The Birth of the War-God — Canto 1

Far in the north, Himálaya lifting highHis towery summits till they cleave the sky,Spans the wide land from east to western sea,Lord of the Hills, instinct with Deity.For him, when Prithu ruled in days of oldThe rich Earth, teeming with her gems and gold,The vassal Hills, and Meru drained her breast.And decked Himálaya, for they loved him best,While Earth, the mother, gave her store to fillWith herbs and sparkling ores the royal Hill.Proud Mountain-king! his diadem of snowDims not the beauty of his gems below;For who can gaze upon the Moon, and dareTo mark one spot less brightly glorious there?—Who, mid a thousand virtues, dares to blameOne shade of weakness in a hero's fame?

Oft, when the gleamings of his mountain brassFlash through the clouds and tint them as they pass,Those glories mock the hues of closing day,And Heaven's bright wantons hail their hour of play;Try, ere the time, the magic of their glance,And deck their beauty for the twilight dance.Far spread the wilds where eager hunters roam,Tracking the lion to his dreary home;For though the melting snow has washed awayThe crimson blood-drops of the wounded prey,Still the fair pearls that graced his forehead tellWhere the strong elephant, o'ermastered, fell,—Cling to the lion's talons, and betray,Falling at every step, the mighty conqueror's way.Dear to the Sylphs are the cool shadows thrownBy dark clouds wandering round the mountain's zone,Till the big rain-drops fright them from the plainsTo those high peaks where sunshine ever reigns.There birch-trees wave, that lend their friendly aidTo tell the passion of the love-born maid.So quick to learn with metal tints to markHer hopes and fears upon the tender bark.

List! breathing from each cave,Himálaya leadsThe glorious hymn with all his whispering reeds,Till Heavenly Minstrels raise their voice in songAnd swell his music as it floats along.Where the fierce elephant wounds the scented boughTo ease the torment of his burning brow.The bleeding pines their odorous gum distil,And breathe rare fragrance o'er the sacred hill.

There magic herbs that pour their streaming lightFrom mossy caverns through the darksome night,Lend a bright torch to guide the trembling maidWhere waits her lover in the leafy shade.Yet hath he caves within whose inmost cellsIn tranquil rest the murky Darkness dwells,And, like the night-bird, spreads the brooding wingSafe in the shelter of the Mountain-king,Unscorned, uninjured—for the good and greatSpurn not the suppliant for his lowly state.

Why lingers yet the Heavenly Minstrel's brideOn the wild path that skirts Himálaya's side?—Cold to her tender feet—oh, cold—the snow,Why are her steps—her homeward steps—so slow?'Tis that her slender ancles scarce can bearThe weight of beauty that impedes her there;Each rounded limb, and all her peerless charms,That broad full bosom, those voluptuous arms.E'en the wild kine that roam his forests bringThe royal symbols to the Mountain-king,—With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hairFlashes like moonlight through the parted air;What monarch's fan more glorious might there be,More meet to wave before such majesty?There, when the Nymphs, within the cave's recess,In modest fear their gentle limbs undress.Descending clouds hang fondly round to shadeThe blushing beauties of each mountain maid.With pearly dew-drops Ganga loads the gale,That waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale,

And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the faceOf wearied hunters when they quit the chase.Spread on the tranquil pool so sweetly sleepThe Lotus-flowers upon Himálaya's steep,That the bright Seven who star the northern skyCull each a blossom from their seats on high;And when the Sun pours forth his morning glowIn streams of glory from his path below,They gain new beauty as his kisses breakHis darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.

Well might that ancient Hill by merit claimThe power and glory of a monarch's name—Nurse of pure herbs that grace each holy rite,Earth's meetest bearer of unyielding might;The Lord of Life for this ordained him king,And bade him share the sacred offering.Gladly obedient to the law divine,He chose a consort to prolong his line;No child of earth, born of the Sages' will,The fair nymph Mena pleased the sovran Hill;To her he sued, nor was his prayer denied,The Saints' beloved was the Mountain's bride;Crowned with all bliss and beauty were the pair.He passing glorious, she was heavenly fair;Swiftly the seasons, winged with love, flew on,And made her mother of a noble son—The great Maináka, who in triumph ledHis Serpent beauties to the bridal bed;And once when Indra's might those pinions rentThat bare the swift Hills through the firmament.

