Part 13

God of the distant north, the Snowy Range O'er other mountains towers imperially; Earth's measuring-rod, being great and free from change, Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow; One fault for many virtues is forgot, The moon's one stain for beams that endless flow.

Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds Girding his lower crests, but often seek, When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips And streaked with mountain minerals that blend To written words 'neath dainty finger-tips, Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest, As if the mountain strove to set the pitch For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

Where magic herbs that glitter in the night Are lamps that need no oil within them, when They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

Who offers roof and refuge in his caves To timid darkness shrinking from the day; A lofty soul is generous; he saves Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice; Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad. The great Creator, for this service' price, Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born, as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character. The child is named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

She brought him purity and beauty too, As white flames to the lamp that burns at night; Or Ganges to the path whereby the true Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

As pictures waken to the painter's brush, Or lilies open to the morning sun, Her perfect beauty answered to the flush Of womanhood when childish days were done.

Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray; Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid: Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay, That round her red, red lips for ever played.

And when she spoke, the music of her tale Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit, Till listeners felt as if the nightingale Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him from his austerities.

_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_.--At this time, the gods betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a part of which is given here.

Before creation, thou art one; Three, when creation's work is done: All praise and honour unto thee In this thy mystic trinity.

Three various forms and functions three Proclaim thy living majesty; Thou dost create, and then maintain, And last, destroyest all again.

Thy slow recurrent day and night Bring death to all, or living light. We live beneath thy waking eye; Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.

Solid and fluid, great and small, And light and heavy--Thou art all; Matter and form are both in thee: Thy powers are past discovery.[]

Thou art the objects that unroll Their drama for the passive soul; Thou art the soul that views the play Indifferently, day by day.

Thou art the knower and the known; Eater and food art thou alone; The priest and his oblation fair; The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.

Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and found it useless.

The sun in heaven dare not glow With undiminished heat, but so As that the lilies may awake Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.

The wind blows gently as it can To serve him as a soothing fan, And dare not manifest its power, Lest it should steal a garden flower.

The seasons have forgotten how To follow one another now; They simultaneously bring Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.

Such adoration makes him worse; He troubles all the universe: Kindness inflames a rascal's mind; He should be recompensed in kind.

And all the means that we have tried Against the rogue, are brushed aside, As potent herbs have no avail When bodily powers begin to fail.

We seek a leader, O our Lord, To bring him to his just reward-- As saints seek evermore to win Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--

That he may guide the heavenly host, And guard us to the uttermost, And from our foe lead captive back The victory which still we lack.

Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted." But he promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content, and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his necessary co-operation.

_Third canto. The burning of Love_.--Indra waits upon Love, who asks for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation, and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment, and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes, and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.

_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_.--This canto is given entire.

The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon, Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting Was preparation of herself full soon To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.

Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought On every spot where he might be, in vain, Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought, The lover she should never see again.

She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live, Lord of my life?" And at the last she found Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive, Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.

With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair, She wept and to the forest world complained, As if the forest in her grief might share.

"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish; Perfect its loveliness in every part; I saw that beauty fade away and perish, Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!

Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only Endured, and I for ever need its power; Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely, When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.

Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish; I never did a thing to work thee harm; Why should I thus in vain affliction languish? Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?

Of playful chastisements art thou reminded, Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands, Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded, Held for thy meet correction in these hands?

I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often 'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true, But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften: Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.

Think not that on the journey thou hast taken So newly, I should fail to find thy track; Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken, For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden Through veils of midnight darkness in the town To the eager heart with loving fancies laden, And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?

The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances, That bids the love-word trippingly to glide, Is now deception; for if flashing glances Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

And when he knows thy life is a remembrance, Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain, Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance, And even in his waxing time, will wane.

Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding On twigs where pink is struggling with the green, Greeted by koïl-birds sweet concert holding-- Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention, To speed the missile when the bow is bent? They buzz about me now with kind intention, And mortify the grief which they lament.

Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty! Rebuke the koïl-bird, whom nature taught Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion, Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest By fervent, self-surrendering devotion-- And memories like these deny me rest.

Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland, Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm! Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

Thy service by the cruel gods demanded, Meant service to thy wife left incomplete, My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded-- Return to end the adorning of my feet.

No, straight to thee I fly, my body given, A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire, Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven, Awake in thee an answering desire.

Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated For evermore a deep reproach to prove, A stain that may not be obliterated, If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

And how can I perform the last adorning Of thy poor body, as befits a wife? So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning Thy body followed still the spirit's life.

I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow, The bow slung careless on thy breast the while, Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow, Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion, Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?"

Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm, Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.

And at the sight of him, she wept the more, And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast; For lamentation finds an open door In the presence of the friends we love the best.

Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter! In place of him thou seekest, what is found? A something that the winds of heaven scatter, A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.

Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging, Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot; Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing; Man's love for man abides and changes not.

With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string, Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion-- The triple world has felt that arrow sting.

But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning, A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain; And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning, Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.

In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter, For I am left. And yet the clinging vine Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her Round him in loving tenderness to twine.

So then, fulfil for me the final mission Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part; Commit me to the flames (my last petition) And speed the widow to her husband's heart.

The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking; Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far; Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making, Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.

My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes Of him I loved with all a woman's powers; Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes, As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.

Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped; Unto the end thy friendly office keeping, Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.

And fan the flame to which I am committed With southern winds; I would no longer stay; Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted For Love, my love, when I was far away.

And sprinkle some few drops of water, given In friendship, on his ashes and on me; That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven As once on earth, in heavenly unity.

And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying; Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying; For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower."

As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry, That showed her mercy, as the early rain Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:

"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why He perished like the moth, when he had crossed The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.

When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame, To shame his daughter with impure desire, He checked the horrid sin without a name, And cursed the god of love to die by fire.

But Virtue interceded in behalf Of Love, and won a softening of the doom: 'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,

He shall unite Love's body with the soul, A marriage-present to his mountain bride.' As clouds hold fire and water in control, Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.

So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet For dear reunion after present pain; The stream that dwindles in the summer heat, Is reunited with the autumn rain."

Invisibly and thus mysteriously The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death; And Spring, believing where he might not see, Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.

The wife of Love awaited thus the day, Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power, As the waning moon laments her darkened ray And waits impatient for the twilight hour.

_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_.--Parvati reproaches her own beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover." She therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered, for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself and the object of her love.

Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought Of such as you: then speak no more to me. Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.

They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears, Or they who fain would rise a little higher; The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.

Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source; This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone; Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force: Think you his inmost nature can be known?

All forms are his; and he may take or leave At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white; The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave; Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.

For poverty he rides upon a bull, While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne, Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful, Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.

Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate One thing you uttered worthy of his worth: How could the author of the uncreate Be born? How could we understand his birth?

Enough of this! Though every word that you Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please My eager heart all made of passion true For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.

In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise, appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her. Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for "successful effort regenerates."

_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_.--While Parvati departs to inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages, who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that

All actions of a holy life Are rooted in a virtuous wife.

Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by Shiva in impatient longing.

_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_.--The three days are spent in preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the bride is beautiful indeed.

As when the flowers are budding on a vine, Or white swans rest upon a river's shore, Or when at night the stars in heaven shine, Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.

When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies-- She waited with impatience till he came: For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.

Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:

For his sake it was well that Parvati Should mortify her body delicate; Thrice happy might his serving-woman be, And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.

Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp. The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva restores the body of Love.

_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_.--The first month of marital bliss is spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few stanzas are given here.

See, my belovèd, how the sun With beams that o'er the water shake From western skies has now begun A bridge of gold across the lake.

Upon the very tree-tops sway The peacocks; even yet they hold And drink the dying light of day, Until their fans are molten gold.

The water-lily closes, but With wonderful reluctancy; As if it troubled her to shut Her door of welcome to the bee.

The steeds that draw the sun's bright car, With bended neck and falling plume And drooping mane, are seen afar To bury day in ocean's gloom.

The sun is down, and heaven sleeps: Thus every path of glory ends; As high as are the scaled steeps, The downward way as low descends.

Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few stanzas of this description run as follows.

The twilight glow is fading far And stains the west with blood-red light, As when a reeking scimitar Slants upward on a field of fight.

And vision fails above, below, Around, before us, at our back; The womb of night envelops slow The world with darkness vast and black.

Mute while the world is dazed with light, The smiling moon begins to rise And, being teased by eager night, Betrays the secrets of the skies.

Moon-fingers move the black, black hair Of night into its proper place, Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair, As he sets kisses on her face.

Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many years.

_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_.--One day the god of fire appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends. Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.