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42 Thick were her tears, her prayer was strong, but still That prayer was weaker than her daughter's will; Who can recall the torrent's headlong force, Or the bold spirit in its destined course? She sent a maiden to her sire, and prayed He for her sake would grant some bosky shade, That she might dwell in solitude, and there Give all her soul to Penance and to Prayer; In gracious love the great smiled, And did the bidding of his darling child, Then to that hill which peacocks love she came, Known to all ages by the Lady's name.

Still to her purpose resolutely true, Her string of noble pearls aside she threw. Which, slipping here and there, had rubbed away The sandal dust that on her bosom lay, And clad her in a hermit coat of bark, Rough to her gentle limbs, and gloomy dark, Pressing too tightly, till her swelling breast Broke into freedom through the unwonted vest. Her matted hair was full as lovely now As when 'twas braided o'er her polished brow; Thus do the beauties of the Lotus shine When bees festoon it in a graceful line, And, though the tangled weeds that crown the rill Cling o'er it closely, it is lovely still. With zone of grass the Votaress was bound, Which reddened the fair form it girdled round; Never before the Lady's waist had felt The ceaseless torment of so rough a belt.