Classic Poem

Once more throughout the hundred realms of Ind
It was a day of joy and revelry;
Trumpets and cymbals fill'd the once sad vales
With their sweet minstrelsy, and from the hills
Rose up to Brama sacrificial fires.
For he had blessed Wikrama's righteous cause
With triumph, and the foeman's bas'lisk eye
Glared ruin on the peaceful plains no more
The Bramin heard the shouts of victory
And songs of peace,—and gladness filled his heart.
He bowed his aged face down to the ground,
And worshipped; then arose, and on his head
Poured holy ointment. “Ere I die,” he said,
“I will behold the triumph of the just,
And gaze once more on Sacontala's smile.”

Then with the fairest spring flowers of the vale
He filled his small rush basket once again,
And covered them with young shoots of the palm tree,
And of the olive, and with fragrant sprigs
Of tender myrtle: then in haste he turned
His face to the great city, and amidst
Th' exulting myriads passed on silently.

Joy on his aged features beam'd serenely
As he approach'd the palace gates, and saw
The servants of the King. “Open your gates,”
He cried, “that I may offer up once more
My gifts to the good Queen; for I have lived
Seven weary years a stranger to the world.”
The servants gazed upon him as he spake,
And wept, and answered not. “Why do ye weep?”
The old man said, “and wherefore are your faces
Thus changed?”
“And art thou then a stranger here,”
They said, “and know'st not what has come to pass?”
And then they showed him Sacontala's tomb.
“Behold!” they cried, “her heart is broken!” and
They leant their heads upon their breasts, and wept.

Then were the features of the aged man
Glorified; and his eye gleamed like a youth's.
He lifted up his head to Heaven, and said,
“Do I not see immortal Brama's throne,
And the eternal light that circles it?
Do I not gaze on Sacontala's smile
Again, as on a cloud tinged with the hues
Of morning she reposes, and looks down.
Pure victim of her suffering country!—now
She shines the priestess of celestial peace.
See, sainted spirit! these terrestrial flowers
I dedicate to thee!”
He bowed his face
Over the grave and flowers,—a gentle rustling
Arose, and Brama had released his spirit.