Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS (GITA GOVINDA): SARGA THE SECOND, by JAYADEVA


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS (GITA GOVINDA): SARGA THE SECOND, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thus lingered krishna in the deep, green wood
Last Line: (here ends that sarga of the gîta govinda entitled kleshakeshavo.)
Subject(s): Beauty; Soul


KLESHAKESHAVO.

THE PENITENCE OF KRISHNA.

Thus lingered Krishna in the deep, green wood,
And gave himself, too prodigal, to those;
But Radha, heartsick at his falling-off,
Seeing her heavenly beauty slighted so,
Withdrew; and, in a bower of Paradise—
Where nectarous blossoms wove a shrine of shade,
Haunted by birds and bees of unknown skies—
She sate deep-sorrowful, and sang this strain:

(What follows is to the Music GURJJARÎ and the Mode YATI.)

Ah, my Belovèd! taken with those glances,
Ah, my Belovèd! dancing those rash dances,
Ah, Minstrel! playing wrongful strains so well;
Ah, Krishna! Krishna, with the honeyed lip!
Ah, Wanderer into foolish fellowship!
My Dancer, my Delight!—I love thee still.

Oh, Dancer! strip thy peacock-crown away,
Rise! thou whose forehead is the star of day,
With beauty for its silver halo set;
Come! thou whose greatness gleams beneath its shroud
Like Indra's rainbow shining through the cloud,—
Come, for I love thee, my Belovèd! yet.

Must love thee—can not choose but love thee ever,
My best Belovèd!—set on this endeavor,
To win thy tender heart and earnest eye
From lips but sadly sweet, from restless bosoms!
To mine, oh Krishna, with the mouth of blossoms!
To mine, thou soul of Krishna! yet I sigh

Half hopeless, thinking of myself forsaken,
And thee, dear Loiterer, in the wood o'ertaken
With passion for those bold and wanton ones,
Who knit thine arms as poison-plants gripe trees
With twining cords—their flowers the braveries
That flash in the green gloom, sparkling stars and stones.

My Prince! my Lotus-faced! my woe! my love!
Whose broad brow, with the tilka-spot above,
Shames the bright moon at full with fleck of cloud;
Thou to mistake so little for so much!
Thou, Krishna, to be palm to palm with such!
Oh, Soul made for my joys,—pure, perfect, proud!

Ah, my Belovèd! in thy darkness dear;
Ah, Dancer! with the jewels in thine ear,
Swinging to music of a loveless love;
Oh, my Belovèd! in thy fall so high
That angels, sages, spirits of the sky
Linger about thee, watching in the grove.

I will be patient still, and draw thee ever,
My one Belovèd, sitting by the river
Under the thick kadambas with that throng:
Will there not come an end to earthly madness?
Shall I not, past the sorrow, have the gladness?
Must not the love-light shine for him ere long?

Shine, thou Light by Radha given,
Shine, thou splendid star of heaven!
Be a lamp to Krishna's feet,
Show to all hearts secrets sweet,
Of the wonder and the love
Jayadev hath writ above.
Be the quick Interpreter
Unto wisest ears of her
Who always sings to all, "I wait,
He loveth still who loveth late."

For (sang on that high Lady in the shade)
My soul for tenderness, not blame, was made;
Mine eyes look through his evil to his good;
My heart coins pleas for him; my fervent thought
Prevents what he will say when these are nought,
And that which I am shall be understood.

Then spake she to her maiden wistfully—

(What follows is to the Music MALAVAGAUDA and the Mode EKATALÎ.)

Go to him,—win him hither,—whisper low
How he may find me if he searches well;
Say, if he will—joys past his hope to know
A wait him here; go now to him, and tell
Where Radha is, and that henceforth she charms
His spirit to her arms.

Yes, go! Say, if he will, that he may come,—
May come, my love, my longing, my desire;
May come forgiven, shriven, to me his home,
And make his happy peace; nay, and aspire
To uplift Radha's veil, and learn at length
What love is in its strength.

Lead him; say softly I shall chide his blindness,
And vex him with my angers; yet add this,
He shall not vainly sue for loving kindness,
Nor miss to see me close, nor lose the bliss
That lives upon my lip, nor be denied
The rose-throne at my side.

Say that I — Radha — in my bower languish
All widowed, till he find the way to me;
Say that mine eyes are dim, my breast all anguish,
Until with gentle murmured shame I see
His steps come near, his anxious pleading face
Bend for my pardoning grace.

While I — what, did he deem light loves so tender,
To tarry for them when the vow was made
To yield him up my bosom's maiden splendor,
And fold him in my fragrance, and unbraid
My shining hair for him, and clasp him close
To the gold heart of his Rose?

And sing him strains which only spirits know,
And make him captive with the silk-soft chain
Of twinned wings brooding round him, and bestow
Kisses of Paradise, as pure as rain;
My gems, my moonlight pearls, my girdle-gold,
Cymbaling music bold?

While gained for ever, I shall dare to grow
Life to Life with him, in the realms divine;
And — Love's large cup at happy overflow,
Yet ever to be filled — his eyes and mine
Will meet in that glad look, when Time's great gate
Closes and shuts our Fate.

Listen to the unsaid things
Of the song that Radha sings,
For the soul draws near to bliss,
As it comprehendeth this.
I am Jayadev, who write
All this subtle-rich delight
For your teaching. Ponder, then,
What it tells to Gods and men.
Err not, watching Krishna gay,
With those brown girls all at play;
Understand how Radha charms
Her wandering lover to her arms,
Waiting with divinest love
Till his dream ends in the grove.

For even now (she sang) I see him pause,
Heart-stricken with the waste of heart he makes
Amid them; — all the bows of their bent brows
Wound him no more: no more for all their sakes
Plays he one note upon his amorous lute,
But lets the strings lie mute.
Pensive, as if his parted lips should say —

"My feet with the dances are weary,
The music has dropped from the song,
There is no more delight in the lute-strings,
Sweet Shadows! what thing has gone wrong!
The wings of the wind have left fanning
The palms of the glade;
They are dead, and the blossoms seem dying
In the place where we played.

"We will play no more, beautiful Shadows!
A fancy came solemn and sad,
More sweet, with unspeakable longings,
Than the best of the pleasures we had:
I am not now the Krishna who kissed you;
That exquisite dream, —
The Vision I saw in my dancing —
Has spoiled what you seem.

"Ah! delicate phantoms that cheated
With eyes that looked lasting and true,
I awake, — I have seen her, — my angel—
Farewell to the wood and to you!
Oh, whisper of wonderful pity!
Oh, fair face that shone!
Though thou be a vision, Divinest!
This vision is done."

(Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled KLESHAKESHAVO.)





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