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diff --git a/23245.txt b/23245.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..319fdcb --- /dev/null +++ b/23245.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4133 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan, by Toru Dutt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan + +Author: Toru Dutt + +Contributor: Edmund Gosse + +Release Date: October 29, 2007 [EBook #23245] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANCIENT BALLADS AND LEGENDS *** + + + + +Produced by Thierry Alberto, Stephen Blundell and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + _ANCIENT BALLADS + AND LEGENDS + OF HINDUSTAN_ + + BY + + TORU DUTT + + AUTHOR OF "A SHEAF GLEANED IN FRENCH FIELDS," AND + "LE JOURNAL DE MADEMOISELLE D'ARVERS." + + + WITH AN INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR + BY EDMUND GOSSE. + + [Illustration] + + + LONDON + KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO. + MDCCCLXXXV + + + + + "I never heard the old song of Percie and Douglas, that I found not + my heart moved, more than with a trumpet: and yet it is sung but by + some blinde crowder, with no rougher voice, than rude style." + + SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Archaic + spellings have been retained. Punctuation has been normalised. The + oe ligature has been transcribed as [oe]. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + Page + + I. Savitri 1 + II. Lakshman 46 + III. Jogadhya Uma 54 + IV. The Royal Ascetic and the Hind 65 + V. Dhruva 71 + VI. Buttoo 77 + VII. Sindhu 89 + VIII. Prehlad 107 + IX. Sita 122 + + + MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + Near Hastings 127 + France--1870 129 + The Tree of Life 131 + On the Fly Leaf of Erckmann-Chatrian's + novel entitled _Madame Therese_ 133 + Sonnet--Baugmaree 135 + Sonnet--The Lotus 136 + Our Casuarina Tree 137 + + + + +TORU DUTT. + +INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. + + +If Toru Dutt were alive, she would still be younger than any recognized +European writer, and yet her fame, which is already considerable, has +been entirely posthumous. Within the brief space of four years which now +divides us from the date of her decease, her genius has been revealed to +the world under many phases, and has been recognized throughout France +and England. Her name, at least, is no longer unfamiliar in the ear of +any well-read man or woman. But at the hour of her death she had +published but one book, and that book had found but two reviewers in +Europe. One of these, M. Andre Theuriet, the well-known poet and +novelist, gave the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" adequate praise in +the "Revue des Deux Mondes;" but the other, the writer of the present +notice, has a melancholy satisfaction in having been a little earlier +still in sounding the only note of welcome which reached the dying +poetess from England. It was while Professor W. Minto was editor of the +"Examiner," that one day in August, 1876, in the very heart of the dead +season for books, I happened to be in the office of that newspaper, and +was upbraiding the whole body of publishers for issuing no books worth +reviewing. At that moment the postman brought in a thin and sallow +packet with a wonderful Indian postmark on it, and containing a most +unattractive orange pamphlet of verse, printed at Bhowanipore, and +entitled "A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields, by Toru Dutt." This shabby +little book of some two hundred pages, without preface or introduction, +seemed specially destined by its particular providence to find its way +hastily into the waste-paper basket. I remember that Mr. Minto thrust it +into my unwilling hands, and said "There! see whether you can't make +something of that." A hopeless volume it seemed, with its queer type, +published at Bhowanipore, printed at the Saptahiksambad Press! But when +at last I took it out of my pocket, what was my surprise and almost +rapture to open at such verse as this:-- + + Still barred thy doors! The far east glows, + The morning wind blows fresh and free + Should not the hour that wakes the rose + Awaken also thee? + + All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song, + Light in the sky deep red above, + Song, in the lark of pinions strong, + And in my heart, true Love. + + Apart we miss our nature's goal, + Why strive to cheat our destinies? + Was not my love made for thy soul? + Thy beauty for mine eyes? + No longer sleep, + Oh, listen now! + I wait and weep, + But where art thou? + +When poetry is as good as this it does not much matter whether Rouveyre +prints it upon Whatman paper, or whether it steals to light in blurred +type from some press in Bhowanipore. + +Toru Dutt was the youngest of the three children of a high-caste Hindu +couple in Bengal. Her father, who survives them all, the Baboo Govin +Chunder Dutt, is himself distinguished among his countrymen for the +width of his views and the vigour of his intelligence. His only son, +Abju, died in 1865, at the age of fourteen, and left his two younger +sisters to console their parents. Aru, the elder daughter, born in 1854, +was eighteen months senior to Toru, the subject of this memoir, who was +born in Calcutta on the 4th of March, 1856. With the exception of one +year's visit to Bombay, the childhood of these girls was spent in +Calcutta, at their father's garden-house. In a poem now printed for the +first time, Toru refers to the scene of her earliest memories, the +circling wilderness of foliage, the shining tank with the round leaves +of the lilies, the murmuring dusk under the vast branches of the central +casuarina-tree. Here, in a mystical retirement more irksome to an +European in fancy than to an Oriental in reality, the brain of this +wonderful child was moulded. She was pure