Atma - A Romance

The roses in the gardens of Lehna Singh hung their heads, the sunbeams

danced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plash

on sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floated

apart. Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with the

good, grieved around her. The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumage

is not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed their

wooing that they might not offend the disconsolate.

And this was Moti's garden, where happiness and beauty had once their

dwelling.

Bloomy roses die,

Wan the petals floating,

Whirling on the breeze's sigh,

Ah, the worms were gloating,

This is by-and-bye.

In the great hall princes and nobles feasted with mirth and music.

Laughter and outcries and mad revelry re-echoed through the stately

archways and marble courts. Lal Singh was there, and great honour was

rendered to him, for this was the time of his betrothal, and the bride

was Moti. The festival had lasted for two days, and would be prolonged

for many more. Moti was forgotten. The little maid who loved her lay on

the floor at her feet and wept because Moti wept. Those who with zither

and dance should have beguiled the hours, had stolen away to peep

through latticed screens at the revelry.

Moti thought of Atma and moaned, but the little maid thought only of her

mistress, and bewailed the fate that had joined her bright spirit by

unseen bonds of love to one pre-doomed by inheritance to misfortune.

"For adversity loved his father's house," she sighed; "it is ill to

consort with the unfortunate, for in time we share their woe."

But Moti wrung her beautiful hands and cried: "Ah if this breath of mine might purchase his!

Then death were fair and lovely as he said

In that enchanted even hour when he

Of love, and death, and moans, and constancy

Told till dark things grew lovely, and o'erhead

Sweet stars seemed ghosts, and shadow all that is.

But I have lost my life and yet not death

Have won, and now to me shall joy be strange,

And all my days the kindly winds that breathe

From mirthful groves of Paradise shall change

In my poor songless soul to wail, and sigh,

And moan, and hollow silence--let me die!

Poor me! who fearless snatched at bliss so high,

Witless! and yet to be of slight esteem

And little worth is sometimes well, no dream

Of high unrest, no awful afterglow

Affrights us simple ones when that we die.

Vain flickering lamps soon quenched--we but go

From this brief day, this short transition,

This interlude of farcial joy and woe,

Back to our native, kind oblivion.