Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/39

⁠Here in a thin bright line, some delicate spray,
Red as her lip, ravished the soul away—
And then how loving, and how close they hung
To the tall trees that fondly o'er them hung!
Bright, heavenly wantons poured the witching strain,
Quiring for Siva's ear, but all in vain—
No charmer's spell may check the firm control,
"Won by the Holy, o'er the impassioned soul.

⁠The Hermit's servant hasted to the door.
In his left hand a branch of gold he bore—
He touched his lip for silence—Peace! be still!
Nor mar the quiet of this holy hill,—
He spake—no dweller of the forest stirred,
No wild bee murmured, hushed was every bird—
Still and unmoved, as in a picture stood
All life that breathed within the waving wood.
⁠As some great Monarch when he goes to war
Shuns the fierce aspect of a baleful star,
So Káma hid him from the Hermit's eye,
And sought a path that led unnoticed by.
Where tangled flowers and clustering trailers spread
Their grateful canopy o'er Siva's head.
⁠Bent on his hardy enterprise, with awe
The Three-eyed Lord—great Penitent—he saw:
Where on a mound a tiger's skin was laid.
Sate the stern God beneath a pine-tree's shade.
⁠Absorbed in holiest thought, erect and still,
The Hermit rested on the gentle hill;
His shoulders drooping down—each foot was bent
Beneath the body of the Penitent;