cry,
And pitying breezes echoed sigh for sigh.
"Oh thou wast beautiful: fond lovers sware
Their own bright darlings were like KAMA, fair.
Sure woman's heart is stony: can it be
That I still live while this is all of thee?
Where art thou, KAMA? Could my dearest leave
His own fond RATI here alone to grieve?
So must the sad forsaken lotus die
When her bright river leaves his channel dry.
KAMA, dear KAMA, call again to mind
How thou wast ever gentle, I was kind.
Let not my prayer, thy RATI'S prayer, be vain;
Come as of old, and bless these eyes again!
Wilt thou not hear me? Think of those sweet hours
When I would bind thee with my zone of flowers,
Those soft gay fetters o'er thee fondly wreathing,
Thine only punishment when gently breathing
In tones of love thy heedless sigh betrayed
The name, dear traitor! of some rival maid.
Then would I pluck a floweret from my tress
And beat thee till I forced thee to confess,
While in my play the falling leaves would cover
The eyes--the bright eyes--of my captive lover.
And then those words that made me, oh, so blest--
"Dear love, thy home is in my faithful breast!"
Alas, sweet words, too blissful to be true,
Or how couldst thou have died, nor RATI perish too?

Yes, I will fly to thee, of thee bereft,
And leave this world which thou, my life, hast left.
Cold, gloomy, now this wretched world must be,
For all its pleasures came from only thee.
When night has veiled the city in its shade,
Thou, only thou, canst soothe the wandering maid,
And guide her trembling at the thunder's roar
Safe through the darkness to her lover's door.
In vain the wine-cup, as it circles by,
Lisps in her tongue and sparkles in her eye.
Long locks are streaming, and the cheek glows red:
But all is mockery, LOVE--dear LOVE--is dead.
The MOON, sweet spirit, shall lament for thee,
Late, dim, and joyless shall his rising be.
Days shall fly on, and he forget to take
His full bright glory, mourning for thy sake.
Say, KAMA, say, whose arrow now shall be
The soft green shoot of thy dear mango tree,
The favourite spray which Koeils love so well,
And praise in sweetest strain its wondrous spell?
This line of bees which strings thy useless bow
Hums mournful echo to my cries of woe.
Come in thy lovely shape and teach again
The Koeil's mate, that knows the tender strain,
Her gentle task to waft to longing