Atmâ | Page 5

carol, which pleased the sense of many, and to the
ear of the few brought a haunting pain of which they did not know the
meaning. Such a one only sighed and said:
"In a former birth I was great and good, and my life was sublime. The
ghost of its memory has touched me."
O melody divine, of fantasy And frenzied mem'ry wrought, advance
From out the shades; O spectral utterance, Untwine thy chains, thy fair
autocracy Unveil, have being, declare Thy state and tuneful
sovereignty.
Ye gifted ears, To whom this burdened, sad creation Sings, now in
tones of exultation Abruptly broken, Anon in direst lamentation
Obscurely spoken, Possess your souls in hope, the time Is coming when
th' harmonic chime Of circling spheres in chant sublime Will lead the
music of the seas, And call the echoes of the breeze To one triumphal
lay Whose harmony, whose heavenly harmony Sounding for aye In
loud and solemn benedicite, Voices the glory of the Central Day, And
through th' illimitable realms of air Is borne afar In wafted echoes that
the strain prolong Through boundless space, and countless worlds
among, Meas'ring the pulsing of each lonely star, And sounding
ceaselessly from sphere to sphere That note of immortality That
whispers in the sorrow of the sea, And in the sunrise, and the noonday's
rest, And triumphs in the wild wind's meek surcease, And in the sad

soul's yearning unexpressed, And unexpressive for perpetual peace.
But the loveliest of Lehna Singh's possessions was Moti, his daughter
and only child, the fame of whose beauty had even reached Atmâ in his
mountain home. Of her he had dreamt through boyhood's years, and a
happy consciousness of her proximity foreshadowed the enchanted
hour when he was to behold her and own that his fondest fancies were
to her loveliness as darkness to noonday. Her name he had heard
whispered in the gay throng of her father's guests, on the memorable
first evening of his arrival there; but, strange to tell, next day, when
these first hours in a palace seemed to his excited imagination a dream
in which mingled in wildest confusion the glitter of diamonds, the
perfume of a thousand flowers, the revel of dazzling colors, the
bewildering music of unknown instruments, and the intoxication of
wonder and bliss, there rang through all only one articulate voice,
sounding as if from some leafy ambush amid vague laughter and
murmurs of speech, saying:
"But I tell you that Rajah Lal Singh means to pluck the rose of Lehna
Singh's garden!"
CHAPTER IV.
Atmâ loved to wander apart. One day he penetrated to a secluded court,
whose beauty and silence charmed him more than anything he had
hitherto seen. It was Moti's garden.
"High in air the fountain flung Its living gems, on sunbeams strung
They wreathed and shook the mists among; A thousand roses audience
held, For floral state the place was meet, With blissful light and joy
replete, And depths of sweetness unrevealed.
Glittered and sparkled the revelling spray, Swelled and receded its
silvery lay, Rustled the roses in fervid array, In fragrance declaring
their costly acclaim, Wafting on soft winds the redolent fame Of
fantasy, fountain, and tuneful refrain.
Joy, Happiness, and Bliss had here Alighted when from Eden driven,

Poor wanderers of far other sphere They languished for their native
heaven; And lingering they glamoured all the place, The flowers
bloomed in airs of Paradise, That lulled the days to dreams of
changeless peace. No marvel were it if to mortal eyes This garden
seemed the threshold of the skies.
But fountain and roses and glittering spray, Ambrosial converse and
redolent lay Saddened and dimmed in the radiant day, Unbroken the
yellow sunbeams streamed, As ever the flashing jewels gleamed. But a
shadow fell And a silent spell In homage of one who was fairer than
they.
And who was the despot whose wondrous array Of tyrant charms thus
over-wrought With hues of soft humility The joys of this enchanting
spot? There stood she, envied of the closing day, Loved by the evening
star, Moti, than costliest jewel of Cathay More rare and lovelier far.
* * * * *
Weep balmy tears, O dear white Rose, and tell to am'rous airs They
waste their sweetness on thy charms, and chide Their ling'ring dalliance,
o'er the whole world wide Bid them on buoyant morning wings to
move, And whisper "Love;" Fair winds, be tender of her blissful name,
On soft Æolian strings weave dainty dream, Let but the dove Hear a
faint echo of her happy name; But tell her worth, Say that at sight of
her the evening dies Upon the earth, And bees and little flower bells
still their mirth And jasmines whisp'ring of her starry eyes.
* *