Unseen the magic arrow came,
    Amidst the laughter and the scorn
    Of royal youths—­like lightning flame
    Sudden and sharp.  They blew the horn,
    As down upon the ground he fell,
    Not hurt, but made a jest and game;—­
    He rose—­and waved a proud farewell,
    But cheek and brow grew red with shame.

    And lo—­a single, single tear
    Dropped from his eyelash as he past,
    “My place I gather is not here;
    No matter—­what is rank or caste? 
    In us is honor, or disgrace,
    Not out of us,” ’twas thus he mused,
    “The question is—­not wealth or place,
    But gifts well used, or gifts abused.”

    “And I shall do my best to gain
    The science that man will not teach,
    For life is as a shadow vain,
    Until the utmost goal we reach
    To which the soul points.  I shall try
    To realize my waking dream,
    And what if I should chance to die? 
    None miss one bubble from a stream.”

    So thinking, on and on he went,
    Till he attained the forest’s verge,
    The garish day was well-nigh spent,
    Birds had already raised its dirge. 
    Oh what a scene!  How sweet and calm! 
    It soothed at once his wounded pride,
    And on his spirit shed a balm
    That all its yearnings purified.

    What glorious trees!  The sombre saul
    On which the eye delights to rest,
    The betel-nut—­a pillar tall,
    With feathery branches for a crest,
    The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,
    The pale faint-scented bitter neem,
    The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,
    With flowers that have the ruby’s gleam,

    The Indian fig’s pavilion tent
    In which whole armies might repose,
    With here and there a little rent,
    The sunset’s beauty to disclose,
    The bamboo boughs that sway and swing
    ’Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,
    The mango-tope, a close dark ring,
    Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,

    The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,
    The nagessur with pendant flowers
    Like ear-rings—­and the forest vine
    That clinging over all, embowers,
    The sirish famed in Sanscrit song
    Which rural maidens love to wear,
    The peepul giant-like and strong,
    The bramble with its matted hair,

    All these, and thousands, thousands more,
    With helmet red, or golden crown,
    Or green tiara, rose before
    The youth in evening’s shadows brown. 
    He passed into the forest—­there
    New sights of wonder met his view,
    A waving Pampas green and fair
    All glistening with the evening dew.

    How vivid was the breast-high grass! 
    Here waved in patches, forest corn—­
    Here intervened a deep morass—­
    Here arid spots of verdure shorn
    Lay open—­rock or barren sand—­
    And here again the trees arose
    Thick clustering—­a glorious band
    Their tops still bright with sunset glows.—­