102 
THE ORIENTAL ANNUAL. 
Descends her veil in shining folds, 
And something to her heart she holds, 
Which often with convulsive clasp, 
She presses close, and closer still : 
Her right hand’s rose-tipped fingers grasp 
A basket, framed with care and skill, 
Of sacred tulsi wood, replete 
With tuberose , and mogri sweet. 
The champa shedding forth perfume, 
The rich malidavi ' s crimson bloom, 
And amra heading Camdeo’s dart. 
To deal a wound that leaves no smart. 
As to the breezes cool 
The pensile sprays and verdurous foliage shiver, 
Their painted brethren as in mockery quiver. 
Beneath the glassy surface of the pool : 
And there, its glossy leaves around it closing, 
The silver lotos floats reposing. 
“ Even thus, even thus,” — passed through poor Zeida’s 
breast — 
“ I might have cradled thee to rest, 
Calm as the lily on that pearly water 3 
As safe from storms, as beautiful, as blest 3 
Woe, woe is me! my daughter ! O ! my daughter!” 
****** 
Vainly she lingers there, 
Love wrestling with despair. 
Ere through the scorching noon-tide air 
The tyrant sun shall proudly ride 
Her sacrifice must be complete 3 
And she, returning with reluctant feet 
Again may sit by Menon’s side, 
