The Silken Tassel/To the Mena
To the Mena[1]
Silver-throated Mena mine!
All the honeyed songs are thine:
When young Morn comes silver-smiling,
Pearls on pearls with magic piling,
And with softest footsteps showers
Sweetest scents upon the flowers,
While her breath fresh, balmy, tender,
Opens all the lotus’ splendour;
When bright Noon her golden arrows
Flings upon the Earth, and sparrows
Twitter, twitter in their nest
Soothing their young ones to rest
For a while from blazing skies
And with stronger wings to rise;
When soft Eve and Sun together
Many a green and crimson feather
Set within her dusky hair,
And she looks so wondrous fair,
That the leaping ocean-billows
Pluck some for her night-bed pillows,
Where meek Eve and Sun repose,
Dreaming all night, calm and close:
Then I hear thy homely songs,
Simple, free from worldly wrongs:
Like the innocent joys of Morn
That with dew the flowers adorn,
Like the warmth of golden Noon
That holds Day in a gentle swoon,
Like the sweet repose of Eve
That a thousand dreams doth weave,
Is thy soft love-melting voice,
Which doth in its soul rejoice.
All the honeyed songs are thine:
When young Morn comes silver-smiling,
Pearls on pearls with magic piling,
And with softest footsteps showers
Sweetest scents upon the flowers,
While her breath fresh, balmy, tender,
Opens all the lotus’ splendour;
When bright Noon her golden arrows
Flings upon the Earth, and sparrows
Twitter, twitter in their nest
Soothing their young ones to rest
For a while from blazing skies
And with stronger wings to rise;
When soft Eve and Sun together
Many a green and crimson feather
Set within her dusky hair,
And she looks so wondrous fair,
That the leaping ocean-billows
Pluck some for her night-bed pillows,
Where meek Eve and Sun repose,
Dreaming all night, calm and close:
Then I hear thy homely songs,
Simple, free from worldly wrongs:
Like the innocent joys of Morn
That with dew the flowers adorn,
Like the warmth of golden Noon
That holds Day in a gentle swoon,
Like the sweet repose of Eve
That a thousand dreams doth weave,
Is thy soft love-melting voice,
Which doth in its soul rejoice.
Simple-hearted Mena mine!
All the homely songs are thine;
Let that shining Surya[2] sing
Songs of many a noble thing,
Of his majestic golden glory,
His sublime heroic story,
Of his high and tuneful thunders,
And his quick-inspiring wonders;
Let that strange goat-footed Pan
Pipe as charming as he can,
To the forests and the highlands,
To the thickly-wooded islands,
To the winds and flocks and birds,
He, at whose swift-flowing words
Fauns and Nymphs from woods and waves
Come out from their hidden caves,
Silent and all charm’d with magic
By his pipings sweetly tragic;
Let Gandharvasin[3] high heaven
Raise their music to enliven
Gods and spirits with their song,
Who around them run and throng
And derive a secret pleasure
To delight in Love’s free measure!
Let the Kokil’s piercing note
Sing of golden climes remote,
Leafy gardens, heaping flowers,
Living skies and shady bowers,
Beauties of the Land of Dreams,
And delights of springful streams;
Let the Bulbul sing and weep
His love for the Rose, and keep
All the night awake and sorry
Shaping his love-drooping story,
To the moon and stars complaining
Of his love’s unjust disdaining:
Thine are songs of homely feeling
Right unto the heart appealing;
Thine are songs of simple pleasure
That unveil a hidden treasure
Of the sweetest homely joys;
Thine are songs for girls and boys,
Children, full of deep delights,
Strangers to all sins and spites,
In whose heaven-reflected eyes
We can read our destinies!
All the homely songs are thine;
Let that shining Surya[2] sing
Songs of many a noble thing,
Of his majestic golden glory,
His sublime heroic story,
Of his high and tuneful thunders,
And his quick-inspiring wonders;
Let that strange goat-footed Pan
Pipe as charming as he can,
To the forests and the highlands,
To the thickly-wooded islands,
To the winds and flocks and birds,
He, at whose swift-flowing words
Fauns and Nymphs from woods and waves
Come out from their hidden caves,
Silent and all charm’d with magic
By his pipings sweetly tragic;
Let Gandharvasin[3] high heaven
Raise their music to enliven
Gods and spirits with their song,
Who around them run and throng
And derive a secret pleasure
To delight in Love’s free measure!
