L
104 AFOOT THROUGH THE
As the afternoon wore away a pleasant coolness
replaced the earlier heat, and the soft light of stars
began to shine out from the soft, dark sky. I heard the
sad, monotonous tones of a native voice singing at some
distance. I started out, and, following the direction
of the sound, came to a small Mahomedan burying-place.
The great blue iris, always planted by them over the
graves of their loved ones, had finished flowering, and
walking round the little mounds was a tall, bowed figure
in the Pathan dress and cap, sprinkling rose petals
over them. Slowly he threw the handfuls of sweet-
scented leaves, and as he threw he chanted in saddest
tones—
Oh, stars th a t shine in this dear spot I love,
And shine alike on heav’n’s distant gates,
Send from your calm serenity above
Sleep t ’ him, whom, sleepless here, despairing waits.
Broken, forlorn, upon the desert sand
That sucks these tears, and utterly abased,
Looking across the lonely, level land
With thoughts more desolate than any waste..
Planets th a t shine on what I so adore
Now laid for ever here in silent rest,
Protect th a t sleep, which I may watch no more,
I the forsaken, left, and dispossessed.
Loved with a love beyond all words or sense,
Lost with a grief beyond the saltest tear.
So lovely, so removed, remote, and hence
So doubly and so desperately dear.
Stars ! from your skies so purple and so calm,
That through the centuries your secrets keep,
Send to this worn-out heart some-soothing balm,
Send me, for many nights so sleepless, sleep.
And ere the sunrise on this valley jars
Mv sense with sorrow and another day—
Through your soft magic, oh, my silver stars,
Turn sleep to death in your own loving way.
The petals were finished, the song closed, the sad
singer moved silently away among the deepening
shadows, alone with his great sorrow, leaving the beloved
spot in the safe keeping of the silver stars. A woman
who had been crouching over a tiny heap that covered
probably some small life mourned and remembered only
by herself, rose to go. “ Who was the singer ? ” I questioned.
She shrugged her shoulders. “ How should I
say; he came from another country, far away among
other hdls; he does not know our speech; we do not
understand his; he came with a Sahib; but loving a
girl of this village, he stayed here, and then she died,
and he now lives alone, and sings, and sprinkles flowers;
that is all.” With another shrug of impatience a t such
peculiarities she moved away. Truly, our own sorrows
do not always unlock the springs of sympathy for others’
griefs.