MAHADEVA,* Lord of earth

  For the sixth time comes below,

As a man of mortal birth,—­

  Like him, feeling joy and woe.

Hither loves he to repair,

  And his power behind to leave;

If to punish or to spare,

Men as man he’d fain perceive. 
And when he the town as a trav’ller hath seen,
Observing the mighty, regarding the mean,
He quits it, to go on his journey, at eve.

He was leaving now the place,

  When an outcast met his eyes,—­

Fair in form, with painted face,—­

  Where some straggling dwellings rise.

“Maiden, hail!”—­“Thanks! welcome here!

  Stay!—­I’ll join thee in the road.’

“Who art thou?”—­“A Bayadere,

And this house is love’s abode.” 
The cymbal she hastens to play for the dance,
Well skill’d in its mazes the sight to entrance,
Then by her with grace is the nosegay bestow’d.

Then she draws him, as in play,

  O’er the threshold eagerly: 

“Beauteous stranger, light as day

  Thou shalt soon this cottage see.

I’ll refresh thee, if thou’rt tired,

  And will bathe thy weary feet;

Take whate’er by thee’s desired,

Toying, rest, or rapture sweet.”—­
She busily seeks his feign’d suff’rings to ease;
Then smiles the Immortal; with pleasure he sees
That with kindness a heart so corrupted can beat.

And he makes her act the part

  Of a slave; he’s straight obey’d.

What at first had been but art,

  Soon is nature in the maid.

By degrees the fruit we find,

  Where the buds at first obtain;

When obedience fills the mind,

Love will never far remain. 
But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove,
The Discerner of all things below and above,
Feigns pleasure, and horror, and maddening pain.

And her painted cheeks he kisses,

  And his vows her heart enthrall;

Feeling love’s sharp pangs and blisses,

  Soon her tears begin to fall.

At his feet she now must sink,

  Not with thoughts of lust or gain,—­

And her slender members shrink,

And devoid of power remain. 
And so the bright hours with gladness prepare
Their dark, pleasing veil of a texture so fair,
And over the couch softly, tranquilly reign.

Late she falls asleep, thus bless’d,—­

  Early wakes, her slumbers fled,

And she finds the much-loved guest

  On her bosom lying dead.

Screaming falls she on him there,

  But, alas, too late to save!

And his rigid limbs they bear

Straightway to their fiery grave. 
Then hears she the priests and the funeral song,
Then madly she runs, and she severs the throng: 
“Why press tow’rd the pile thus?  Why scream thus, and rave?”