Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/65

What though no love his outward form may claim,
The stout heart trembles at his awful name;
Who can declare the wonders of his might,
The Trident-wielding God, who knows aright?
Whether around him deadly serpents twine,
Or if his jewelled wreaths more brightly shine;
Whether in rough and wrinkled hide arrayed.
Or silken robe, in glittering folds displayed, —
If on his brow the crescent moon he bear.
Or if a shrunken skull be withering there!
The funeral ashes touched by him acquire
The glowing lustre of eternal fire;
Falling in golden showers, the Heavenly Maids
Delight to pour them on their shining braids.
⁠What though no treasures fill his storehouse full,
What though he ride upon his horned bull;
Not e'en may Indra in his pride withhold
The lowly homage that is his of old, —
But turns his raging Elephant to meet
His mighty Lord, and bows before his feet,
Right proud to colour them rich rosy red
With the bright flowers that deck his prostrate head.
⁠Thy slanderous tongue proclaims thy evil mind.
Yet in thy speech one word of truth we find;
Unknown thou call'st him,—how should mortal man
Count when the days of Brahma's Lord began?
But cease these idle words,—though all be true.
His failings many and his virtues few,
Still clings my heart to him, its chosen Lord,
Nor fails nor faulters at thy treacherous word.
⁠Dear Maiden, bid yon eager boy depart,
Why should the slanderous talc defile his heart?