shone so bright;
    Marred with much grief it was, like sunlight dimmed
    By fold on fold of wreathed and creeping mists. 
    But when Sudeva marked the great dark eyes—­
    Lustreless though they were, and she so worn,
    So listless—­“Lo, the Princess!” whispered he;—­
    “’Tis the King’s daughter,” quoth he to himself;
    And thus mused on:—­
                        “Yea! as I used to see,
    ’Tis she! no other woman hath such grace! 
    My task is done; I gaze on that one form,
    Which is like Lakshmi’s, whom all worlds adore. 
    I see the bosoms, rounded, dark, and smooth,
    As they were sister-moons; the soft moon-face
    Which with its queenly light makes all things bright
    Where it doth gleam; the large deep lotus-eyes,
    That, like to Rati’s own, the Queen of Love,
    Beam, each a lovelit star, filling the worlds
    With longing.  Ah, fair lotus-flower, plucked up
    By Fate’s hard grasp from far Vidarbha’s pool,
    How is thy cup muddied and slimed to-day! 
    Ah, moon, how is thy night like to the eclipse
    When Rahu swallows up the silver round! 
    Ah, tearless eyes, reddened with weeping him,
    How are ye like to gentle streams run dry! 
    Ah, lake of lilies, where grief’s elephant
    Hath swung his trunk, and turned the crystal black,
    And scattered all the blue and crimson cups,
    And frightened off the birds!  Ah, lily-cup,
    Tender, and delicately leaved, and reared
    To blossom in a palace built of gems,
    How dost thou wither here, wrenched by the root,
    Sun-scorched and faded!  Noblest, loveliest, best!—­
    Who bear’st no gems, yet so becomest them—­
    How like the new moon’s silver horn thou art,
    When envious black clouds blot it!  Lost for thee
    Are love, home, children, friends, and kinsmen; lost
    All joy of that fair body thou dost wear
    Only that it may last to find thy lord. 
    Truly a woman’s ornament is this:—­
    The husband is her jewel; lacking him
    She hath none, though she shines with priceless pearls;
    Piteous must be her state!  And, torn from her,
    Doth Nala cling to life; or, day by day,
    Waste with long yearning?  Oh, as I behold
    Those black locks, and those eyes—­dark and long-shaped
    As are the hundred-petalled lotus-leaves—­
    And watch her joyless who deserves all joy,
    My heart is sore!  When will she overpass
    The river of this sorrow, and come safe
    Unto its farther shore?  When will she meet
    Her lord, as moon and moon-star in the sky
    Mingle?  For, as I think, in winning her,
    Nala would win his happy days again,
    And—­albeit banished now—­have back his lands. 
    Alike in years and graces, and alike
    In lordly race these were:  no bride could seem
    Worthy Nishadha, if it were