  (What follows is to the Music KarnÂta and the Mode EkatÂlÎ.) Art thou sick for Radha? she is sad in turn, Heaven foregoes its blessings, if it holds not thee, All the cooling fragrance of sandal she doth spurn, Moonlight makes her mournful with radiance silvery; Seems to her but tainted by a dolorous brine; And for thy sake discontented, with a great love overladen, Her soul comes here beside thee, and sitteth down with thine. Her soul comes here beside thee, and tenderly and true It weaves a subtle mail of proof to ward off sin and pain; A breastplate soft as lotus-leaf, with holy tears for dew, To guard thee from the things that hurt; and then 'tis gone again To strew a blissful place with the richest buds that grace Kama's sweet world, a meeting-spot with rose and jasmine fair, For the hour when, well-contented, with a love no longer troubled, Thou shalt find the way to Radha, and finish sorrows there. But now her lovely face is shadowed by her fears; Her glorious eyes are veiled and dim like moonlight in eclipse With tender thoughts—not Krishna, but brow and breast and lips And form and mien a King, a great and godlike thing; And then with bended head she asks grace from the Love Divine, To keep thee discontented with the phantoms thou forswearest, Till she may win her glory, and thou be raised to thine. Softly now she sayeth, "Krishna, Krishna, come!" Lovingly she prayeth, "Fair moon, light him home." Yet if Hari helps not, Moonlight cannot aid; Ah! the woeful Radha! Ah! the forest shade! Ah! if Hari guide not, Moonlight is as gloom; Ah! if moonlight help not, How shall Krishna come? In the darkened grove; Sad for Radha weaving Dreams of fruitless love! Strike soft strings to this soft measure, If thine ear would catch its treasure; Slowly dance to this deep song, Let its meaning float along With grave paces, since it tells Of a love that sweetly dwells In a tender distant glory, Past all faults of mortal story. (What follows is to the Music DeshÂga and the Mode EkatÂlÎ.) Krishna, till thou come unto her, faint she lies with love and fear; Even the jewels of her necklet seem a load too great to bear. Krishna, till thou come unto her, all the sandal and the flowers Vex her with their pure perfection though they grow in heavenly bowers. Krishna, till thou come unto her, fair albeit those bowers may be, Passion burns her, and love's fire fevers her for lack of thee. Krishna, till thou come unto her, those divine lids, dark and tender, Droop like lotus-leaves in rain-storms, dashed and heavy in their splendour. Krishna, till thou come unto her, that rose-couch which she hath spread Saddens with its empty place, its double pillow for one head. Krishna, till thou come unto her, from her palms she will not lift The dark face hidden deep within them like the moon in cloudy rift. Krishna, till thou come unto her, angel though she be, thy Love Sighs and suffers, waits and watches—joyless 'mid those joys above. Krishna, till them come unto her, with the comfort of thy kiss Deeper than thy loss, O Krishna! must be loss of Radha's bliss. Krishna, while thou didst forget her—her, thy life, thy gentle fate— Wonderful her waiting was, her pity sweet, her patience great. Krishna, come! 'tis grief untold to grieve her—shame to let her sigh; Come, for she is sick with love, and thou her only remedy. So she sang, and Jayadeva Prays for all, and prays for ever. That Great Hari may bestow Utmost bliss of loving so On us all;—that one who wore The herdsman's form, and heretofore, To save the shepherd's threatened flock, Up from the earth reared the huge rock— Albeit, amid the woodland band, Clinging close in fond caresses Krishna gave them ardent kisses, Taking on his lips divine Earthly stamp and woodland sign. (Here ends that Sarga of the GÎta Govinda entitled
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