Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/72

So brightly pure that silver glory 's shed,
Playing so fondly round each beauteous head,
That all seem gifted from those Lights above
With richest tokens of superior love.
How blest its Maidens! cloudless is their day,
And radiant herbs illume their nightly way;
No term of days, but endless youth they know.
No Death save him who bears the Flowery Bow;
Their direst swoon, their only frenzy this—
The trance of Love, the ecstasy of bliss!
Ne'er can their lovers for one hour withstand
The frown, the quivering lip, the scornful hand,
But seek forgiveness of the angry fair.
And woo her smile with many an earnest prayer.
Around, wide gardens spread their pleasant bowers,
Where the bright Champac opes her fragrant flowers—
Dear shades, beloved by the Sylphs that roam
In dewy evening from their mountain home.

Ah! why should mortals fondly strive to gain
Heaven and its joys by ceaseless toil and pain?
E'en the Saints envied as their steps drew near,
And owned a brighter Heaven was opened here.
They lighted down; braided was each long tress,
Bright as the pictured flame, as motionless;
Himálaya's palace- warders in amaze
On the Seven Sages turned their eager gaze,
A noble company of celestial race
Where each in order of his years had place,—
Glorious, as when the Sun, his head inclining.
Sees his own image mid the waters shining.