That dart from flower to newer to suck their sweets,
  And even the brook that babbled down the hill
  Now murmurs dreamily as if asleep. 
  Sweet spot! sweet hour! how quick its moments fly! 
  How soon the cooling winds and sinking sun
  And bustling stir of preparation tells
  ’Tis time for her to go; and when they part,
  The gentle pressure of the hand, one kiss—­
  A kiss not given yet not resisted—­tells
  A tale of love that words are poor to tell. 
  And when she goes how lonely seems her way
  Through groves, through fields, through busy haunts of men;
  And as he climbs the hill and often stops
  To watch her lessening train until at length
  Her elephant seems but a moving speck,
  Proud Kantaka, pawing and neighing, asks
  As plain as men could ever ask in, words: 
  “What makes my master choose this laggard pace?”

  At length she climbs those rocky, rugged hills. 
  That guarded well the loveliest spot on earth
  Until the Moguls centuries after came,
  Like swarms of locusts swept before the wind,
  Or ravening wolves, to conquer fair Cashmere.[4]
  And when she reached the top, before her lay,
  As on a map spread out, her native land,
  By lofty mountains walled on every side,
  From winds, from wars, and from the world shut out;
  The same great snow-capped mountains north and east
  In silent, glittering, awful grandeur stand,
  And west the same bold, rugged, cliff-crowned hills. 
  That filled her eyes with wonder when a child. 
  Below the snow a belt of deepest green;
  Below this belt of green great rolling hills,
  Checkered with orchards, vineyards, pastures, fields,
  The vale beneath peaceful as sleeping babe,
  The city nestling round the shining lake,
  And near the park and palace, her sweet home.

  O noble, peaceful, beautiful Cashmere! 
  Well named the garden of eternal spring! 
  But yet, with home and all its joys so near. 
  She often turned and strained her eager eyes
  To catch one parting glimpse of that sweet spot
  Where more than half of her young heart was left.

  At length their horns, whose mocking echoes
  Rolled from hill to hill, were answered from below,
  While from the park a gay procession comes,
  Increasing as it moves, to welcome her,
  Light of the palace, the people’s idol, home.

  The prince’s thoughts by day and dreams by night
  Meanwhile were filled with sweet Yasodhara,
  And this bright vision ever hovering near
  Hid from his eyes those grim and ghastly forms,
  Night-loving and light-shunning brood of sin,
  That ever haunt poor fallen human lives,
  And from the darkened corners of the soul
  Are quick to sting each pleasure with sharp pain,
  To pour some bitter in life’s sweetest cup,
  And shadow with despair its brightest