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WILLIAM WATERFIELD.

The crops are gone; the fields are bare;
The deer pass grazing by;
And plaintive through the twilight air
Is heard the curlew's cry.
Come, Krishna! come, my lord, my own!
From prison set me free:
The chakravaki pines alone,
As I for thee.


The Song of the Koil.

O youths and maidens rise and sing!
The Koil is come who leads the Spring:
The buds that were sleeping his voice have heard,
And the tale is borne on by each nesting bird.

The trees of the forest have all been told;
They have donned their mantles of scarlet and gold;
To welcome him back they are bravely dressed,
But he loves the blossoming mango best.

The Koil is come, glad news to bring!
On the blossoming mango he rests his wing;
Though its hues may be dull, it is sweet, oh! sweet,
And its shade and its fruit the wanderer greet.

The Koil is come, and the forests ring:
He has called aloud to awake the Spring,
Spring the balmy, the friend of Love,
The bodiless god who reigns above.

Oh! sad were the hearts of the gods that day
When the worlds all mourned the oppressor's sway;
When the oracle promised deliverance none
Till Shiva the wrathful should lend his son.