Hindu, full of the typical +qualities of her race and blood, and, as the present volume shows us for +the first time, preserving to the last her appreciation of the poetic +side of her ancient religion, though faith itself in Vishnu and Siva had +been cast aside with childish things and been replaced by a purer +faith. Her mother fed her imagination with the old songs and legends of +their people, stories which it was the last labour of her life to weave +into English verse; but it would seem that the marvellous faculties of +Toru's mind still slumbered, when, in her thirteenth year, her father +decided to take his daughters to Europe to learn English and French. To +the end of her days Toru was a better French than English scholar. She +loved France best, she knew its literature best, she wrote its language +with more perfect elegance. The Dutts arrived in Europe at the close of +1869, and the girls went to school, for the first and last time, at a +French pension. They did not remain there very many months; their father +took them to Italy and England with him, and finally they attended for a +short time, but with great zeal and application, the lectures for women +at Cambridge. In November, 1873, they went back again to Bengal, and +the four remaining years of Toru's life were spent in the old +garden-house at Calcutta, in a feverish dream of intellectual effort and +imaginative production. When we consider what she achieved in these +forty-five months of seclusion, it is impossible to wonder that the +frail and hectic body succumbed under so excessive a strain. + +She brought with her from Europe a store of knowledge that would have +sufficed to make an English or French girl seem learned, but which in +her case was simply miraculous. Immediately on her return she began to +study Sanskrit with the same intense application which she gave to all +her work, and mastering the language with extraordinary swiftness, she +plunged into its mysterious literature. But she was born to write, and +despairing of an audience in her own language, she began to adopt ours +as a medium for her thought. Her first essay, published when she was +eighteen, was a monograph, in the "Bengal Magazine," on Leconte de +Lisle, a writer with whom she had a sympathy which is very easy to +comprehend. The austere poet of "La Mort de Valmiki" was, obviously, a +figure to whom the poet of "Sindhu" must needs be attracted on +approaching European literature. This study, which was illustrated by +translations into English verse, was followed by another on Josephin +Soulary, in whom she saw more than her maturer judgment might have +justified. There is something very interesting and now, alas! still more +pathetic in these sturdy and workmanlike essays in unaided criticism. +Still more solitary her work became, in July, 1874, when her only +sister, Aru, died, at the age of twenty. She seems to have been no less +amiable than her sister, and if gifted with less originality and a less +forcible ambition, to have been finely accomplished. Both sisters were +well-trained musicians, with full contralto voices, and Aru had a +faculty for design which promised well. The romance of "Mlle. D'Arvers" +was originally projected for Aru to illustrate, but no page of this book +did Aru ever see. + +In 1876, as we have said, appeared that obscure first volume at +Bhowanipore. The "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" is certainly the most +imperfect of Toru's writings, but it is not the least interesting. It is +a wonderful mixture of strength and weakness, of genius overriding great +obstacles and of talent succumbing to ignorance and inexperience. That +it should have been performed at all is so extraordinary that we forget +to be surprised at its inequality. The English verse is sometimes +exquisite; at other times the rules of our prosody are absolutely +ignored, and it is obvious that the Hindu poetess was chanting to +herself a music that is discord in an English ear. The notes are no +less curious, and to a stranger no less bewildering. Nothing could be +more naive than the writer's ignorance at some points, or more startling +than her learning at others. On the whole, the attainment of the book +was simply astounding. It consisted of a selection of translations from +nearly one hundred French poets, chosen by the poetess herself on a +principle of her own which gradually dawned upon the careful reader. She +eschewed the Classicist writers as though they had never existed. For +her Andre Chenier was the next name in chronological order after Du +Bartas. Occasionally she showed a profundity of research that would have +done no discredit to Mr. Saintsbury or "le doux Assellineau." She was +ready to pronounce an opinion on Napol le Pyrenean or to detect a +plagiarism in Baudelaire. But she thought that Alexander Smith was still +alive, and she was curiously vague about the career of Saint Beuve. +This inequality of equipment was a thing inevitable to her isolation, +and hardly worth recording, except to show how laborious her mind was, +and how quick to make the best of small resources. + +We have already seen that the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" attracted +the very minimum of attention in England. In France it was talked about +a little more. M. Garcin de Tassy, the famous Orientalist, who scarcely +survived Toru by twelve months, spoke of it to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, +author of a somewhat remarkable book on the position of women in ancient +Indian society. Almost simultaneously this volume fell into the hands of +Toru, and she was moved to translate it into English, for the use of +Hindus less instructed than herself. In January, 1877, she accordingly +wrote to Mlle. Bader requesting her authorization, and received a prompt +and kind reply. On the 18th of March