that to attain the end
    And object of ambition is to rest;
    Success doth only mitigate the fever
    Of anxious expectation; soon the fear
    Of losing what we have, the constant care
    Of guarding it doth weary.  Ceaseless toil
    Must be the lot of him who with his hands
    Supports the canopy that shields his subjects.

Two HERALDS [behind the scenes].—­May the King be victorious!

FIRST HERALD.—­Honor to him who labors day by day
    For the world’s weal, forgetful of his own. 
    Like some tall tree that with its stately head
    Endures the solar beam, while underneath
    It yields refreshing shelter to the weary.

SECOND HERALD.—­Let but the monarch wield his threatening rod
    And e’en the guilty tremble; at his voice
    The rebel spirit cowers; his grateful subjects
    Acknowledge him their guardian; rich and poor
    Hail him a faithful friend, a loving kinsman.

KING.—­Weary as I was before, this complimentary address has refreshed me. [Walks on.

WARDER.—­Here is the terrace of the hallowed fire-chamber, and yonder stands the cow that yields the milk for the oblations.  The sacred enclosure has been recently purified, and looks clean and beautiful.  Ascend, Sire.

KING [leans on the shoulders of his attendants, and ascends]. 
Vetravati, what can possibly be the message that the venerable Kanwa has
sent me by these hermits?—­
    Perchance their sacred rites have been disturbed
    By demons, or some evil has befallen
    The innocent herds, their favorites, that graze
    Within the precincts of the hermitage;
    Or haply, through my sins, some withering blight
    Has nipped the creeping plants that spread their arms
    Around the hallowed grove.  Such troubled thoughts
    Crowd through my mind, and fill me with misgiving.

WARDER.—­If you ask my opinion, Sire, I think the hermits merely wish to take an opportunity of testifying their loyalty, and are therefore come to offer homage to your Majesty.

Enter the Hermits, leading Sakoontala, attended by Gautami; and, in advance of them, the Chamberlain and the domestic Priest.

CHAMBERLAIN.—­This way, reverend sirs, this way.

SARNGARAVA.—­O Saradwata,
    ’Tis true the monarch lacks no royal grace,
    Nor ever swerves from justice; true, his people,
    Yea such as in life’s humblest walks are found,
    Refrain from evil courses; still to me,
    A lonely hermit reared in solitude,
    This throng appears bewildering, and methinks
    I look upon a burning house, whose inmates
    Are running to and fro in wild dismay.