In converse with the gray-haired sage
She learnt the story of the youth,
His name and place and parentage—
Of royal race he was in truth.
Satyavan was he hight,—his sire
Dyoumatsen had been Salva's king,
But old and blind, opponents dire
Had gathered round him in a ring
And snatched the sceptre from his hand;
Now,—with his queen and only son
He lived a hermit in the land,
And gentler hermit was there none.
With many tears was said and heard
The story,—and with praise sincere
Of Prince Satyavan; every word
Sent up a flush on cheek and ear,
Unnoticed. Hark! The bells remind
'Tis time to go,—she went away,
Leaving her virgin heart behind,
And richer for the loss. A ray
Shot down from heaven, appeared to tinge
All objects with supernal light,
The thatches had a rainbow fringe,