Toru wrote again to this, her +solitary correspondent in the world of European literature, and her +letter, which has been preserved, shows that she had already descended +into the valley of the shadow of death:-- + + Ma constitution n'est pas forte; j'ai contracte une toux opiniatre, + il y a plus de deux ans, qui ne me quitte point. Cependant j'espere + mettre la main a l'[oe]uvre bientot. Je ne peux dire, mademoiselle, + combien votre affection,--car vous les aimez, votre livre et votre + lettre en temoignent assez,--pour mes compatriotes et mon pays me + touche; et je suis fiere de pouvoir le dire que les heroines de nos + grandes epopees sont dignes de tout honneur et de tout amour. Y + a-ti-il d'heroine plus touchante, plus aimable que Sita? Je ne le + crois pas. _Quand j'entends ma mere chanter, le soir, les vieux + chants de notre pays, je pleure presque toujours._ La plainte de + Sita, quand, bannie pour la seconde fois, elle erre dans la vaste + foret, seule, le desespoir et l'effroi dans l'ame, est si pathetique + qu'il n'y a personne, je crois, qui puisse l'entendre sans verser + des larmes. Je vous envois sous ce pli deux petites traductions du + Sanscrit, cette belle langue antique. Malheureusement j'ai ete + obligee de faire cesser mes traductions de Sanscrit, il y a six + mois. Ma sante ne me permet pas de les continuer. + +These simple and pathetic words, in which the dying poetess pours out +her heart to the one friend she had, and that one gained too late, seem +as touching and as beautiful as any strain of Marceline Valmore's +immortal verse. In English poetry I do not remember anything that +exactly parallels their resigned melancholy. Before the month of March +was over, Toru had taken to her bed. Unable to write, she continued to +read, strewing her sick-room with the latest European books, and +entering with interest into the questions raised by the Societe +Asiatique of Paris in its printed Transactions. On the 30th of July she +wrote her last letter to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, and a month later, on the +30th of August, 1877, at the age of twenty-one years, six months, and +twenty-six days, she breathed her last in her father's house in +Maniktollah Street, Calcutta. + +In the first distraction of grief it seemed as though her unequalled +promise had been entirely blighted, and as though she would be +remembered only by her single book. But as her father examined her +papers, one completed work after another revealed itself. First a +selection from the sonnets of the Comte de Grammont, translated into +English, turned up, and was printed in a Calcutta magazine; then some +fragments of an English story, which were printed in another Calcutta +magazine. Much more important, however, than any of these was a complete +romance, written in French, being the identical story for which her +sister Aru had proposed to make the illustrations. In the meantime Toru +was no sooner dead than she began to be famous. In May, 1878, there +appeared a second edition of the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields," with +a touching sketch of her death, by her father; and in 1879 was +published, under the editorial care of Mlle. Clarisse Bader, the romance +of "Le Journal de Mlle. D'Arvers," forming a handsome volume of 259 +pages. This book, begun, as it appears, before the family returned from +Europe, and finished nobody knows when, is an attempt to describe scenes +from modern French society, but it is less interesting as an experiment +of the fancy, than as a revelation of the mind of a young Hindu woman of +genius. The story is simple, clearly told, and interesting; the studies +of character have nothing French about them, but they are full of vigour +and originality. The description of the hero is most characteristically +Indian.-- + + Il est beau en effet. Sa taille est haute, mais quelques-uns la + trouveraient mince, sa chevelure noire est bouclee et tombe jusqu'a + la nuque; ses yeux noirs sont profonds et bien fendus, le front est + noble; la levre superieure, couverte par une moustache naissante et + noire, est parfaitement modelee; son menton a quelque chose de + severe; son teint est d'un blanc presque feminin, ce qui denote sa + haute naissance. + +In this description we seem to recognize some Surya or Soma of Hindu +mythology, and the final touch, meaningless as applied to an European, +reminds us that in India whiteness of skin has always been a sign of +aristocratic birth, from the days when it originally distinguished the +conquering Aryas from the indigenous race of the Dasyous. + +As a literary composition "Mlle. D'Arvers" deserves high commendation. +It deals with the ungovernable passion of two brothers for one placid +and beautiful girl, a passion which leads to fratricide and madness. +That it is a very melancholy and tragical story is obvious from this +brief sketch of its contents, but it is remarkable for coherence and +self-restraint no less than for vigour of treatment. Toru Dutt never +sinks to melodrama in the course of her extraordinary tale, and the +wonder is that she is not more often fantastic and unreal. + +But we believe that the original English poems, which we present to the +public for the first time to-day, will be ultimately found to +constitute Toru's chief legacy to posterity. These ballads form the last +and most matured of her writings, and were left so far fragmentary at +her death that the fourth and fifth in her projected series of nine were +not to be discovered in any form among her papers. It is probable that +she had not even commenced them. Her father, therefore, to give a +certain continuity to the series, has filled up these blanks with two +stories from the "Vishnupurana," which originally appeared respectively +in the "Calcutta Review" and in the "Bengal Magazine." These are +interesting, but