III

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,

And the white daybreak stealing up the sky Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,— How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,

The one puts on her cross and crown,
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,

And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
Looks at herself, and cannot rest.
The other, blind, within her little room,

Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart,
That in a drawer's recess doth lie,

And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,
'Mid kisses ringing

And joyous singing,

Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow,

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,
And whispers as her brother opes the door,

"O God! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and blind,
Conducted by her brother's hand,

Towards the church, through paths unscanned,
With tranquil air, her way doth wind.
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale,
Round her at times exhale,

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapors gray.

Near that castle, fair to see,

Crowded with sculptures old, in every part,
Marvels of nature and of art,

And proud of its name of high degree,
A little chapel, almost bare,

At the base of the rock is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof

Above each jealous cottage roof

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales,
And its blackened steeple high in air,
Round which the osprey screams and sails.

"Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!"

Thus Margaret said. "Where are we? we ascend!"
"Yes; seest thou not our journey's end?
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry?
The hideous bird that brings ill luck, we know!
Dost thou remember when our father said,

The night we watched beside his bed,
'O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul: I feel that I am dying!'
And thou and he and I all fell to crying?
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud.
There is his grave; there stands the cross we set:
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?
Come in! The bride will be here soon:

Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!"

She could no more, - the blind girl, weak and weary!
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
"What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"-and she started,
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;

But Paul, impatient, urges evermore

Her steps towards the open door;

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.

At length the bell

With booming sound

Sends forth, resounding round,

Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell.
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain;
And yet the guests delay not long,

For soon arrives the bridal train,
And with it brings the village throng.

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay,
For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day,
Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning,

Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning.

And Angela thinks of her cross, iwis;

To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper

Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper,

"How beautiful! how beautiful she is!"

But she must calm that giddy head,
For already the mass is said;

At the holy table stands the priest;

The wedding-ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it;
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it,

He must pronounce one word at least!

'Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman's side
Tis he!" a well-known voice has cried.

And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl see!
Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death,
As holy water be my blood for thee!"
And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,

The De Profundis' filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse

To the church-yard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;

Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah no! for each one seemed to say :

"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom,
So fair a corpse shall leave its home!

Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away!
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!"

Longfellow's Translation. By courtesy of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers,

8208

JAYADEVA

(ABOUT THE TWELFTH CENTURY A. D.)

BY A. V. WILLIAMS JACKSON

AYADEVA was a Sanskrit lyric poet, author of the GītaGovinda' or 'Shepherd's Canticle,' an Indian Song of Songs.' This passionate lyrist, who is presumed to have lived in the twelfth century of our era, is believed to have been a native of Kinduvilva in the district of Bengal. With all the fervor of a Theocritus piping in the vales of Sicily, he sang in melting strains the divine love of the god Vishnu, incarnate as herdsman and shepherd on the banks of the Indian Jumna. Little is known of his life. A passing mention in his poem implies that his father's name was Bhoja-deva, and that his mother's name was Rāma-devī; but that is all. We know also from the poem that he was a religious devotee of the Vaishnavite sect, for the praise of Vishnu forms the burden of the refrains in his song. He is to be distinguished, according to general opinion, from a Sanskrit dramatist of the same name. The article 'Indian Literature' should be consulted in order to give an idea of the age in which Jayadeva flourished.

It

The poem 'Gita-Govinda' (literally "song of the cowherd") is one of the most celebrated compositions in Sanskrit literature. is a lyrical-dramatic piece, a musical pastoral, or a sort of Oriental opera in narrative. As before remarked, the theme of this religious canticle is the story of the love of Vishnu, incarnate as Krishna or Hari, for his devoted Rādhā. The half-human yet divine Krishna, a very Apollo in beauty, has strayed from the true love of his heart, the herdsman's daughter Rādhā, and he disports himself with the gopis, or shepherd damsels, in all the enchanting ecstasies of transitory passion. The neglected and grieving Rādhā searches for her erring lover to reclaim him. A handmaiden, her lone companion, bears the messages to Krishna, whose fleeting frenzied passion for the shepherdesses is soon spent, and who longs for reunion with his soul's idol, the perfect maiden Rādhā. All this is rendered with gen

the story, but he tells it in so vivid a way that it is truly dramatic. uine dramatic power, yet there is no dialogue: the poet simply tells The handmaid finally brings about the reconciliation of the lovers, and accomplishes their reunion in a moonlit bower amid a flooded with Oriental coloring.

scene

Like the Song of Solomon, which should be read in this connection, the 'Gīta-Govinda' is frequently interpreted as an allegory, portraying figuratively a struggle of the soul amid human passions and the final attainment of supreme spiritual bliss. Such figurative methods of expression and symbolic imagery in poetry have indeed prevailed in the East since time immemorial, as is seen in the case of Hafiz (the article on whom might be consulted); and it is hardly to be questioned that a religious element is present in the 'Gita,' for Jayadeva's oft repeated refrains of pious devotion stand out in quite clear tone amid the erotic strains. On the other hand, the sacred erotism of the poem may show something of the sensuality of the Vishnu-Krishna cult. In whichever way we criticize the poem, we must allow the presence of a devotional element and the consequent possibilities, as we would in Solomon's Divine Song.

As a poem, the Gita-Govinda' is a masterpiece of art. To read it in the original is the true way to gain an idea of the charm and artistic finish of the composition. The ever changing rhythms, the rich rhymes which are often interlaced or concealed, the alliteration, assonance, fanciful metrical devices, and a dozen subtle graces which belong to the Sanskrit art poesy, surprise by their variety and their abundance. The diversity in tone and shade adds to the effect; the feeling is tender and delicate, but sometimes it is passionate to excess, and is expressed with a warmth and fervor or a lavishness of Oriental coloring that is occasionally too exuberant for Occidental taste. The poem is divided into twelve short cantos, and it contains more than twenty lyrical gems. The text provides for musical accompaniments in different measures and modes, suited to the lyrical effusion which forms its burden or which is expressed in its refrain. It is almost impossible in translation to convey a true idea of the finish and delicacy of the original. The German poetical rendering by Rückert is believed to have come nearest to success in this. Sir Edwin Arnold's paraphrase, 'The Indian Song of Songs,' may well be read to catch something of the spirit of the composition. Lassen's Latin version is one of the classic works on the subject. The prose rendering into English by Sir William Jones in the fourth volume of his Collected Works, in spite of abridgment and some alterations, is sufficiently near to the original to convey a good idea of the merits and to our mind, of some of the defects of this Sanskrit masterpiece. Selections from that rendering, with slight changes in spelling, are appended. Rādhā is searching for her erring lover Krishna.

XIV-514

A.r.w

A.r.Willams

1 Jackens