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WILLIAM WATERFIELD.


But archly does young-eyed Kama smile
On those who would foil him by force or by guile;
And his keenest shaft to the string he laid,
As he called to that presence the mountain-maid.

The love-shaft flew from the bow-string fast,
As the child of the snows in her beauty passed;
And the cream-white lotus blushed rosy red
Where the blood of the god from his wound was shed.

Oh! sharp is the arrowy blossom's smart,
For the mango flower ne'er missed the heart;
And the work of the gods is fairly done,
And help shall arise out of Shiva's son.

But woe for that image of loveliness, woe!
Which the worlds of creation no longer shall know;
In Shiva's first wrath at the breach of his vow,
Consumed by the flame-darting eye of his brow.

But the flames could not weaken Immortal Might;
He is born in the heart in the spring-time bright.
Whose is the breast where the god shall dwell?
O youths and maidens, you can tell.