a little rude in form, and they have not the same +peculiar value as the rhymed octo-syllabic ballads. In these last we see +Toru no longer attempting vainly, though heroically, to compete with +European literature on its own ground, but turning to the legends of her +own race and country for inspiration. No modern Oriental has given us +so strange an insight into the conscience of the Asiatic as is presented +in the stories of "Prehlad" and of "Savitri," or so quaint a piece of +religious fancy as the ballad of "Jogadhya Uma." The poetess seems in +these verses to be chanting to herself those songs of her mother's race +to which she always turned with tears of pleasure. They breathe a Vedic +solemnity and simplicity of temper, and are singularly devoid of that +littleness and frivolity which seem, if we may judge by a slight +experience, to be the bane of modern India. + +As to the merely technical character of these poems, it may be suggested +that in spite of much in them that is rough and inchoate, they show that +Toru was advancing in her mastery of English verse. Such a stanza as +this, selected out of many no less skilful, could hardly be recognized +as the work of one by whom the language was a late acquirement:-- + + What glorious trees! The sombre saul, + On which the eye delights to rest,-- + The betel-nut, a pillar tall, + With feathery branches for a crest,-- + The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,-- + The pale faint-scented bitter neem, + The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, + With flowers that have the ruby's gleam. + +In other passages, of course, the text reads like a translation from +some stirring ballad, and we feel that it gives but a faint and +discordant echo of the music welling in Toru's brain. For it must +frankly be confessed that in the brief May-day of her existence she had +not time to master our language as Blanco White did, or as Chamisso +mastered German. To the end of her days, fluent and graceful as she was, +she was not entirely conversant with English, especially with the +colloquial turns of modern speech. Often a very fine thought is spoiled +for hypercritical ears by the queer turn of expression which she has +innocently given to it. These faults are found to a much smaller degree +in her miscellaneous poems. Her sonnets, here printed for the first +time, seem to me to be of great beauty, and her longer piece entitled +"Our Casuarina Tree," needs no apology for its rich and mellifluous +numbers. + +It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost +in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honours which +need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, +and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced +so much of lasting worth. And her courage and fortitude were worthy of +her intelligence. Among "last words" of celebrated people, that which +her father has recorded, "It is only the physical pain that makes me +cry," is not the least remarkable, or the least significant of strong +character. It was to a native of our island, and to one ten years senior +to Toru, to whom it was said, in words more appropriate, surely, to her +than to Oldham, + + Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, + Still showed a quickness, and maturing time + But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime. + +That mellow sweetness was all that Toru lacked to perfect her as an +English poet, and of no other Oriental who has ever lived can the same +be said. When the history of the literature of our country comes to be +written, there is sure to be a page in it dedicated to this fragile +exotic blossom of song. + + EDMUND W. GOSSE. + 1881. + + + + +ANCIENT BALLADS OF HINDUSTAN. + + + + +I. + +SAVITRI. + + +PART I. + + Savitri was the only child + Of Madra's wise and mighty king; + Stern warriors, when they saw her, smiled, + As mountains smile to see the spring. + Fair as a lotus when the moon + Kisses its opening petals red, + After sweet showers in sultry June! + With happier heart, and lighter tread, + Chance strangers, having met her, past, + And often would they turn the head + A lingering second look to cast, + And bless the vision ere it fled. + + What was her own peculiar charm? + The soft black eyes, the raven hair, + The curving neck, the rounded arm, + All these are common everywhere. + Her charm was this--upon her face + Childlike and innocent and fair, + No man with thought impure or base + Could ever look;--the glory there, + The sweet simplicity and grace, + Abashed the boldest; but the good + God's purity there loved to trace, + Mirrored in dawning womanhood. + + In those far-off primeval days + Fair India's daughters were not pent + In closed zenanas. On her ways + Savitri at her pleasure went + Whither she chose,--and hour by hour + With young companions of her age, + She roamed the woods for fruit or flower, + Or loitered in some hermitage, + For to the Munis gray and old + Her presence was as sunshine glad, + They taught her wonders manifold + And gave her of the best they had. + + Her father let her have her way + In all things, whether high or low; + He feared no harm; he knew no ill + Could touch a nature pure as snow. + Long childless, as a priceless boon + He had obtained this child at last + By prayers, made morning, night, and noon + With many a vigil, many a fast; + Would Shiva his own gift recall, + Or mar its perfect beauty ever?-- + No, he had faith,--he gave her all + She wished, and feared and doubted never. + + And so she wandered where she pleased + In boyish freedom. Happy time! + No small vexations ever teased, + Nor crushing sorrows dimmed her prime. + One care alone, her father felt-- + Where should he find a fitting mate + For one so pure?