30 
The Bengali Poem, Candi. 
Khullana, weeping, eats as best she may, 
Swallows a part and throws the rest away, 
While Lahana comes and watches at her side, 
And scolds her for her daintiness and pride. 
On her straw bed she lies each weary night, 
And leads her goats afield each dawning light. 
Some rice, half dust, is in a bundle tied, 
And thus the day’s provisions are supplied. 
Carrying her switch in hand she wanders slow, 
And on her head a leaf to cool her brow. 
Under pretence of bringing water there 
One morning Durbala hurried after her. 
“I saw,” she cried, “your parents yesterday, 
And told them all, but nothing could they say. 
Your mother grieved the doleful story heard, 
But good or bad she answered ne’er a word; 
And your old niggard father, I declare, 
Sent you some paltry cowries—here they are.” 
• • • • • • • 
At length the spring came down upon the woods, 
And the spring breezes woke the sleeping buds; 
The season sends its summons forth to all, 
And every tree hangs blossoms at its call; 
The drunken bees feel waking nature’s power, 
And roam in ecstasy from flower to flower, 
Just as the village priest, the winter done, 
Wanders elsewhere to greet the vernal sun. 
Amidst the leaves she hears the cuckoo’s voice, 
And the known note makes all her heart rejoice. 
“ Oh will my lord come back,” she cries, “ to-day ? 
He has been gone a weary time away.” 
But while she counts the months, by chance she sees 
A parrot and a sari in the trees; 
Loud she upbraids them—they had done the wrong, 
Their luckless cage had kept her lord so long. 
“ That golden cage, that whim of yours, in truth, 
Has made poor Khullana widowed in her youth; 