Let the Kokil’s piercing note
Sing of golden climes remote,
Leafy gardens, heaping flowers,
Living skies and shady bowers,
Beauties of the Land of Dreams,
And delights of springful streams;
Let the Bulbul sing and weep
His love for the Rose, and keep
All the night awake and sorry
Shaping his love-drooping story,
To the moon and stars complaining
Of his love’s unjust disdaining:
Thine are songs of homely feeling
Right unto the heart appealing;
Thine are songs of simple pleasure
That unveil a hidden treasure
Of the sweetest homely joys;
Thine are songs for girls and boys,
Children, full of deep delights,
Strangers to all sins and spites,
In whose heaven-reflected eyes
We can read our destinies!
O sweet Mena! sing thy songs,
Simple, free from worldly wrongs;
Sing me of thy woody pleasure
Where thou skipp’st with joyful measure
On the fields with green corn waving
With a tune so soft and craving,
There forgetting altogether
Gloomy clouds and rainy weather;
Or within thy date-tree sitting
Quiet, close, thy wings unflitting,
Thou dost tune thy velvet throat,
When the eyes of farmers gloat
O’er the spot whence rains thy song,
And their boys soon run and throng,
Leaving in their fields their ploughs
To find thee in the date-tree boughs;
But thou fliest from that spot,
Like a dear uncagèd thought,
Leaving them amazed behind thee,
Baffled in their hope to find thee,
And thou seek’st another tree
To renew thy melody.
Give us, Bird! thy guileless heart,
Simple-natured as thou art;
Thou dost never dream of wrongs,
Sweetly simple are thy songs.
We are yearning for a note
That eludes our strainèd throat;
We forget what it could be
Greatness in simplicity;
Or our spirit never slumbers
At thy simple heartful numbers!
We are diving in the deep,
But with empty hands we weep;
We are plunging in the skies,
But they blaze and blind our eyes.
Thou art living in the Present,
Ever-cheerful, ever-pleasant;
Thine are skies of light and shadow,
Thine the green-gold field and meadow,
Thorny trees and soft-leaved bowers,
Common grass and fragrant flowers,
Silver clouds and golden corn,
And an ever-smiling morn,
Tender heart and simple glee:
May we, Mena! follow thee!
Simple, free from worldly wrongs;
Sing me of thy woody pleasure
Where thou skipp’st with joyful measure
On the fields with green corn waving
With a tune so soft and craving,
There forgetting altogether
Gloomy clouds and rainy weather;
Or within thy date-tree sitting
Quiet, close, thy wings unflitting,
Thou dost tune thy velvet throat,
When the eyes of farmers gloat
O’er the spot whence rains thy song,
And their boys soon run and throng,
Leaving in their fields their ploughs
To find thee in the date-tree boughs;
But thou fliest from that spot,
Like a dear uncagèd thought,
Leaving them amazed behind thee,
Baffled in their hope to find thee,
And thou seek’st another tree
To renew thy melody.
Give us, Bird! thy guileless heart,
Simple-natured as thou art;
Thou dost never dream of wrongs,
Sweetly simple are thy songs.
We are yearning for a note
That eludes our strainèd throat;
We forget what it could be
Greatness in simplicity;
Or our spirit never slumbers
At thy simple heartful numbers!
We are diving in the deep,
But with empty hands we weep;
We are plunging in the skies,
But they blaze and blind our eyes.
Thou art living in the Present,
Ever-cheerful, ever-pleasant;
Thine are skies of light and shadow,
Thine the green-gold field and meadow,
Thorny trees and soft-leaved bowers,
Common grass and fragrant flowers,
Silver clouds and golden corn,
And an ever-smiling morn,
Tender heart and simple glee:
May we, Mena! follow thee!