Moti thought of Atmâ and moaned, but the little maid thought only of her
mistress, and bewailed the fate that had joined her bright spirit by
unseen bonds of love to one pre-doomed by inheritance to misfortune.

"For adversity loved his father's house," she sighed; "it is ill to
consort with the unfortunate, for in time we share their woe."

But Moti wrung her beautiful hands and cried:

"Ah if this breath of mine might purchase his!
Then death were fair and lovely as he said
In that enchanted even hour when he
Of love, and death, and moans, and constancy
Told till dark things grew lovely, and o'erhead
Sweet stars seemed ghosts, and shadow all that is.

But I have lost my life and yet not death
Have won, and now to me shall joy be strange,
And all my days the kindly winds that breathe
From mirthful groves of Paradise shall change
In my poor songless soul to wail, and sigh,
And moan, and hollow silence--let me die!

Poor me! who fearless snatched at bliss so high,
Witless! and yet to be of slight esteem
And little worth is sometimes well, no dream
Of high unrest, no awful afterglow
Affrights us simple ones when that we die.
Vain flickering lamps soon quenchéd--we but go