Classic Poem

It was a day of joy and revelry,
Of joy unfeigned, of revelry unforced,
Through India's hundred realms; for Sacontala,
The beautiful, the noble, and the good,
Th' imperial sharer of Wickrama's throne,
Upon her natal morn kept holiday.
Sylph like her form, yet stately as the pine
That grows upon the mountain-top, and wooes
Heaven's kisses to its brow; her long dark locks
Fell rich and ripe, like the vine's clusters, down
Her snowy neck; her forehead high and pale
Beneath the shade of those ambrosial curls
Rose like a throne; broad spread her soft smooth brows,
And her long lashes shaded two sweet orbs,
Which, black as night, yet brighter than night's queen,
Showered noon-tide radiance round—and then her face,—
Oh! 'twas a thing for fervent bards to dream of—
Bright and yet dark—not Europe's red and white,
But the still lovelier glow of her own clime;
All sun and shadow, like the burning close
Of summer's eve, yet 'twas a shadow like
That which Love's wing o'er his own Psyche throws
When he broods o'er her slumbers.
So she sat
Upon her golden throne, and all around
Was joy and gladness. Some brought costly gifts
And spread them at her feet, rare gems, rich fruits,
Odours, and gold; and some look'd up to Heav'n,
And called down Brama's blessing on her head.
Her heart with gratitude and happiness
O'erflowed, and feelings high and eloquent
Spoke on her changing brow: sometimes a smile
Like lightning ran across her features; then
A burning blush would mantle o'er her cheek,
Sudden and beautiful as the sun-set glow
Upon the Alps, when all their summits burn
Like one magnificent evening sacrifice
Before th' eternal throne; and oft a tear
Gathered in her dark eye, but dimmed it not;
Its brightness, like the glow-worm's lamp, seemed fed
By that ethereal dew.
At length a Bramin
Approached the joyous throng assembled round
The palace-gates, and in his hand he bore
A basket formed of plaited rushes, filled
With flowers, and bordered round with simple moss:
The servants of the palace gazed in wonder
Upon the Bramin's gift. “And will he dare?”
They asked each other, “will he dare approach
The splendour of the throne with his rush basket
Bordered with crisped moss?”
The Bramin passed
Undaunted on to Sacontala's throne,
And placed his basket at her feet. “Behold
Kind mother of thy people, this rush basket,
This tender moss, and these few simple flowers—
These are the produce of that distant valley,
Far from this gorgeous palace, where thy feet
Walked in life's sweet spring morning; these, as thou,
Grew up beneath the showers and sunshine there,
And these, thy sister flowers of that sweet vale,
I offer up, no unmeet gift to thee,
The fairest of them all.”
Then did the Queen
Bow down her gracious head, and cast her eyes
On the rush basket, edged with moss, and smile
Upon her sister flowers of that sweet vale.
In gladness did the Bramin bend his steps
Back to his distant valley, and it seemed
More beautiful and happy in his eyes,
For he had gazed on Sacontala's smile.