O might I with my last of mortal breath
     Bid him the cruel treachery to flee,
     And hear his voice and sink to happy death,
     So still might live the one that loved me!

     Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper low,
     As moon to weeping clouds, until there rise
     Like pallid rainbow, wan with spectral glow,
     A thing of fearful joy athwart my skies,
     A hope, a joy e’en yet that this might be,
     That I should die for him who loved me.

     I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,
     For these brief days of mine are but a morn,
     A handful of poor violets, wind-worn,
     Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay
     Were not the ill that to the perfect flower
     Might be if cruel hand should disarray
     Its starry splendour when in ripened hour
     It floats in tranquil state on Gunga’s stream.

     Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam
     That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep,
     The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath
     Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep,
     The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.

Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so,
That I shall find my love; speak and we go
On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing
Of banished doves—­now, I will chant of woe,
And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing.”

O Night! 
O Night so true! 
The promise of the Day is full of guile. 
Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile;
The friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile.

Dear Night! 
Bring weeping dew,
And sad enchantments to undo the spells
Of baleful day, while from thy silent cells
Of dusk and slumber, still heart’s-peace exhales.

O Night! 
O Night, pursue
The bitter Day, and from her keeping wrest
Those cruel spoils, and to my empty breast
Give lethean calm, and dearest death, and rest.

CHAPTER XV.

The Rajah of Kashmir and his court went a-hunting on the day of Lal Singh’s return to their good company.  They swept down the valley, a gorgeous train of nobles and host of attendants with falcons girt for foray, and moved with much state and circumstance among the hills until the sun grew hot, when silken tents were pitched in a walnut grove near by a smoothly flowing river.  Here they ate and drank and reposed while obsequious servants fanned them, and the sweet music of vinas blended with the murmur of the water and the droning of the bees.

The Rajah sat in the entrance of a crimson tent and enjoyed the delicious air.  The nest-laden branches drooped above, the twittering of birds ceased, but gentle forms hopped lightly from twig to twig, and curious eyes peeped from leafy lurking-places.  In the turban of the Rajah, the Sapphire of Fate shone with serene lustre like the blue water-lily of Kashmir.  His fingers toyed idly with the plumage of a magnificent hawk, now unhooded but still wearing the leathern jesses and tiny tinkling bells of the chase.  The leash by which it was held slipped gradually from the arm of an attendant and it was unconfined.  Its keen eye knew all the ambushed flurry overhead, but it did not rise—­a more curious prey lay nearer.