I fold my hands, in dreamlike trance,
I see their shadowy train advance--
Phantom forms like shades of eld,
Memory-prints or forms beheld,
I cannot know, they fade away;
Faintly their voices seem to say,
"You loved us not that distant day,"
And, lo, my foolish tears o'erflow.
Can this be I who fain would know
Those bitter griefs of long ago?

As Atmâ approached the city of Jummoo he found himself again by a
river-side, and seeing a small boat he entered it and was soon gliding
with the current. It was night when he floated among the trees of the
Palace gardens. Thousands of lights glittered through the foliage. The
air was burdened with perfume. High above the sombre umbrage rose
slender snowy spires, around which the moonbeams lingered lovingly. He
left the little skiff and trod the terraced ascent. A meandering
brooklet, tributary of the larger stream, was spanned by fairy-like
bridges. He hesitated among the intersecting ways, mazy, enchanting, and
flower-bordered. The living air was full of subdued sound. Bubbling
water, tinkling bells, and the mingling of many voices made music which
was borne on perfumed winds. This was the fairest spot in all sunny
Kashmir, where the nightingale sings perpetually in groves of citron,
magnolia, and pomegranate.

He reached the splendid portico which was the chief entrance of the
Palace. Its carven and gilded roof was supported by alabaster columns.
It had been a day of pomp and festival, and courtiers still in their
yellow robes of state reclined here, languidly enjoying the cool night