In the times now long forgotten
In the night of other ages,
When things were not as they now are
Lay the earth a lifeless body,
Cold and hard and all unyielding,
Like a maid in dreamless slumber,
Untouched by life’s budding springmood,
Ere the glow of sun light calls her.
And the sky looked down and saw her.
Gently then in stealth descending,
In the rose of early twilight
Stooped and kissed her in her slumber.
And behold her young heart heaving,
Throbbed her pulse, her eyelids opened
And those eyes, all filled with wonder
Shed the hot tears of her being.
Thus was born this lake Himalayan,
Mother of the holy Ganga.
Mountain-wave, mystic and dreamy,
By thy shore does stand a maiden
And the rhythm of thy water
Blends into her burning bosom,
Stands she motionless and gazing,
Knows not where her flocks are staying.
The young hunter aims his arrow,
And, behold, he sees thy water,
And no more sees he the roebuck
Slacks the bowstring, flees the quarry.
When the sun is golden glory
Sheds his aureole o’er thy surface, –
Standst thou like the shrine Campaca
But the white dreamrays of moon-light
Veils thee in a garb of silver,
In the rope of Milarepa.