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50 Wakeful and fevered in the dreary night Scarce closed her eyes, and then in wild affright Bang through the halls her very bitter cry, God of the azure neck, why dost thou fly? While their soft bands her loving arms would cast Round the dear vision fading all too fast. Her skilful hand, with true love-guided art, Had traced the image graven on her heart — 'Art thou all present? Dost thou fail to see Poor 's anguish and her love for thee?' Thus oft in frenzied grief her voice was heard. Chiding the portrait with reproachful word. Long thus in vain for 's love she strove. Then turned in sorrow to this holy Grove, Since the sad Maid hath sought these forest glades To hide her grief amid the dreary shades, The fruit hath ripened on the spreading bough, But ah! no fruit hath crowned her holy vow; Her faithful friends alone must ever mourn To see that beauteous form by Penance worn, But oh! that would some favour deign, As Indra pitieth the parching plain! " The Maiden ceased—his secret joy dissembling, The Brahman turned to pale and trembling, "And is it thus—or doth the Maiden jest, Is this the darling secret of thy breast?"

She clasped the rosary in her quivering hand. Scarce could the Maid her choking voice command " holy Sage, learned in the Vedas' lore, 'Tis even thus—Great I adore;