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THE INDIAN ANTIQUARY.
[NOVEMBER, 1876.
Thinking this world will last for aye, they don The forest trees yield fruit which men may delusion's chains;
pluck at will, The sage knows all will pass away, and straight The wave runs pure and cold in many a holy this world disdains.
rill,
Soft is the bed of leaves which wind-swept Revile, revilers! I, 'tis true,
creepers pour, Cannot return your scorn:
And yet mean spirits court scorn at the rich We give but what we know, for who
man's door. E'er gave a rabbit's horn?
Begging supplies my wants, Alms are not difficult to gain, great Rama showed
My rags keep out the cold, the way;
My faith in Siva's firm, - The earth yields roots, the deerskin keeps the
What need have I of gold? winter's cold away; Whether we joy or grieve, we're still of destiny The chief of saints declare no joy can vie with the slaves;
theirs Why should I leave the three-eyed god, toWho fling on Siva's breast the burden of their court blind purse-proud knaves ?
cares,
Taking no thought for wealth, by daily bounty Why wander without end ? find rest at last, my fed, soul :
Blessed and pure, exempt from envy, pain, and What will be must be ; none can Fate's decree dread.
control, Leave thinking of the past and let the future be,
Our joys are like the wave in foam-flakes hurled, Reap joys which come by chance and unexpect
Youth, life, and love like lightning come and go. ed flee.
Learn this, ye wise, and teach the people so,
That all may know how hollow is this world. Their hand their only dish,
Begging their wants supplies, They sleep where Fate may wish,
Say, hast thon gained this bliss by long ascetic The world as straw they prize,
pain Such is the hermit's life:
Deer, that thou flatter'st not the rich nor feel'st For souls, by Siva's might,
their scorn, Can win though toil and strife
Nor runnest here and there some trifling boon To that supreme delight.
to gain, But feed'st en tender grass, and sleep'st from
eve till morn? Bali you've not released from hell nor Death the
monster slain, Nor cleansed from spots the moon's fair disk,
When maidens see a tinge of white nor put an end to pain,
Streak a man's hair, they shun his sight, Nor bearing up the earth awhile eased Sesha
'Tis like the white bone on the brink from the load,
Of wells whence only outcasts drink. Do you not blush to wear the wreath to matchless heroes owed ?
Thon fool, how oft thy schemes have missed
their aim ! What folly 'tis o'er musty texts to brood, And yet this gold-mirage thy soul allures; Or charm with plays and songs the idle mood ! That still thou hop'st, and still thy heart en. All fancies vain my soul hath flung aside,
dores, Resolved in Siva only to confide.
Shows it is wrought of adamantine frame.
• The bit of bone suspended over & well belonging to Chandalas.-K.T.T.
