Canto Fifth.
UMA'S REWARD.
Now woe to Uma, for young Love is slain.
Her Lord hath left her, and her hope is vain;
Woe, woe to Uma! how the Mountain-Maid
Cursed her bright beauty for its feeble aid!
'Tis Beauty's guerdon which she loves the best,
To bless her lover, and in turn be blest.
Penance must aid her now—or how can she
Win the cold heart of that stern Deity?
Penance, long Penance—for that power alone
Can make such love, so high a Lord, her own.
But, ah! how troubled was her mother's brow
At the sad tidings of the mourner's vow!
She threw her arms around her own dear Maid,
Kissed, fondly kissed her, sighed, and wept, and prayed:—
"Are there no Gods, my child, to love thee here?
Frail is thy body, yet thy vow severe;
The lily, by the wild bee scarcely stirred,
Bends, breaks, and dies beneath the weary bird."
