  (What follows is to the Music GurjjarÎ and to the Mode Yati) Radha, Enchantress! Radha, queen of all! Gone—lost, because she found me sinning here; And I so stricken with my foolish fall, I could not stay her out of shame and fear; She will not hear; In her disdain and grief vainly I call. And if she heard, what would she do? what say? How could I make it good that I forgot? What profit was it to me, night and day, To live, love, dance, and dream, having her not? Soul without spot! I wronged thy patience, till it sighed away. Sadly I know the truth. Ah! even now Remembering that one look beside the river, Softer the vexed eyes seem, and the proud brow Than lotus-leaves when the bees make them quiver. My love for ever! Too late is Krishna wise—too far art thou! Yet all day long in my deep heart I woo thee, And all night long with thee my dreams are sweet; Why, then, so vainly must my steps pursue thee? Why can I never reach thee, to entreat, Low at thy feet, Dear vanished Splendour! till my tears subdue thee? Surpassing One! I knew thou didst not brook Half-hearted worship, and a love that wavers; Haho! there is the wisdom I mistook, Therefore I seek with desperate endeavours; That fault dissevers Me from my heaven, astray—condemned—forsook! And yet I seem to feel, to know, thee near me; Thy steps make music, measured music, near: Radha! my Radha! will not sorrow clear me? Shine once! speak one word pitiful and dear! Wilt thou not hear? Canst thou—because I did forget—forsake me? Forgive! the sin is sinned, is past, is over; No thought I think shall do thee wrong again; Bright Spirit! or I perish of this pain. Loving again! In dread of doom to love, but not recover. So did Krishna sing and sigh By the river-bank; and I, Jayadev of Kinduvilva, Resting—as the moon of silver Sits upon the solemn ocean— On full faith, in deep devotion; Tell it that ye may perceive How the heart must fret and grieve; How the soul doth tire of earth, When the love from Heav'n hath birth. For (sang he on) I am no foe of thine, There is no black snake, Kama! in my hair; Blue lotus-bloom, and not the poisoned brine, Shadows my neck; what stains my bosom bare, Thou God unfair! Is sandal-dust, not ashes; nought of mine. Makes me like Shiva that thou, Lord of Love! Shouldst strain thy string at me and fit thy dart; This world is thine—let be one breast thereof Which bleeds already, wounded to the heart With lasting smart, Shot from those brows that did my sin reprove. Thou gavest her those black brows for a bow Arched like thine own, whose pointed arrows seem Her glances, and the underlids that go— So firm and fine—its string? Ah, fleeting gleam! Beautiful dream! Small need of Kama's help hast thou, I trow, To smite me to the soul with love;—but set Those arrows to their silken cord! enchain My thoughts in that loose hair! let thy lips, wet With dew of heaven as bimba-buds with rain, Bloom precious pain Of longing in my heart; and, keener yet, The heaving of thy lovely, angry bosom, Pant to my spirit things unseen, unsaid; Of thy dear face, thy jasmine-odours shed From feet to head, If these be all with me, canst thou be far—be fled? So sang he, and I pray that whoso hears The music of his burning hopes and fears, That whoso sees this vision by the River Of Krishna, Hari, (can we name him ever?) And marks his ear-ring rubies swinging slow, As he sits still, unheedful, bending low To play this tune upon his lute, while all Listen to catch the sadness musical; And Krishna wotteth nought, but, with set face Turned full toward Radha's, sings on in that place; May all such souls—prays Jayadev—be wise To lean the wisdom which hereunder lies. (Here ends that Sarga of the GÎta Govinda entitled
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