In haughty pride, though wounded sore,
An eagle fought the raven-crow.
The bird in desperation strove
To rise but fell in frenzied woe.
His right wing swept the blood-stained ground;
His bosom shone in crimson glow.
"Alas! you smite, O ravens wild,
When I am wounded, fallen low.
Were I not struck, your feathers black
Would surely deck the plains below!"














 

  Once there bloomed upon a meadow
Roses, violets, flow'rs of grace.
The gods from urns poured nectared beauty
On the meadow's up-turned face.
Hanging vines and branches wove
Canopies of gold and shade
Through which the sky serenely peeped
And gentle breezes humming strayed.
The bulbul sang of only love;
Nature listened in delight —
I felt joy rise in my breast;
Thrilled at the beauty of the sight.
Captivated by the place
The morrow found me there again...
But alas! the scene was changed
And horror petrified my brain.
The violets and roses were
Lovely; though the bulbul's song
Was as musical and sweet,
Yet my heart in pain was wrung!
Stunned, I saw a sight that made me
Wish my seeing eyes were blind...
Stagnant vapours and black snakes
About the flower stems were twined.

 

  Beyond the river dark thou art.
Between us rushing waters flow.
There is no bridge, no boat have we,
Nor wings to cross the river, so,
I gaze upon thy smiling face
And long to press my lips to thine,
Though well I know I ne'er will hold
Thee in my arms, O dearest mine!
No hope relieves our hopelessness,
Nor lights the brooding darkening sky.
Delusion makes us bitter smile
Through tears that blind the aching eye.
Over the rushing waters wild
My voice takes wing and towards thee flies,
But mingling with the deafening roar
In raging depths it swoons and dies.
It's heart-corroding to behold
The years pass like the stream in sighs...