[No. 2, 
1 1*’ Indian Idylls, No. I. 
While, like her breath, sweet odours, fresh and cool, 
Steal from the lilies on the ruffled pool. 
Shining in beauty, robed in purest white, 
Like spring’s best planet, and the Lord of Night, 
Through towns they pass, and many a hamlet fair, 
Founded and cherished by their royal care ; 
While white-robed priests attend, a holy train, 
Bless their beloved prince, nor bless in vain. 
Nor do they scorn the gifts that shepherds bring, 
Curds and new milk, their tribute to the King ; 
But kindly bid the happy peasants say 
What trees are those whose branches shade the way. 
With eager eyes he shows the wondering Queen 
The varied beauties of each woodland scene. 
Lost in delight they reach the hermit’s cot, 
The journey’s ended, but they mark it not. 
Evening is come, and weary of the road 
The horses rest before the Saint’s abode, 
Crowded with hermits from the forests near, 
Seeking their grass and fruit and fuel here. 
There playful fawns their daily rice await, 
Thronging like children round the cottage gate, 
And, in the garden, hermits’ daughters o’er 
Each young tree’s thirsty roots fresh water pour, 
Then stand aside, that timid birds may drink 
Their share, in quiet, ere the stream can sink. 
Quick from the car the King and Queen descend, 
And turn, impatient, towards their saintly friend. 
The hermits welcome him with honours due, ✓ 
And kindly greet the royal lady too ; 
Then lead them on where sits the ancient sage 
With the Great Matron, in the hermitage. 
Welcomed with gentle looks and words most sweet 
The royal pair embrace their sacred feet. 
And then Vasishtka, after food and rest, 
Asks of his kingdom’s weal his honoured guest. 
Cheered by his kindness, thus replies the King, 
The best of speakers, to his questioning : 
