It was still nearly dark, but there was a faint
light in the east, which rapidly grew as I watched it, till, turning the
angle of the house, I distinguished a snow-peak over the tops of the
dark rhododendrons, and, while I gazed, the first tinge of distant
dawning caught the summit, and the beautiful hill blushed, as a fair
woman, at the kiss of the awakening sun. The old story, the heaven
wooing the earth with a wondrous shower of gold.
"Prati 'shya sunari jani"--the exquisite lines of the old Vedic hymn to
the dawn maiden, rose to my lips. I had never appreciated or felt their
truth down in the dusty plains, but here, on the free hills, the glad
welcoming of the morning light seemed to run through every fibre, as
thousands of years ago the same joyful thrill of returning life inspired
the pilgrim fathers of the Aryan race. Almost unconsciously, I softly
intoned the hymn, as I had heard my old Brahmin teacher in Allahabad
when he came and sat under the porch at daybreak, until I was ready for
him--
The lissome heavenly maiden here,
Forth flashing from her sister's arms,
High heaven's daughter, now is come.
In rosy garments, shining like
A swift bay mare; the twin knights' friend,
Mother of all our herds of kine.
Yea, thou art she, the horseman's friend;
Of grazing cattle mother thou,
All wealth is thine, thou blushing dawn.
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