"How strange! How strange! Oh, happy thou! And couldst thou ask no other boon Than thy poor bracelet's price? That brow Resplendent as the autumn moon Must have bewildered thee, I trow, And made thee lose thy senses all." A dim light on the peddler now Began to dawn; and he let fall His bracelet-basket in his haste, And backward ran, the way he came: What meant the vision fair and chaste; Whose eyes were they,--those eyes of flame? Swift ran the peddler as a hind; The old priest followed on his trace; They reached the ghat, but could not find The lady of the noble face. The birds were silent in the wood; The lotus flowers exhaled a smell, Faint, over all the solitude; A heron as a sentinel Stood by the bank. They called,--in vain; No answer came from hill or fell; The landscape lay in slumber's chain; E'en Echo slept within her shell. Broad sunshine, yet a hush profound! They turned with saddened hearts to go; Then from afar there came a sound Of silver bells;--the priest said low, "O Mother, Mother, deign to hear, The worship-hour has rung; we wait In meek humility and fear. Must we return home desolate? Oh come, as late thou cam'st unsought, Or was it but some idle dream? Give us some sign, if it was not; A word, a breath, or passing gleam." Sudden from out the water sprung A rounded arm, on which they saw As high the lotus buds among It rose, the bracelet white, with awe. Then a wide ripple tost and swung The blossoms on that liquid plain, And lo! the arm so fair and young Sank in the waters down again. They bowed before the mystic Power, And as they home returned in thought, Each took from thence a lotus flower In memory of the day and spot. Years, centuries, have passed away, And still before the temple shrine Descendants of the peddler pay Shell-bracelets of the old design As annual tribute. Much they own In lands and gold,--but they confess From that eventful day alone Dawned on their industry, success. Absurd may be the tale I tell, Ill-suited to the marching times; I loved the lips from which it fell, So let it stand among my rhymes. OUR CASUARINA-TREE Like a huge python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung In crimson clusters all the boughs among, Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; And oft at night the garden overflows With one sweet song that seems to have no close, Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.