44 
The Bengali Poem, Can fit. 
High to the sky the dark smoke-pillars rise; 
The gods themselves gaze down with wondering eyes. 
Loud as June thunder roars the o’ermast’ring blaze, 
E’en the Sun’s horses rear in wild amaze! 
The rafters melt, the cross-ties, roof and all; 
Melt the four walls, and in one crash they fall. 
A shower of flowers rains downward from above,— 
He’er did this aeon such high courage prove ! 
Poor Slta’s tale is all long-past and old,— 
"We have heard it with our ears, but this our eyes behold! 
Meanwhile the merchant beats his head and flings himself upon the ground ; 
In the mid flames he fain would spring, but that his friends his hands have 
bound : 
“ Loved of my soul, I see thee not,—and life is worthless, reft of thee ; 
Where thou art gone I too will go,—I will be with thee presently. 
Ah, faithless husband that I was ! I left thee in the co-wife’s power,— 
Hence all those wanderings in the wood, and all the misery of this hour! ” 
The kinsmen weep in sympathy, with hair unbound and looks distraught; 
And even Lahana feels remorse when she sees all her spite has wrought. 
The smoke cleared off, the fire burned fierce and bright, 
Put oh ! no Xhullana appears in sight! 
In agony of heart the merchant turns, 
And wildly rushes where it fiercest burns, 
When from the very centre of the flame 
To his stunned ears a cry of “ Victory! ” came, 
And forth she stepped and stood before the throng, 
Chanting aloud to all her ‘ victory ’ song. 
From her thick hair the drops of moisture rained; 
The shell upon her wrist was still unstained; 