(So fierce his rage, no Mountain could withstandThe wild bolt flashing from his red right hand,)He fled to Ocean, powerful to save,And hid his glory 'neath the friendly wave.

A gentle daughter came at length to blessThe lady mother with her loveliness—Born once again, for in an earlier lifeHigh fame was hers, as Siva's faithful wife;But her proud sire had dared the God to scorn.Then was her tender soul with anguish torn,And jealous for the Lord she loved so wellHer angered spirit left its mortal cell.Now did the maid, a lovely blessing, springFrom that pure lady and the Mountain-king.—When Industry and Virtue meet and kiss,Holy their union, and the fruit is bliss.Blest was that hour, and all the world was gay.When Mena's daughter saw the light of day—A rosy glow filled all the brightening sky.An odorous breeze came sweeping softly by.Breathed round the hill a sweet unearthly strain,And the glad heavens poured down their flowery rain.That fair young maiden diademmed with lightMade her dear mother's fame more sparkling bright,As the blue offspring of the Turquoise HillsThe parent Mount with richer glory fills,When the Cloud's voice has caused the gem to spring,Responsive to its gentle thundering.Then was it sweet, as days flew by, to traceThe dawning charm of every infant grace,

Even as the crescent Moons their glory pourMore full, more lovely than the eve before.

As yet the maiden was unknown to fame,And Mountain-lady was her only name;But when her mother, filled with anxious careAt her stern penance, cried Forbear! Forbear!To a new title was the warning; turned,And Uma was the name the maiden earned.Loveliest was she of all his lovely race,And dearest to her father;—on her faceLooking with love he ne'er could satisfyThe thirsty glances of a parent's eye ;When spring-tide bids a thousand flowrets bloomLoading the breezes with their rich perfume,Though here and there the wandering bee may rest,He loves his own—his darling Mango—best.The Gods' bright river bathes with gold the skies,And pure sweet eloquence adorns the wise;The flambeau's glory is the shining fire.—She was the pride, the glory of her sire.Shedding new lustre on his old descent,His loveliest child, his richest ornament.The sparkling Ganga laved her heavenly home,And o'er her islets would the maiden roamAmid the dear companions of her playWith ball and doll to while the hours away.As swans in autumn in assembling bandsFly back to Ganga's well-remembered sands:As herbs beneath the darksome shades of nightCollect again their scattered rays of light:

So dawned upon the maiden's waking mindThe far-off memory of her life resigned,And all her former learning in its train,Feelings, and thoughts, and knowledge came again.Now beauty's prime, that craves from art no aid.Ripened the loveliness of that young maid—That scorns the wine-cup's help to fire the heart,The bow of Love without his flowery dart;There was a glory beaming from her face,With love's own light, and every youthful grace:Ne'er pictured lily more divinely fairUnclosed her beauty to the morning air.Bright as a Lotus, springing where she trod,Her glowing feet shed radiance o'er the sod:That arching neck, the step, the glance aside.The proud swans taught her as they stemmed the tide,Whilst of the maiden they would fondly learnHer anclets' pleasant music in return.When the Almighty Maker first beganThe marvellous beauty of that child to plan.In full fair symmetry each rounded limbGrew neatly fashioned and approved by Him:The rest was faultless, for the Artist's careFormed each young charm most excellently fair.As if his moulding hand would fain expressThe visible type of perfect loveliness.What thing of beauty may the poet dareWith the smooth wonder of those limbs compare?The young tree springing by the brooklet's side—The rounded trunk, the forest-monarch's pride?O no!—too cold, too chilling cold, the tree,—This, too unyielding for such rivalry.