--His thoughts long dwelt + On this as with his queen he sate. + "Ah, whom, dear wife, should we select?" + "Leave it to God," she answering cried, + "Savitri, may herself elect + Some day, her future lord and guide." + + Months passed, and lo, one summer morn + As to the hermitage she went + Through smiling fields of waving corn, + She saw some youths on sport intent, + Sons of the hermits, and their peers, + And one among them tall and lithe + Royal in port,--on whom the years + Consenting, shed a grace so blithe, + So frank and noble, that the eye + Was loth to quit that sun-browned face; + She looked and looked,--then gave a sigh, + And slackened suddenly her pace. + + What was the meaning--was it love? + Love at first sight, as poets sing, + Is then no fiction? Heaven above + Is witness, that the heart its king + Finds often like a lightning flash; + We play,--we jest,--we have no care,-- + When hark a step,--there comes no crash,-- + But life, or silent slow despair. + Their eyes just met,--Savitri past + Into the friendly Muni's hut, + Her heart-rose opened had at last-- + Opened no flower can ever shut. + + In converse with the gray-haired sage + She learnt the story of the youth, + His name and place and parentage-- + Of royal race he was in truth. + Satyavan was he hight,--his sire + Dyoumatsen had been Salva's king, + But old and blind, opponents dire + Had gathered round him in a ring + And snatched the sceptre from his hand; + Now,--with his queen and only son + He lived a hermit in the land, + And gentler hermit was there none. + + With many tears was said and heard + The story,--and with praise sincere + Of Prince Satyavan; every word + Sent up a flush on cheek and ear, + Unnoticed. Hark! The bells remind + 'Tis time to go,--she went away, + Leaving her virgin heart behind, + And richer for the loss. A ray, + Shot down from heaven, appeared to tinge + All objects with supernal light, + The thatches had a rainbow fringe, + The cornfields looked more green and bright. + + Savitri's first care was to tell + Her mother all her feelings new; + The queen her own fears to dispel + To the king's private chamber flew. + "Now what is it, my gentle queen, + That makes thee hurry in this wise?" + She told him, smiles and tears between, + All she had heard; the king with sighs + Sadly replied:--"I fear me much! + Whence is his race and what his creed? + Not knowing aught, can we in such + A matter delicate, proceed?" + + As if the king's doubts to allay, + Came Narad Muni to the place + A few days after. Old and gray, + All loved to see the gossip's face, + Great Brahma's son,--adored of men, + Long absent, doubly welcome he + Unto the monarch, hoping then + By his assistance, clear to see. + No god in heaven, nor king on earth, + But Narad knew his history,-- + The sun's, the moon's, the planets' birth + Was not to him a mystery. + + "Now welcome, welcome, dear old friend, + All hail, and welcome once again!" + The greeting had not reached its end, + When glided like a music-strain + Savitri's presence through the room.-- + "And who is this bright creature, say, + Whose radiance lights the chamber's gloom-- + Is she an Apsara or fay?" + "No son thy servant hath, alas! + This is my one,--my only child;"-- + "And married?"--"No."--"The seasons pass, + Make haste, O king,"--he said, and smiled. + + "That is the very theme, O sage, + In which thy wisdom ripe I need; + Seen hath she at the hermitage + A youth to whom in very deed + Her heart inclines."--"And who is he?" + "My daughter, tell his name and race, + Speak as to men who best love thee." + She turned to them her modest face, + And answered quietly and clear.-- + "Ah, no! ah, no!--It cannot be-- + Choose out another husband, dear,"-- + The Muni cried,--"or woe is me!" + + "And why should I? When I have given + My heart away, though but in thought, + Can I take back? Forbid it, Heaven! + It were a deadly sin, I wot. + And why should I? I know no crime + In him or his."--"Believe me, child, + My reasons shall be clear in time, + I speak not like a madman wild; + Trust me in this."--"I cannot break + A plighted faith,--I cannot bear + A wounded conscience."--"Oh, forsake + This fancy, hence may spring despair."-- + + "It may not be."--The father heard + By turns the speakers, and in doubt + Thus interposed a gentle word,-- + "Friend should to friend his mind speak out, + Is he not worthy? tell us."--"Nay, + All worthiness is in Satyavan, + And no one can my praise gainsay: + Of solar race--more god than man! + Great Soorasen, his ancestor, + And Dyoumatsen his father blind + Are known to fame: I can aver + No kings have been so good and kind." + + "Then where, O Muni, is the bar? + If wealth be gone, and kingdom lost, + His merit still remains a star, + Nor melts his lineage like the frost. + For riches, worldly power, or rank + I care not,--I would have my son + Pure, wise, and brave,--the Fates I thank + I see no hindrance, no, not one." + "Since thou insistest, King, to hear + The fatal truth,--I tell you,--I, + Upon this day as rounds the year + The young Prince Satyavan shall die." + + This was enough. The monarch knew + The future was no sealed book + To Brahma's son. A clammy dew + Spread on his brow,--he gently took + Savitri's palm in his, and said: + "No child can give away her hand, + A pledge is nought unsanctioned; + And here, if right I understand, + There was no pledge at all,--a thought, + A shadow,--barely crossed the mind-- + Unblamed, it may be clean forgot, + Before the gods it cannot bind. + + "And think upon the dreadful curse + Of widowhood; the vigils, fasts, + And penances; no life is worse + Than hopeless life,--the while it lasts. + Day follows day in one long round, + Monotonous and blank and drear; + Less painful were it to be bound + On some bleak rock, for aye to hear-- + Without one chance of getting free-- + The ocean's melancholy voice! + Mine be the sin,--if sin there be, + But thou must make a