  (What follows is to the Music BhairavÎ and the Mode Yati) Krishna!—then thou hast found me!—and thine eyes Heavy and sad and stained, as if with weeping! Ah! is it not that those, which were thy prize, So radiant seemed that all night thou wert keeping Vigils of tender wooing?—have thy Love! Here is no place for vows broken in making; Thou Lotus-eyed! thou soul for whom I strove! Go! ere I listen, my just mind forsaking. Krishna! my Krishna with the woodland-wreath! Return, or I shall soften as I blame; The while thy very lips are dark to the teeth With dye that from her lids and lashes came, Left on the mouth I touched. Fair traitor! go! Say not they darkened, lacking food and sleep Long waiting for my face; I turn it—so— Go! ere I half believe thee, pleading deep; But wilt thou plead, when, like a love-verse printed On the smooth polish of an emerald, Large-lettered, by her lips? thy speech withheld Speaks all too plainly; go,—abide thy choice! If thou dost stay, I shall more greatly grieve thee; Not records of her victory?—peace, dear voice! Hence with that godlike brow, lest I believe thee. For dar'st thou feign the saffron on thy bosom Was not implanted in disloyal embrace? Or that this many-coloured love-tree blossom Shone not, but yesternight, above her face? Comest thou here, so late, to be forgiven, O thou, in whose eyes Truth was made to live? O thou, so worthy else of grace and heaven? O thou, so nearly won? Ere I forgive, Go, Krishna! go!—lest I should think, unwise, Thy heart not false, as thy long lingering seems, Lest, seeing myself so imaged in thine eyes, I shame the name of Pity—turn to dreams The sacred sound of vows; make Virtue grudge Her praise to Mercy, calling thy sin slight; Had best not see thee to give sentence right. But may he grant us peace at last and bliss Who heard,—and smiled to hear,—delays like this, Delays that dallied with a dream come true, Fond wilful angers; for the maid laughed too To see, as Radha ended, her hand take His dark role for her veil, and The word she spoke for parting kindliest sign He should not go, but stay. O grace divine, Be ours too! Jayadev, the Poet of love, Prays it from Hari, lordliest above. (Here ends that Sarga of the GÎta Govinda entitled The text here is not closely followed.
|
|