Her hidden beauties though no tongue may tell,Yet Siva's love will aid the fancy well;No other maid could deem her boasted charmsWorthy the clasp of such a husband's arms.Between the partings of fair Uma's vestCame hasty glimpses of a lovely breast:So closely there the kissing hillocks rose,Scarce could the Lotus in the vale repose;And if her loosened zone e'er slipped below,All was so bright beneath the mantle's flow.So dazzling bright, as if the maid had bracedA band of gems to sparkle round her waist;While the dear dimples of her downy skinSeemed fitting couch for Love to revel in.Her arms were softer than the flowery dart,Young Káma's arrow, that subdues the heart;For vain his strife with Siva, till at lastHe chose those chains to bind his conqueror fast.E'en the new Moon poured down a paler beamWhen her long fingers flashed their rosy gleam,And brighter than Asoka's rich leaves threwA glory round, like summer's evening hue.The strings of pearl across her bosom thrownIncreased its beauty, and enhanced their own,—Her breast, her jewels seeming to agree,The adorner now, and now the adorned to be.When Beauty gazes on the fair full Moon,No Lotus charms her, for it blooms at noon:If on that flower she feed her raptured eye,No Moon is shining from the mid-day sky;She looked on Uma's face, more heavenly fair,And found their glories both united there.

The loveliest flower that ever opened yetLaid in the fairest branch—a pearl that's setIn richest coral—with her smile might vieFlashing through lips bright with their rosy dye.And when she spoke—upon the maiden's tongueDistilling nectar, such rare accents hung,The sweetest note that e'er the Koil pouredSeemed harsh and tuneless as a jarring chord.The melting glance of that soft Hquid eye,Tremulous like lilies when the breezes sigh,Which learnt it first—so winning and so mild—The gentle fawn, or Mena's gentler child?And oh, the arching of her brow! so fineWas the rare beauty of its pencilled line—Love gazed upon her forehead in despairAnd spurned the bow he once esteemed so fair :Her long bright tresses too might shame the prideOf envious antelopes on the mountain-side.Surely the Maker's care had been to cullFrom all that's lovely the most beautiful,As if the world's Creator would beholdAll beauty centred in a single mould.

When holy Nárad—Saint who roams at will —First saw the daughter of the royal Hill,He hailed the bride whom Siva's love should ownHalf of himself, and partner of his throne;Himálaya listened, and the father's prideWould yield the maiden for no other's bride;To Fire alone of all bright things we raiseThe holy hymn, the sacrifice of praise:

But still the Monarch durst not, could not brine:His child, unsought, to Heaven's supremest King;But as a good man fears his earnest prayerShould rise unheeded, and with thoughtful careSeeks for some friend his eager suit to aid—Thus great Himálaya in his awe delayed.

Since the sad moment when his gentle brideIn the full glory of her beauty died,The mournful Siva in the holy groveHad dwelt in solitude, and known not love:High on that hill where musky breezes throwTheir balmy odours o'er eternal snow,Where Heavenly Minstrels pour their notes divineAnd rippling Ganga laves the mountain pine.Clad in a coat of skin all rudely wroughtHe lived for prayer and solitary thought;The faithful band that served the Hermit's willLay in the hollows of the rocky hill.Where from the clefts the dark bitumen flowed;Tinted with mineral dyes their bodies glowed.Their garb, rude mantles of the birch-tree's rind,With bright red garlands was their hair entwined ;The holy Bull before his master's feetShook the hard-frozen earth with echoins: feet.And as he heard the lion's roarins; swellIn distant thunder from the rocky dell.In angry pride he raised his voice of fearAnd from the mountain drove the startled deer.Bright fire—a shape the God would sometimes wearWho takes eight various forms—was glowing there;

Then the great Deity who gives the prizeOf penance, prayer, and holy exercise,As though to earn the meed he grants to man,Himself the penance and the pain began.Now to that holy Lord, to whom is givenHonour and glory by the Gods in Heaven,The worship of a gift Himálaya paid.And towards his dwelling sent the lovely maid;Her task, attended by her youthful train.To woo his widowed heart to love again.

The Hermit welcomed with a courteous browThat gentle enemy of hermit vow—The still pure breast where Contemplation dwellsDefies the charmer and the charmer's spells —Calm and unmoved he dewed the wondrous maid,And bade her all his pious duties aid;She culled fresh blossoms at the God's command,Sweeping the altar with a careful hand,The holy grass for sacred rites she sought,And day by day the fairest water brought;And if the unwonted labour caused a sigh.The fair-haired lady turned her languid eyeWhere the pale Moon on Siva's forehead gleamed.And swift through all her frame returninig vigour streamed.