different choice." + + In the meek grace of virginhood + Unblanched her cheek, undimmed her eye, + Savitri, like a statue, stood, + Somewhat austere was her reply. + "Once, and once only, all submit + To Destiny,--'tis God's command; + Once, and once only, so 'tis writ, + Shall woman pledge her faith and hand; + Once, and once only, can a sire + Unto his well-loved daughter say, + In presence of the witness fire, + I give thee to this man away. + + "Once, and once only, have I given + My heart and faith--'tis past recall; + With conscience none have ever striven, + And none may strive, without a fall. + Not the less solemn was my vow + Because unheard, and oh! the sin + Will not be less, if I should now + Deny the feeling felt within. + Unwedded to my dying day + I must, my father dear, remain; + 'Tis well, if so thou will'st, but say + Can man balk Fate, or break its chain? + + "If Fate so rules, that I should feel + The miseries of a widow's life, + Can man's device the doom repeal? + Unequal seems to be a strife, + Between Humanity and Fate; + None have on earth what they desire; + Death comes to all or soon or late; + And peace is but a wandering fire; + Expediency leads wild astray; + The Right must be our guiding star; + Duty our watchword, come what may; + Judge for me, friends,--as wiser far." + + She said, and meekly looked to both. + The father, though he patient heard, + To give the sanction still seemed loth, + But Narad Muni took the word. + "Bless thee, my child! 'Tis not for us + To question the Almighty will, + Though cloud on cloud loom ominous, + In gentle rain they may distil." + At this, the monarch--"Be it so! + I sanction what my friend approves; + All praise to Him, whom praise we owe; + My child shall wed the youth she loves." + + +PART II. + + Great joy in Madra. Blow the shell + The marriage over to declare! + And now to forest-shades where dwell + The hermits, wend the wedded pair. + The doors of every house are hung + With gay festoons of leaves and flowers; + And blazing banners broad are flung, + And trumpets blown from castle towers! + Slow the procession makes its ground + Along the crowded city street: + And blessings in a storm of sound + At every step the couple greet. + + Past all the houses, past the wall, + Past gardens gay, and hedgerows trim, + Past fields, where sinuous brooklets small + With molten silver to the brim + Glance in the sun's expiring light, + Past frowning hills, past pastures wild, + At last arises on the sight, + Foliage on foliage densely piled, + The woods primeval, where reside + The holy hermits;--henceforth here + Must live the fair and gentle bride: + But this thought brought with it no fear. + + Fear! With her husband by her still? + Or weariness! Where all was new? + Hark! What a welcome from the hill! + There gathered are a hermits few. + Screaming the peacocks upward soar; + Wondering the timid wild deer gaze; + And from Briarean fig-trees hoar + Look down the monkeys in amaze + As the procession moves along; + And now behold, the bridegroom's sire + With joy comes forth amid the throng;-- + What reverence his looks inspire! + + Blind! With his partner by his side! + For them it was a hallowed time! + Warmly they greet the modest bride + With her dark eyes and front sublime! + One only grief they feel.--Shall she + Who dwelt in palace halls before, + Dwell in their huts beneath the tree? + Would not their hard life press her sore;-- + The manual labour, and the want + Of comforts that her rank became, + Valkala robes, meals poor and scant, + All undermine the fragile frame? + + To see the bride, the hermits' wives + And daughters gathered to the huts, + Women of pure and saintly lives! + And there beneath the betel-nuts + Tall trees like pillars, they admire + Her beauty, and congratulate + The parents, that their hearts' desire + Had thus accorded been by Fate, + And Satyavan their son had found + In exile lone, a fitting mate: + And gossips add,--good signs abound; + Prosperity shall on her wait. + + Good signs in features, limbs, and eyes, + That old experience can discern, + Good signs on earth and in the skies, + That it could read at every turn. + And now with rice and gold, all bless + The bride and bridegroom,--and they go + Happy in others' happiness, + Each to her home, beneath the glow + Of the late risen moon that lines + With silver, all the ghost-like trees, + Sals, tamarisks, and South-Sea pines, + And palms whose plumes wave in the breeze. + + False was the fear, the parents felt, + Savitri liked her new life much; + Though in a lowly home she dwelt + Her conduct as a wife was such + As to illumine all the place; + She sickened not, nor sighed, nor pined; + But with simplicity and grace + Discharged each household duty kind. + Strong in all manual work,--and strong + To comfort, cherish, help, and pray, + The hours past peacefully along + And rippling bright, day followed day. + + At morn Satyavan to the wood + Early repaired and gathered flowers + And fruits, in its wild solitude, + And fuel,--till advancing hours + Apprised him that his frugal meal + Awaited him. Ah, happy time! + Savitri, who with fervid zeal + Had said her orisons sublime, + And fed the Bramins and the birds, + Now ministered. Arcadian love, + With tender smiles and honeyed words, + All bliss of earth thou art above! + + And yet there was a spectre grim, + A skeleton in Savitri's heart, + Looming in shadow, somewhat dim, + But which would never thence depart. + It was that fatal, fatal speech + Of Narad Muni. As the days + Slipt smoothly past, each after each, + In private she more fervent prays. + But there is none to share her fears, + For how could she communicate + The sad cause of her bidden tears? + The doom approached, the fatal date. + + No help from man. Well, be it so! + No sympathy,--it matters not! + God can avert the heavy blow! + He