“For, ever most our love is given
To glories whose decadence fleet
Has more of changeful earth than heaven;

The heart’s astir,
And sympathies leap forth to greet
The mingling fair
Of heavenly hues limned in empyreal bow
Aloft in dewy air, but ere we know
Their place and method true they fade away,
And fancy follows still, though things as beauteous stay.

What joyous note,
Warbled in bliss of upper air,
May with the one death-song compare
That floats among the reeds, and blends
With wild wind’s plaint, till silence ends
In haunt remote
Sweet life and song;
They float away the reeds among.

“I beware me of types,” he continued, “though I know nothing real.  I am surrounded by images, my present state of being is a shadow, but I crave reality.  The symbol is fair, but Truth is fairer.  To that verity all types must yield, how beautiful soever they be, or meet to express their burden.”

* * * * *

     And yet how dear the transient joys of time,
     Their purport not the Pearl of our desire. 
     Loved are these confines as immortal clime,
     And dear the hearth-flame as the altar fire;
     When fate accomplished wins her utmost bourne,
     And fulness ousts for aye fair images,
     Will doting mem’ry from their funeral pyre
     Rise phoenix-wise and earth-sick spirits yearn
     For fragrant flower, and sward, and changeful trees,
     For storied rose, and sweet poetic morn,
     For sound of bird, and brook, and murmuring bees,
     For luckless fancies of illusion born,
     What time in dark we dwelt and framed our lore? 
     Woe, woe, if then regretful we should mourn
     “What wisdom left we on that human shore!”
     For brooding kindness can a charm beget,
     Not duly won, and from Heaven’s parapet
     These terrene colours shine with starry gleam—­
     But this is all a fable and a dream;
     A fable, for this axiom it brings,
     Immortal loves must love immortal things;
     Dream is it, for uncurbed it took its flight,
     And roamed afar, a fancy of the Night.

CHAPTER XIV.

The roses in the gardens of Lehna Singh hung their heads, the sunbeams danced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plash on sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floated apart.  Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with the good, grieved around her.  The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumage is not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed their wooing that they might not offend the disconsolate.

And this was Moti’s garden, where happiness and beauty had once their dwelling.

    Bloomy roses die,

Wan the petals floating,
Whirling on the breeze’s sigh,
Ah, the worms were gloating,

        This is by-and-bye.