roam, uncomforted. 
    Worshipful brethren! say if he hath come—­
    Nishadha’s Chief, my Nala, hitherward
    Unto your pleasant homes—­he, for whose sake
    I wander in the dismal pathless wood
    With bears and tigers haunted—­terrible! 
    Ah! if I find him not, ere there be passed
    Many more nights and days, peace will I win;
    For death shall set my mournful spirit free. 
    What cause have I to live, lacking my Prince? 
    Why should I longer breathe, whose heart is dead
    With sorrow for my lord?”
                               To Bhima’s child,
    So in the wood bewailing, made reply
    Those holy, truthful men:  “Beautiful One! 
    The future is for thee; fair will it fall! 
    Our eyes, by long devotions opened, see—­
    Even now—­thy lord; thou shalt behold him soon,
    Nishadha’s chief, the famous Nala, strong
    In battle, loving justice.  Yea, this Prince
    Thou wilt regain, Bhima’s sad daughter! freed
    From troubles, purged of sin; and witness him—­
    With all his gems and glories—­governing
    Nishadha once again, invincible,
    Joy of his friends and terror of his foes. 
    Yea, Noblest, thou shalt have thy love anew
    In days to come.” 
                      So speaking, from the sight
    Of Damayanti, at that instant, passed
    Hermits, with hermitage and holy fires,
    Evanishing.  In wonderment she stood,
    Gazing bewildered.  Then the Princess cried:—­
    “Was it in dream I saw them?  Whence befell
    This unto me?  Where are the brethren gone,
    The ring of huts, the pleasant stream that ran
    With birds upon its crystal banks, the grove
    Delightful, with its fruits and flowers?” Long while
    Pondered and wondered Damayanti there,
    Her bright smile fled, pale, strengthless, sorrowful;
    Then to another region of the wood,
    With sighs, and eyes welling great tears, she passed,
    Lamenting; till a beauteous tree she spied—­
    The Asoka, best of trees.  Fair rose it there
    Beside the forest, glowing with the flame
    Of golden and crimson blossoms, and its boughs
    Full of sweet-singing birds.
                                 “Ahovat—­Look!”
    She cried:  “Ah, lovely tree, that wavest here
    Thy crown of countless, shining, clustering blooms
    As thou wert woodland king—­Asoka tree,
    Tree called ‘the sorrow-ender,’ heart’s-ease tree! 
    Be what thy name saith—­end my sorrow now,
    Saying, ah, bright Asoka! thou hast seen
    My Prince, my dauntless Nala; seen that lord
    Whom Damayanti loves and his foes fear;
    Seen great Nishadha’s Chief, so dear to me,
    His tender princely skin in rended cloth
    Scantily clad.  Hath he passed wandering
    Under thy branches, grievously forlorn? 
    Answer, Asoka!  ‘Sorrow-ender,’