Translations of Shakuntala and Other Works

Then, in familiar Alaka find rest, Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls, Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast, While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.

The splendid heavenly city Alaka,

Where palaces in much may rival thee— Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers— Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody— Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers— Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.

where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are all found in bloom the year round.

Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines, And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare, Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines In women's braids, and summer siris fair, The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.

Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired.

Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars Climb to the open crystal balcony Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars, And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree, And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.

Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray In shadows that the trees of heaven spread; In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play, Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.

Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide, The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling, Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side. Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.

Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops; Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more, But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.

Here are the stones from which drops of water ooze when the moon shines on them.

Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread Great drops of water trickle in the night— When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled— To ease the languors of the women's plight Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.

Here are the magic gardens of heaven.

Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold, Wander each day with nymphs for ever young, Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold, The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls That fluttered as they stole along afraid, By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls, By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

Here the god of love is not seen, because of the presence of his great enemy, Shiva. Yet his absence is not severely felt.

Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow, Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign; His task is done by clever maids, for lo! Their frowning missile glances, darting plain At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments. For the Mine of Sentiment declares: "Women everywhere have four kinds of ornaments—hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes, cosmetics; anything else is local."

Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance The loveliness of maidens young and sweet: Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance, And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete, And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha,

There, northward from the master's palace, see Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar; And near it grows a little coral-tree, Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star, Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

with its artificial pool;

A pool is near, to which an emerald stair Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there, The wistful swans are glad when they behold Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like the dark cloud girdled by the lightening;

And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit; She loves the spot; and while I marvel still At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.