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Atmâ loved to wander apart. One day he penetrated to a secluded court, whose beauty and silence charmed him more than anything he had hitherto seen. It was Moti's garden. "High in air the fountain flung
Its living gems, on sunbeams strung
They wreathed and shook the mists among;
A thousand roses audience held,
For floral state the place was meet,
With blissful light and joy replete,
And depths of sweetness unrevealed. Glittered and sparkled the revelling spray,
Swelled and receded its silvery lay,
Rustled the roses in fervid array,
In fragrance declaring their costly acclaim,
Wafting on soft winds the redolent fame
Of fantasy, fountain, and tuneful refrain. Joy, Happiness, and Bliss had here
Alighted when from Eden driven,
Poor wanderers of far other sphere[Pg 26]
They languished for their native heaven;
And lingering they glamoured all the place,
The flowers bloomed in airs of Paradise,
That lulled the days to dreams of changeless peace.
No marvel were it if to mortal eyes
This garden seemed the threshold of the skies. But fountain and roses and glittering spray,
Ambrosial converse and redolent lay
Saddened and dimmed in the radiant day,
Unbroken the yellow sunbeams streamed,
As ever the flashing jewels gleamed.
But a shadow fell
And a silent spell
In homage of one who was fairer than they. And who was the despot whose wondrous array
Of tyrant charms thus over-wrought
With hues of soft humility
The joys of this enchanting spot?
There stood she, envied of the closing day,
Loved by the evening star,
Moti, than costliest jewel of Cathay
More rare and lovelier far. Weep balmy tears,[Pg 27]
O dear white Rose, and tell to am'rous airs
They waste their sweetness on thy charms, and chide
Their ling'ring dalliance, o'er the whole world wide
Bid them on buoyant morning wings to move,
And whisper "Love;"
Fair winds, be tender of her blissful name,
On soft Æolian strings weave dainty dream,
Let but the dove
Hear a faint echo of her happy name;
But tell her worth,
Say that at sight of her the evening dies
Upon the earth,
And bees and little flower bells still their mirth
And jasmines whisp'ring of her starry eyes. And Atmâ spoke, with love and wonder bold,
"Tread I the valley where the fadeless vine
Drops dew immortal and sweet spices grow
From fragrant roots which in that blessed mould,
Watered by tears of penitential woe,
Drank deep of primal peace and balm divine,
When in the morn of time the tale was told
Of forfeit happiness and ruined shrine?
Tell me, O beauteous Spirit of the bower,
Is it thy gentle task when others sleep,
To guard all that a fallen world may keep[Pg 28]
Of pristine bliss and lost felicities,
The fragrant memory of a purer hour,
The healing aroma of Paradise?" Sweet then the blushing maid replied,
"Among the roses I abide,
I wake the bird, I watch the bee,
No greater toil is set for me;
But tell me, pray thee, with what charge indued
You wander in this quiet solitude." And Atmâ spoke with joyful fervency,
"I hither came on embassy unguessed,
Most blissful vision of my raptured view,
The dusk delights of quietness and rest
Desired I, nor thought to bid adieu
To all content my fond heart ever knew. Descending angels of my wisest dreams,
Ye kindly genii, bending from above,
Say, in th'allotment of my life's high themes,
Were hours left for love?
A great design and just my soul employs,
Can high resolve and trancéd rest agree?
Or is there aught than loss in changeful joys
Of mortal love, most mortal in its wane
Which I shall see
And call aloud, 'O Love,' in vain, in vain." "Bloomy roses die,[Pg 29]
Sunbeams have no morrow,
Sweetest songs give place to sigh,
Ah, the speechless sorrow,
Pain of by-and-bye. I too well have known
Gladness lives a-dying,
Joys are often prized when flown,
Loved when past replying,
Sought when left alone. Sad when roses pine,
Ah, but love is dearer,
Who would dare to quaff this wine
Knowing Fate the bearer,
Guileful fate of mine? Moti, peerless flower,
Queen of love and gladness,
Tell me in this happy hour,
Will Joy turn to sadness,
And Love's death-night lower?" Moti, wise as lovely, pondered,
"'Mong the sunbeams I have wandered,
With the flowers friendship made;
Sweetest blossoms wither, Comrades e'en in death are flowers,
Always sweet are friendship's bowers. Lightly sorrow touches twain,
Only solitude is pain."
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