The Bengali Poem, Candi. 
29 
The staring neighbours gather from the town, 
And Lila counts the goats and writes them down.* 
Says Lahana : “I will mark them every one, 
That any changeling stranger may be known; 
And should one die, if I the body see, 
I will say naught, and she from blame be free.” 
Poor Khullana, helpless in her bitter woe, 
Put on her rags and sadly turned to go; 
Durbala only showed a little care, 
And brushed the dust while Lahana bound her hair. 
Slowly she goes with leaves her head to shade, 
And in her hand a simple switch was laid. 
The goats run scampering, heedless where they roam, 
And angry farmers storm to see them come. 
Her flower-like body in the sun’s fierce heat 
Seems withering up, her clothes are steeped in sweat. 
A river stops her—urged by greater dread, 
She carries every goat across its bed; 
Hext comes a wood in sight, beneath the houghs 
The hurrying goats disperse themselves to browse ; 
She hears the wolf’s sharp howl, and wild with fear 
Runs to and fro to show that she is near ; 
The Jcug grass with its needles stabs her foot, 
And drops of blood betray her devious route. 
Wearied at last, she sits beneath a tree 
Watching the goats stray heedless o’er the lea. 
At length she stirs herself at evening-fall, 
And drives her goats together to their stall, 
Then waits for Durbala to bring her fare, 
All that the stingy Lahana can spare. 
Coarse was the meal—an arum leaf for dish— 
Old refuse rice, poor pulse, and common fish ; 
Tough egg-plant stalks, of withered gourds a slice, 
Put ne’er a pinch of salt to make it nice. 
* In the original there here follows a long list of the names of the goats, filling 
ten fines—Malati, Bimala, Dhull, etc. It is an interesting illustration of St. John, x, 3, 
“ he ealleth his own sheep by name.' 1 '' 
