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 accent of tenderness. It does not imply any shade of contempt. In his case it helps to convey the idea of his poetic afflatus, which was such as to satisfy Plato's claim in "Ion" for the divine madness of the true poet. Love, in its most abstract, most exalted forms, was the burden of his songs. He is like a Vaishnava writing two centuries before their time. He writes the, or "Dawn of Love," of Love's Messenger, its secret pilgrimage, of lovers' meetings, and of their final separation. In his "Dawn of Love" Krishna appears as a spiritual vision to Radha. "She has caught a glimpse of his dark blue complexion." It has acted on her like some strong spell. "What pain has overtaken her?" the poet asks. "She loves solitude, and sits alone, and will listen to none."

The songs of Chandi Das call up the region whence they sprang—the varying colours of its air, the different lustre of its sun, the particular savours of the soil. From others we hear of its sky, so blue in early spring, fog-obscured in winter, beclouded and thunder-threatened in the rainy season. To the Hindu, living so much in the open air and so close to mother earth, the weather matters vitally, just as it does to