_For the cloud that veils the fountains Underneath the Sandal mountains, How--as if the sunshine drew All its being to the blue-- It takes flight, and seeks to rise High into the purer skies, High into the snow and frost, On the shining summits lost! Ah! and how the Koil's strain Smites the traveller with pain,-- When the mango blooms in spring, And "Koohoo," "Koohoo," they sing-- Pain of pleasures not yet won, Pain of journeys not yet done, Pain of toiling without gaining, Pain, 'mid gladness, of still paining._
But may He guide us all to glory high Who laughed when Radha glided, hidden, by, And all among those damsels free and bold Touched Krishna with a soft mouth, kind and cold; And like the others, leaning on his breast, Unlike the others, left there Love's unrest; And like the others, joining in his song, Unlike the others, made him silent long.
(_Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled_ SAMODADAMODARO.)
Thus lingered Krishna in the deep, green wood, And gave himself, too prodigal, to those; But Radha, heart-sick at his falling-off, Seeing her heavenly beauty slighted so, Withdrew; and, in a bower of Paradise-- Where nectarous blossoms wove a shrine of shade, Haunted by birds and bees of unknown skies-- She sate deep-sorrowful, and sang this strain,
(_What follows is to the Music_ GURJJARÎ _and the Mode_ YATI.)
Ah, my Beloved! taken with those glances, Ah, my Beloved! dancing those rash dances, Ah, Minstrel! playing wrongful strains so well; Ah, Krishna! Krishna with the honeyed lip! Ah, Wanderer into foolish fellowship! My Dancer, my Delight!--I love thee still.
O Dancer! strip thy peacock-crown away, Rise! thou whose forehead is the star of day, With beauty for its silver halo set; Come! thou whose greatness gleams beneath its shroud Like Indra's rainbow shining through the cloud-- Come, for I love thee, my Beloved! yet.
Must love thee--cannot choose but love thee ever, My best Beloved--set on this endeavor, To win thy tender heart and earnest eye From lips but sadly sweet, from restless bosoms, To mine, O Krishna with the mouth of blossoms! To mine, thou soul of Krishna! yet I sigh
Half hopeless, thinking of myself forsaken, And thee, dear Loiterer, in the wood o'ertaken With passion for those bold and wanton ones, Who knit thine arms as poison-plants gripe trees With twining cords--their flowers the braveries That flash in the green gloom, sparkling stars and stones.