Lutes were sounding, youths were singing, Wondrous was our joy that day; And the heavens became still bluer, And our souls soar’d high away. Hills and castles, woods and meadows, Like a vision fleeted by, And I saw them all reflected In the lovely maiden’s eye. 43. In vision saw I my loved one A worn, sad woman one day; Her once so-blooming figure Had wither’d and fallen away. A child in her arms she carried, By the hand another she led, And grief and poverty plainly In her walk, looks, and garments I read. Across the market she totter’d, And then did I meet her eye; She looked upon me, and gently I spake to her thus, with a sigh: “Come with me to my dwelling, “For thou art pale and ill, “And food and drink I’ll earn thee “By industry and skill. “I’ll also nourish and cherish “The children that with thee I see; “But, my child so poor and unhappy, “I’ll care the most for thee. “I never will remind thee “That I loved thee so dearly of yore, “And when at length thou diest, “I’ll weep at thy grave full sore.” 44. “Friend! why always thus endeavour “To repeat the same old story? “Wilt thou brooding sit for ever “On love’s eggs grown old and hoary? “Ah! ’tis but the usual custom, “Chickens from the shells are crawling; “In a book thou seek’st to thrust ’em, “While they’re fluttering and calling!” 45. Prythee, be not thou impatient If there still are loudly ringing Many of my old sad numbers In the newest songs I’m singing. Wait awhile, and soon the echo Will have died away of sorrow, And a new-born song-spring softly From the heal’d heart shoot to-morrow. 46. ’Tis now full time that my folly I drop, And return to sober reason; This comedy now ’twere better to stop That we’ve played for so long a season. In a gay and highly romantic style The gorgeous coulisses were painted; My knight’s cloak glitter’d, while I was the while With the finest sensations acquainted. And now that I, while more sober I grow, Am against this toying inveighing, I feel that I’m still as wretched as though A comedy still I were playing. Alas! unconsciously and in jest Of my feelings was I the narrator; And I’ve play’d, with my own death in my breast, The dying gladiator. 47. The monarch Wiswamitra, Is restlessly striving now; He must needs, by fighting and penance, Obtain Wasischta’s cow. O monarch Wiswamitra, O what an ox art thou, To have all this fighting and penance, And all for nought but a cow! 48. Let not grief, my heart, come o’er thee Bear thy lot with faith unshaken, For what winter may have taken Will returning spring restore thee.