  (What follows is to the Music MÂlava and the Mode Yati.) 'Tis time!—he comes not!—will he come? Can he leave me thus to pine? Yami hÊ kam sharanam! Ah! what refuge then is mine? For his sake I sought the wood, Threaded dark and devious ways; Yami hÊ kam sharanam! Can it be Krishna betrays? Let me die then, and forget Anguish, patience, hope, and fear; Yami hÊ kam sharanam! Ah, why have I held him dear? Ah, this soft night torments me, Thinking that his faithless arms— Yami hÊ kam sharanam!— Clasp some shadow of my charms. Fatal shadow—foolish mock! When the great love shone confessed;— Yami hÊ kam sharanam! Krishna's lotus loads my breast; 'Tis too heavy, lacking him; Like a broken flower I am— Necklets, jewels, what are ye? Yami hÊ kam sharanam! Yami hÊ kam sharanam! The sky is still, the forest sleeps; Krishna forgets—he loves no more; He fails in faith, and Radha weeps. But the poet Jayadev— He who is great Hari's slave, He who finds asylum sweet Only at great Hari's feet; He who for your comfort sings All this to the Vina's strings— Prays that Radha's tender moan In your hearts be thought upon, Live there like the loved one's face. Yet, if I wrong him! (sang she)—can he fail? Could any in the wood win back his kisses? Could any softest lips of earth prevail To hold him from my arms? any love-blisses Blind him once more to mine? O Soul, my prize! Art thou not merely hindered at this hour? Sore-wearied, wandering, lost? how otherwise Shouldst thou not hasten to the bridal-bower? But seeing far away that Maiden come Alone, with eyes cast down and lingering steps, Again a little while she feared to hear Of Krishna false; and her quick thoughts took shape In a fine jealousy, with words like these— Something then of earth has held him From his home above, Some one of those slight deceivers— Ah, my foolish love! Some new face, some winsome playmate, With her hair untied, And the blossoms tangled in it, Woos him to her side. On the dark orbs of her bosom— Passionately heaved— Sink and rise the warm, white pearl-strings, Oh, my love deceived! Fair? yes, yes! the rippled shadow Of that midnight hair Shows above her brow—as clouds do O'er the moon—most fair: And she knows, with wilful paces, How to make her zone Gleam and please him; and her ear-rings Tinkle love; and grown Coy as he grows fond, she meets him With a modest show; Shaming truth with truthful seeming, While her laugh—light, low— And her subtle mouth that murmurs. And her silken cheek, And her eyes, say she dissembles Plain as speech could speak. Till at length, a fatal victress, Of her triumph vain, On his neck she lies and smiles there:— Ah, my Joy!—my Pain! But may Radha's fond annoy, And may Krishna's dawning joy, Warm and waken love more fit— Jayadeva prayeth it— And the griefs and sins assuage Of this blind and evil age. O Moon! (she sang) that art so pure and pale, Is Krishna wan like thee with lonely waiting? O lamp of love! art thou the lover's friend, And wilt not bring him, my long pain abating? O fruitless moon! thou dost increase my pain O faithless Krishna! I have striven in vain. (What follows is to the Music GurjjarÎ and the Mode EkatÂlÎ) In vain, in vain! Earth will of earth! I mourn more than I blame; If he had known, he would not sit and paint The tilka on her smooth black brow, nor claim Quick kisses from her yielded lips—false, faint— False, fragrant, fatal! Krishna's quest is o'er By Jumna's shore! Vain—it was vain! The temptress was too near, the heav'n too far; I can but weep because he sits and ties Garlands of fire-flowers for her loosened hair, And in its silken shadow veils his eyes And buries his fond face. Yet I forgave By Jumna's wave! Vainly! all vain! Make then the most of that whereto thou'rt given, Feign her thy Paradise—thy Love of loves; Her bosoms the two worlds, with sandal-groves Full-scented, and the kiss-marks—ah, thy dream By Jumna's stream! It shall be vain! And vain to string the emeralds on her arm, And hang the milky pearls upon her neck, Saying they are not jewels, but a swarm Of crowded, glossy bees, come there to suck The rosebuds of her breast, the sweetest flowers Of Jumna's bowers. That shall be vain! Nor wilt thou so believe thine own blind wooing, Nor slake thy heart's thirst even with the cup Which at the last she brims for thee, undoing Her girdle of carved gold, and yielding up, Love's uttermost: brief the poor gain and pride By Jumna's tide Because still vain Is love that feeds on shadow; vain, as thou dost, To look so deep into the phantom eyes To marvel why the painted pleasure flies, When the fair, false wings seemed folded for ever By Jumna's river. And vain! yes, vain! For me too is it, having so much striven, To see this slight snare take thee, and thy soul Which should have climbed to mine, and shared my heaven, Spent on a lower loveliness, whose whole Passion of claim were but a parody Of that kept here for thee. Ahaha! vain! For on some isle of Jumna's silver stream He gives all that they ask to those hard eyes, While mine which are his angel's, mine which gleam With light that might have led him to the skies— That almost led him—are eclipsed with tears Wailing my fruitless prayers. But thou, good Friend, Hang not thy head for shame, nor come so slowly, As one whose message is too ill to tell; Wholly forsworn and lost—let the grief dwell Where the sin doth,—except in this sad heart, Which cannot shun its part. O great Hari! purge from wrong The soul of him who writes this song; Purge the souls of those that read From every fault of thought and deed; With thy blessed light assuage The darkness of this evil age! Jayadev the bard of love, Servant of the Gods above, Prays it for himself and you— Gentle hearts who listen!—too. Then in this other strain she wailed his loss— (What follows is to the Music DeshavarÂdÎ and the Mode Rupaka.) (Here ends that Sarga of the GÎta Govinda entitled
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