And glassy lakelet, where the woodland beasts
    In free peace gathered. 
                            Wandering onward thus,
    The Princess saw far-gliding forms of dread—­
    Pisachas, Rakshasas, ill sprites and fiends
    Which haunt, with swinging snakes, the undergrowth. 
    Dark pools she saw, and drinking-holes, and peaks
    Wherefrom break down in tumbling cataracts
    The wild white waters, marvellous to hear. 
    Also she passed—­this daughter of a king—­
    Where snorted the fierce buffaloes, and where
    The gray boars rooted for their food, and where
    The black bears growled, and serpents in the grass
    Rustled and hissed.  But all along that way
    Safe paced she in her majesty of grace,
    High fortune, courage, constancy, and right—­
    Vidarbha’s glory—­seeking, all alone,
    Lost Nala; and less terror at these sights
    Came to sad Damayanti for herself—­
    Threading this dreadful forest—­than for him. 
    Most was her mind on Nala’s fate intent. 
    Bitterly grieving stood the sweet Princess
    Upon a rock, her tender limbs a-thrill
    With heavy fears for Nala while she spake:—­
      “Broad-chested Chief! my long-armed Lord of men! 
    Nishadha’s King!  Ah! whither art thou gone. 
    Leaving me thus in the unpeopled wood? 
    The Aswamedha sacrifice thou mad’st,
    And all the rites and royal gifts hast given,
    A lion-hearted Prince, holy and true
    To all save me!  That which thou didst declare,
    Hand in hand with me—­once so fond and kind—­
    Recall it now—­thy sacred word, thy vow,
    Whithersoever, Raja, thou art fled. 
    Think how the message of the gold-winged swans
    Was spoken, by thine own lips, then to me! 
    True men keep faith; this is the teaching taught
    In Vedas, Angas, and Upangas all,
    Hear which we may; wilt thou not, therefore, Prince—­
    Wilt thou not, terror of thy foes, keep faith,
    Making thy promise good to cleave to me? 
    Ha, Nala, Lord!  Am I not surely still
    Thy chosen, thy beloved?  Answerest not
    Thy wife in this dark, horror-haunted shade? 
    The tyrant of the jungle, fierce and fell,
    With jaws agape to take me, crouches nigh,
    And thou not here to rescue me—­not thou,
    Who saidst none other in the world was dear
    But Damayanti!  Prove the fond speech true,
    Uttered so often!  Why repliest not
    To me, thy well-beloved; me, distraught,
    Longed for and longing; me, my Prince and pride,
    That am so weary, weak, and miserable,
    Stained with the mire, in this torn cloth half clad,
    Alone and weeping, seeing no help near? 
    Ah, stag of all the herd! leav’st thou thy hind
    Astray, regarding not these tears which roll? 
    My Nala, Maharaja!  It is I
    Who cry, thy Damayanti, true