Page:Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.djvu/138

102 Peevish and fretful oft we are,—
 * Ah, no—that cannot be:

Of our blind eyes he is the star,
 * Without him, what were we?

Too much he loves us to forsake,
 * But something ominous,

Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,
 * Says, he is gone from us.

Why do my bowels for him yearn,
 * What ill has crossed his path?

Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,
 * Or how avert the wrath?

Lord of my soul—what means my pain?
 * This horrid terror,—like

Some cloud that hides a hurricane;
 * Hang not, O lightning,—strike!"

Thus while she spake, the king drew near
 * With haggard look and wild,

Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,
 * Bearing the lifeless child.