answers worship. Thus she thought. + And so, her prayers, by day and night, + Like incense rose unto the throne; + Nor did she vow neglect or rite + The Veds enjoin or helpful own. + Upon the fourteenth of the moon, + As nearer came the time of dread, + In Joystee, that is May or June, + She vowed her vows and Bramins fed. + + And now she counted e'en the hours, + As to Eternity they past; + O'er head the dark cloud darker lowers, + The year is rounding full at last. + To-day,--to-day,--with doleful sound + The word seem'd in her ear to ring! + O breaking heart,--thy pain profound + Thy husband knows not, nor the king, + Exiled and blind, nor yet the queen; + But One knows in His place above. + To-day,--to-day,--it will be seen + Which shall be victor, Death or Love! + + Incessant in her prayers from morn, + The noon is safely tided,--then + A gleam of faint, faint hope is born, + But the heart fluttered like a wren + That sees the shadow of the hawk + Sail on,--and trembles in affright, + Lest a down-rushing swoop should mock + Its fortune, and o'erwhelm it quite. + The afternoon has come and gone + And brought no change;--should she rejoice? + The gentle evening's shades come on, + When hark!--She hears her husband's voice! + + "The twilight is most beautiful! + Mother, to gather fruit I go, + And fuel,--for the air is cool + Expect me in an hour or so." + "The night, my child, draws on apace," + The mother's voice was heard to say, + "The forest paths are hard to trace + In darkness,--till the morrow stay." + "Not hard for me, who can discern + The forest-paths in any hour, + Blindfold I could with ease return, + And day has not yet lost its power." + + "He goes then," thought Savitri, "thus + With unseen bands Fate draws us on + Unto the place appointed us; + We feel no outward force,--anon + We go to marriage or to death + At a determined time and place; + We are her playthings; with her breath + She blows us where she lists in space. + What is my duty? It is clear, + My husband I must follow; so, + While he collects his forest gear + Let me permission get to go." + + His sire she seeks,--the blind old king, + And asks from him permission straight. + "My daughter, night with ebon wing + Hovers above; the hour is late. + My son is active, brave, and strong, + Conversant with the woods, he knows + Each path; methinks it would be wrong + For thee to venture where he goes, + Weak and defenceless as thou art, + At such a time. If thou wert near + Thou might'st embarrass him, dear heart, + Alone, he would not have a fear." + + So spake the hermit-monarch blind, + His wife too, entering in, exprest + The self-same thoughts in words as kind, + And begged Savitri hard, to rest. + "Thy recent fasts and vigils, child, + Make thee unfit to undertake + This journey to the forest wild." + But nothing could her purpose shake. + She urged the nature of her vows, + Required her now the rites were done + To follow where her loving spouse + Might e'en a chance of danger run. + + "Go then, my child,--we give thee leave, + But with thy husband quick return, + Before the flickering shades of eve + Deepen to night, and planets burn, + And forest-paths become obscure, + Lit only by their doubtful rays. + The gods, who guard all women pure, + Bless thee and kept thee in thy ways, + And safely bring thee and thy lord!" + On this she left, and swiftly ran + Where with his saw in lieu of sword, + And basket, plodded Satyavan. + + Oh, lovely are the woods at dawn, + And lovely in the sultry noon, + But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn + The twilight and a crescent moon + Change all asperities of shape, + And tone all colours softly down, + With a blue veil of silvered crape! + Lo! By that hill which palm-trees crown, + Down the deep glade with perfume rife + From buds that to the dews expand, + The husband and the faithful wife + Pass to dense jungle,--hand in hand. + + Satyavan bears beside his saw + A forked stick to pluck the fruit, + His wife, the basket lined with straw; + He talks, but she is almost mute, + And very pale. The minutes pass; + The basket has no further space, + Now on the fruits they flowers amass + That with their red flush all the place + While twilight lingers; then for wood + He saws the branches of the trees, + The noise, heard in the solitude, + Grates on its soft, low harmonies. + + And all the while one dreadful thought + Haunted Savitri's anxious mind, + Which would have fain its stress forgot; + It came as chainless as the wind, + Oft and again: thus on the spot + Marked with his heart-blood oft comes back + The murdered man, to see the clot! + Death's final blow,--the fatal wrack + Of every hope, whence will it fall? + For fall, by Narad's words, it must; + Persistent rising to appall + This thought its horrid presence thrust. + + Sudden the noise is hushed,--a pause! + Satyavan lets the weapon drop-- + Too well Savitri knows the cause, + He feels not well, the work must stop. + A pain is in his head,--a pain + As if he felt the cobra's fangs, + He tries to look around,--in vain, + A mist before his vision hangs; + The trees whirl dizzily around + In a fantastic fashion wild; + His throat and chest seem iron-bound, + He staggers, like a sleepy child. + + "My head, my head!--Savitri, dear, + This pain is frightful. Let me lie + Here on the turf." Her voice was clear + And very calm was her reply, + As if her heart had banished fear: + "Lean, love, thy head upon my breast," + And as she helped him, added--"here, + So shall thou better breathe and rest." + "Ah me, this pain,--'tis getting dark, + I see no more,--can this be death? + What means this, gods?