precious jewel
    Lent to a parent till her husband claim her. 
    And now that to her rightful lord and master
    I have delivered her, my burdened soul
    Is lightened, and I seem to breathe more freely.

          [Exeunt.

[40] The sandal-tree is a large kind of myrtle, with pointed leaves.  The wood affords many highly esteemed perfumes and is celebrated for its delicious scent.  It is chiefly found on the slopes of the Malay mountains or Western Ghants, on the Malabar coast.

ACT FIFTH

Scene.—­A Room in the Palace

The King Dushyanta and the Jester Mathavya are discovered seated.

MATHAVYA [listening].—­Hark! my dear friend, listen a minute, and you will hear sweet sounds proceeding from the music-room.  Someone is singing a charming air.  Who can it be?  Oh!  I know.  The queen Hansapadika is practising her notes, that she may greet you with a new song.

KING.—­Hush!  Let me listen.

A VOICE [sings behind the scenes].—­
    How often hither didst thou rove,
    Sweet bee, to kiss the mango’s cheek;
    Oh! leave not, then, thy early love,
    The lily’s honeyed lip to seek.

KING.—­A most impassioned strain, truly!

MATHAVYA.—­Do you understand the meaning of the words?

KING [smiling].—­She means to reprove me, because I once paid her great attention, and have lately deserted her for the queen Vasumati.  Go, my dear fellow, and tell Hansapadika from me that I take her delicate reproof as it is intended.

MATHAVYA.—­Very well. [Rising from his seat.] But stay—­I don’t much relish being sent to bear the brunt of her jealousy.  The chances are that she will have me seized by the hair of the head and beaten to a jelly.  I would as soon expose myself, after a vow of celibacy, to the seductions of a lovely nymph, as encounter the fury of a jealous woman.

KING.—­Go, go; you can disarm her wrath by a civil speech; but give her my message.

MATHAVYA.—­What must be must be, I suppose. [Exit.

KING [aside].—­Strange! that song has filled me with a most peculiar
sensation.  A melancholy feeling has come over me, and I seem to yearn
after some long-forgotten object of affection.  Singular, indeed! but,
    Not seldom in our happy hours of ease,
    When thought is still, the sight of some fair form,
    Or mournful fall of music breathing low,
    Will stir strange fancies, thrilling all the soul
    With a mysterious sadness, and a sense
    Of vague yet earnest longing.  Can it be
    That the dim memory of events long past,
    Or friendships formed in other states of being,
    Flits like a passing shadow o’er the spirit?
          [Remains pensive and sad.

          Enter the Chamberlain.