Even as the crescent Moons their glory pour
More full, more lovely than the eve before.
As yet the maiden was unknown to fame,
And Mountain-lady was her only name;
But when her mother, filled with anxious care
At her stern penance, cried Forbear! Forbear!
To a new title was the warning; turned,
And Uma was the name the maiden earned.
Loveliest was she of all his lovely race,
And dearest to her father;—on her face
Looking with love he ne'er could satisfy
The thirsty glances of a parent's eye ;
When spring-tide bids a thousand flowrets bloom
Loading the breezes with their rich perfume,
Though here and there the wandering bee may rest,
He loves his own—his darling Mango—best.
The Gods' bright river bathes with gold the skies,
And pure sweet eloquence adorns the wise;
The flambeau's glory is the shining fire.—
She was the pride, the glory of her sire.
Shedding new lustre on his old descent,
His loveliest child, his richest ornament.
The sparkling Ganga laved her heavenly home,
And o'er her islets would the maiden roam
Amid the dear companions of her play
With ball and doll to while the hours away.
As swans in autumn in assembling bands
Fly back to Ganga's well-remembered sands:
As herbs beneath the darksome shades of night
Collect again their scattered rays of light:
Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/18
6
THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GO.
