- - - It was an evening soft and fair,
As surely those in Eden are,
When, bearing spoils of leaf and a flower,
Entered the Bayadere her bower;
Her love lay sleeping, as she thought,
And playfully a bunch she caught
Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er
His face she let the blossoms fall:
"Why I am jealous of thy dreams,
Awaken at thy Aza's call."
No answer came from him whose tone
Had been the echo of her own.
She spoke again,—no words came forth;
She clasped his hand,—she raised his head,—
One wild loud scream, she sank beside,
As pale, as cold, almost as dead! - - -
By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun
To shed his earliest beams upon,
Is a funeral pile,—around it stand
Priests and the hired mourners' band.
But who is she that so wildly prays
To share the couch and light the blaze?
Mandalla's love, while scornful eye
And chilling jeers mock her agony:
An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame,
To Brahma's race and Brahma's name!
Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside,
For a moment her bursting tears to hide.
None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire
Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre,
Then like a thought she darted by,
And sprang on the burning pile to die! - - -
- - - Now thou art mine! away, away
To my own bright star, to my home of day,
A dear voice sighed, as he bore her along
Gently as spring breezes bear the song,
Thy love and thy faith have won for thee
The breath of immortality.
Maid of earth, Mandalla is free to call
Aza the queen of his heart and hall!—L. E. L.
