Sita

Three happy children in a darkened room!

What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?

A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,

And in its centre a cleared spot.--There bloom

Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace

Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake

The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake,"

The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;

There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;

There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,

There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.

But who is this fair lady? Not in vain

She weeps,--for lo! at every tear she sheds

Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,

And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.

It is an old, old story, and the lay

Which has evoked sad Sita from the past

Is by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at last

And melts the picture from their sight away,