAVYA.—I trust you have laid in a good stock of provisions, for I

see you intend making this consecrated grove your game-preserve, and

will be roaming here in quest of sport for some time to come.

KING.—You must know, my good fellow, that I have been recognized by

some of the inmates of the hermitage. Now I want the assistance of your

fertile invention, in devising some excuse for going there again.

MÁTHAVYA.—There is but one expedient that I can suggest. You are the

King, are you not?

KING.—What then?

MÁTHAVYA.—Say you have come for the sixth part of their grain, which

they owe you for tribute.

KING.—No, no, foolish man; these hermits pay me a very different kind

of tribute, which I value more than heaps of gold or jewels; observe,

The tribute which my other subjects bring

Must moulder into dust, but holy men

Present me with a portion of the fruits

Of penitential services and prayers—

A precious and imperishable gift.

A VOICE [behind the scenes].—We are fortunate; here is the object of

our search.

KING [listening],—Surely those must be the voices of hermits, to

judge by their deep tones.

WARDER [entering],—Victory to the King! two young hermits are in

waiting outside, and solicit an audience of your Majesty.

KING.—Introduce them immediately.

WARDER.—I will, my liege. [Goes out, and reënters with two young

Hermits.] This way, Sirs, this way.

[Both the Hermits look at the King

FIRST HERMIT.—How majestic is his mien, and yet what confidence it

inspires! But this might be expected in a king whose character and

habits have earned for him a title only one degree removed from that of

a Saint.