Where the buds at first obtain;

When obedience fills the mind,

Love will never far remain.

But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove, The Discerner of all things below and above, Feigns pleasure, and horror, and maddening pain.

And her painted cheeks he kisses,

And his vows her heart enthrall;

Feeling love's sharp pangs and blisses,

Soon her tears begin to fall.

At his feet she now must sink,

Not with thoughts of l.u.s.t or gain,--

And her slender members shrink,

And devoid of power remain.

And so the bright hours with gladness prepare Their dark, pleasing veil of a texture so fair, And over the couch softly, tranquilly reign.

Late she falls asleep, thus bless'd,--

Early wakes, her slumbers fled,

And she finds the much-loved guest

On her bosom lying dead.

Screaming falls she on him there,

But, alas, too late to save!

And his rigid limbs they bear

Straightway to their fiery grave.

Then hears she the priests and the funeral song, Then madly she runs, and she severs the throng: "Why press tow'rd the pile thus? Why scream thus, and rave?"

Then she sinks beside his bier,

And her screams through air resound:

"I must seek my spouse so dear,

E'en if in the grave he's bound.

Shall those limbs of grace divine

Fall to ashes in my sight?

Mine he was! Yes, only mine!

Ah, one single blissful night!"

The priests chaunt in chorus: "We bear out the old, When long they've been weary, and late they've grown cold: We bear out the young, too, so thoughtless and light.

"To thy priests' commands give ear!

This one was thy husband ne'er;

Live still as a Bayadere,

And no duty thou need'st share.

To deaths silent realms from life,

None but shades attend man's frame,

With the husband, none but wife,--

That is duty, that is fame.

Ye trumpets, your sacred lament haste to raise Oh, welcome, ye G.o.ds, the bright l.u.s.tre of days!

Oh, welcome to heaven the youth from the flame!"

Thus increased her torments are

By the cruel, heartless quire;

And with arms outstretching far

Leaps she on the glowing pyre.

But the youth divine outsprings

From the flame with heav'nly grace,

And on high his flight he wings,

While his arms his love embrace.

In the sinner repentant the G.o.dhead feels joy; Immortals delight thus their might to employ.

Lost children to raise to a heavenly place.