Atmâ | Page 6

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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 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, 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,
But alike they fade, Roses die together, Beauteous death is made.
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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Mild were the utterings of the cooing dove, Who did approve In myrtle
ambuscade this tender lore; The constant plashing of the fountain spray
Melted in easy numbers, dying away A quiet cadence, while for
evermore Faded the eve in richest livery wove Of Tyrian dyes and
amber woof t'allure The soft salaam of slowly sinking day.
Stars shone, and Atmâ said, "'Tis well to be, The things of earth are
painted pleasantly."
But pleasantness is light and versatile, And moods must change and
tranquil breezes veer, And o'er this blissful hour there came a chill And
sullen shadows slowly creeping near In lengthening lines, and murkier
dusk took form Of all things ominous, disastrous, ill, And as a mid-day
gloom portending storm, A lowering fate made prophecy of fear, And
Atmâ knew the menace in the air, As ghostly shudderings of our fearful
life Foretell the advent of th' assassin's knife. Low sank his heart before
the augury (For life was dearer on this eventide Than e'er before), and
all dismayed, he cried, "These are the heralds of calamity That bid me
hence, for all too well I know The pensive pageantry of mortal woe; O
Love, my Love, this sweetest love may flee But ever grief has cruel
constancy, Late I bode me with dull-shrouded sorrow, And well I know
her doleful voice again. Hark! the breezes from the nightshade borrow
A heavy burden of lament and pain, And where Delight held lately
sweet hey-day, Now like spectres pallid moonbeams play, Very still the
little rosebud sleeps, Heavily the drooping myrrh tree weeps Sluggish
tears upon the darksome mould."
Quick then did Moti speak, by love made bold, "No cause is there, O
Love, for sad affright, For I have read the portents of the night; Of envy
dies the glowworm when the moon Is worshipped in the welkin, and
the boon Of costly tears Dropped by the bleeding tree, to mortal cares
Is healing balm; The rosebuds dream, Love, and the soft wind's sigh Is
lullaby. And yet I know that sorry things befal Sometimes, withal, For
once it was my grievous task to mourn A turtle-dove sore wounded by
a thorn."

"O sweetest Dove, May grief be far from thee, Who lovest sorrow
when thou lovest me; But changeful love May yet be fixed by grief no
more to rove, And we by woe be bound in