ve a mighty Child shall rise,
And lead to war the armies of the skies.
Freed by his hand, no more the heavenly maids
Shall twine their glittering hair in mournful braids."

He spake, and vanished from their wondering sight;
And they sped homeward to their world of light.
But INDRA, still on BRAHMA'S words intent,
To KAMA'S dwelling-place his footsteps bent.
Swiftly he came: the yearning of his will
Made INDRA'S lightning course more speedy still.
The LOVE-GOD, armed with flowers divinely sweet,
In lowly homage bowed before his feet.
Around his neck, where bright love-tokens clung,
Arched like a maiden's brow, his bow was hung,
And blooming SPRING, his constant follower, bore
The mango twig, his weapon famed of yore.

_CANTO THIRD._

Canto Third.

_THE DEATH OF LOVE._

Is eager gaze the sovereign of the skies
looked full on _Kama_ with his thousand eyes:
E'en such a gaze as trembling suppliants bend,
When danger threatens, on a mighty friend.

Close by his side, where INDRA bade him rest,
The LOVE-GOD sate, and thus his lord addressed:
"All-knowing INDRA, deign, my Prince, to tell
Thy heart's desire in earth, or heaven, or hell:
Double the favour, mighty sovereign, thou
Hast thought on KAMA, O, command him now:
Who angers thee by toiling for the prize,
By penance, prayer, or holy sacrifice?
What mortal being dost thou count thy foe?
Speak, I will tame him with my darts and bow.
Has some one feared the endless change of birth,
And sought the path that leads the soul from earth?
Slave to a glancing eye thy foe shall bow,
And own the witchery of a woman's brow;
E'en though the object of thine envious rage
Were taught high wisdom by the immortal sage,
With billowy passions will I whelm his soul,
Like rushing waves that spurn the bank's control.
Or has the ripe full beauty of a spouse,
Too fondly faithful to her bridal vows,
Ravished thy spirit from thee? Thine, all thine
Around thy neck her loving arms shall twine.
Has thy love, jealous of another's charms,
Spurned thee in wrath when flying to her arms?
I'll rack her yielding bosom with such pain,
Soon shall she be all love and warmth again,
And wildly fly in fevered haste to rest
Her aching heart close, close to thy dear breast.
Lay, INDRA, lay thy threatening bolt aside:
My gentle darts shall tame the haughtiest pride,
And all that war