10 
The Bengali Poem, Candi. 
Think of poor Slta ; ’gainst her will the cruel fiend his victim bore, 
But all th’ ordeals she endured could not her once-lost home restore. 
Women’s good name is only kept, like an old dress, with ceaseless care; * 
Thoughtlessly handled or exposed too often, each is apt to tear.” 
The goddess heard in silence all he said, 
And as in shame before him bent her head; 
Impatient now with folded hands he cries : 
“I cannot read your meaning ’neath this guise; 
But be it what it may, I care not, so 
You only leave this house of mine and go. 
’T is yours to keep your name and honour pure; 
Be true yourself, and they remain secure. 
But’t is not well here in such guise to come ; 
And why, when questioned, doggedly thus dumb ? 
Some noble’s mansion your own dwelling is; 
What can you want with a mean hut like this ? 
The wealth of kings is round your person hung, 
And yet you stray alone, so fair and young; 
Have you no fear of robbers as you roam ? 
Low I implore you at your feet, go home.” 
Still stood she dumb; enraged, the hunter now 
Paused not, but fixed an arrow to his bow; 
Then to his ear the fatal shaft he drew, 
Calling the sun to witness ere it flew. 
Lo ! the bent bow grows rigid in his hands, 
And like a painted archer, there he stands! 
His palsied muscles mock the will’s control, 
And tears proclaim his baffled rage of soul. 
In vain he strives to speak one syllable, 
Body and soul are smitten by a spell. 
In vain his wife would take the bow away; 
He cannot yield it; it perforce will stay! 
The all-gracious Mother now at last they hear 
Speak in her real voice and stop their fear: 
* I remember a Calcutta pupil telling me that an old pandit came one day to his 
father’s house, and as he was about to take his seat on the ground his old dress gave way, 
and he at once quoted this couplet from our poem. 
