With birds upon its crystal banks, the grove Delightful, with its fruits and flowers?" Long while Pondered and wondered Damayanti there, Her bright smile fled, pale, strengthless, sorrowful; Then to another region of the wood, With sighs, and eyes welling great tears, she passed, Lamenting; till a beauteous tree she spied-- The Asoka, best of trees. Fair rose it there Beside the forest, glowing with the flame Of golden and crimson blossoms, and its boughs Full of sweet-singing birds. "_Ahovat_--Look!" She cried: "Ah, lovely tree, that wavest here Thy crown of countless, shining, clustering blooms As thou wert woodland king--Asoka tree, Tree called 'the sorrow-ender,' heart's-ease tree! Be what thy name saith--end my sorrow now, Saying, ah, bright Asoka! thou hast seen My Prince, my dauntless Nala; seen that lord Whom Damayanti loves and his foes fear; Seen great Nishadha's Chief, so dear to me, His tender princely skin in rended cloth Scantily clad. Hath he passed wandering Under thy branches, grievously forlorn? Answer, Asoka! 'Sorrow-ender,' speak! That I go sorrowless, O heart's-ease, be Truly heart-easing--ease my heart of pain." Thus, wild with grief, she spake unto the tree, Round and round walking, as to reverence it; And then, unanswered, the sweet lady sped Through wastes more dreadful, passing many a Many still-gliding rillets, many a peak Tree-clad, with beasts and birds of wondrous kind, In dark ravines, and caves, and lonely glooms. These things saw Damayanti, Bhima's child, Seeking her lord. At last, on the long road, She, whose soft smile was once so beautiful, A caravan encountered. Merchantmen With trampling horses, elephants, and wains, Made passage of a river, running slow In cool, clear waves. The quiet waters gleamed, Shining and wide outspread, between the canes Which bordered it, wherefrom echoed the cries Of fish-hawks, curlews, and red chakravâks, With sounds of leaping fish and water-snakes, And tortoises, amid its shoals and flats Sporting or feeding. When she spied that throng-- Heart-maddened with her anguish, weak and wan, Half clad, bloodless and thin, her long black locks Matted with dust--breathlessly breaks she in Upon them--Nala's wife--so beauteous once, So honored. Seeing her, some fled in fear; Some gazed, speechless with wonder; some called out, Mocking the piteous face by words of scorn; But some (my King!) had pity of her woe, And spake her fair, inquiring: "Who art thou? And whence? And in this grove what seekest thou, To come so wild? Thy mien astonisheth. Art of our kind, or art thou something strange, The spirit of the forest, or the hill, Or river valley? Tell us true; then we