--Savitri, mark, + My hands wax cold, and fails my breath." + + "It may be but a swoon." "Ah! no-- + Arrows are piercing through my heart,-- + Farewell my love! for I must go, + This, this is death." He gave one start + And then lay quiet on her lap, + Insensible to sight and sound, + Breathing his last.... The branches flap + And fireflies glimmer all around; + His head upon her breast; his frame + Part on her lap, part on the ground, + Thus lies he. Hours pass. Still the same, + The pair look statues, magic-bound. + + +PART III. + + Death in his palace holds his court, + His messengers move to and fro, + Each of his mission makes report, + And takes the royal orders,--Lo, + Some slow before his throne appear + And humbly in the Presence kneel: + "Why hath the Prince not been brought here? + The hour is past; nor is appeal + Allowed against foregone decree; + There is the mandate with the seal! + How comes it ye return to me + Without him? Shame upon your zeal!" + + "O King, whom all men fear,--he lies + Deep in the dark Medhya wood, + We fled from thence in wild surprise, + And left him in that solitude. + We dared not touch him, for there sits, + Beside him, lighting all the place, + A woman fair, whose brow permits + In its austerity of grace + And purity,--no creatures foul + As we seemed, by her loveliness, + Or soul of evil, ghost or ghoul, + To venture close, and far, far less + + "To stretch a hand, and bear the dead; + We left her leaning on her hand, + Thoughtful; no tear-drop had she shed, + But looked the goddess of the land, + With her meek air of mild command."-- + "Then on this errand I must go + Myself, and bear my dreaded brand, + This duty unto Fate I owe; + I know the merits of the prince, + But merit saves not from the doom + Common to man; his death long since + Was destined in his beauty's bloom." + + +PART IV. + + As still Savitri sat beside + Her husband dying,--dying fast, + She saw a stranger slowly glide + Beneath the boughs that shrunk aghast. + Upon his head he wore a crown + That shimmered in the doubtful light; + His vestment scarlet reached low down, + His waist, a golden girdle dight. + His skin was dark as bronze; his face + Irradiate, and yet severe; + His eyes had much of love and grace, + But glowed so bright, they filled with fear. + + A string was in the stranger's hand + Noosed at its end. Her terrors now + Savitri scarcely could command. + Upon the sod beneath a bough, + She gently laid her husband's head, + And in obeisance bent her brow. + "No mortal form is thine,"--she said, + "Beseech thee say what god art thou? + And what can be thine errand here?" + "Savitri, for thy prayers, thy faith, + Thy frequent vows, thy fasts severe, + I answer,--list,--my name is Death. + + "And I am come myself to take + Thy husband from this earth away, + And he shall cross the doleful lake + In my own charge, and let me say + To few such honours I accord, + But his pure life and thine require + No less from me." The dreadful sword + Like lightning glanced one moment dire; + And then the inner man was tied, + The soul no bigger than the thumb, + To be borne onwards by his side:-- + Savitri all the while stood dumb. + + But when the god moved slowly on + To gain his own dominions dim, + Leaving the body there--anon + Savitri meekly followed him, + Hoping against all hope; he turned + And looked surprised. "Go back, my child!" + Pale, pale the stars above them burned, + More weird the scene had grown and wild; + "It is not for the living--hear! + To follow where the dead must go, + Thy duty lies before thee clear, + What thou shouldst do, the Shasters show. + + "The funeral rites that they ordain + And sacrifices must take up + Thy first sad moments; not in vain + Is held to thee this bitter cup; + Its lessons thou shall learn in time! + All that thou _canst_ do, thou hast done + For thy dear lord. Thy love sublime + My deepest sympathy hath won. + Return, for thou hast come as far + As living creature may. Adieu! + Let duty be thy guiding star, + As ever. To thyself be true!" + + "Where'er my husband dear is led, + Or journeys of his own free will, + I too must go, though darkness spread + Across my path, portending ill, + 'Tis thus my duty I have read! + If I am wrong, oh! with me bear; + But do not bid me backward tread + My way forlorn,--for I can dare + All things but that; ah! pity me, + A woman frail, too sorely tried! + And let me, let me follow thee, + O gracious god,--whate'er betide. + + "By all things sacred, I entreat, + By Penitence that purifies, + By prompt Obedience, full, complete, + To spiritual masters, in the eyes + Of gods so precious, by the love + I bear my husband, by the faith + That looks from earth to heaven above, + And by thy own great name O Death, + And all thy kindness, bid me not + To leave thee, and to go my way, + But let me follow as I ought + Thy steps and his, as best I may. + + "I know that in this transient world + All is delusion,--nothing true; + I know its shows are mists unfurled + To please and vanish. To renew + Its bubble joys, be magic bound + In _Maya's_ network frail and fair, + Is not my aim! The gladsome sound + Of husband, brother, friend, is air + To such as know that all must die, + And that at last the time must come, + When eye shall speak no more to eye + And Love cry,--Lo, this is my sum. + + "I know in such a world as this + No one can gain his heart's desire, + Or pass the years in perfect bliss; + Like gold we must be tried by fire; + And each shall suffer as he acts + And thinks,--his own sad burden bear; + No friends can help,--his sins are facts + That nothing can annul or square, + And he must bear their consequence. + Can I my husband save by rites? + Ah, no,--that were a vain pretence, + Justice eternal strict requites. + + "He for his deeds shall get his due + As I for mine: thus here each soul + Is its own friend if it pursue + The right, and run straight for the goal; + But its own worst and direst foe + If it choose evil, and in tracks + Forbidden, for its pleasure go. + Who knows not this, true wisdom lacks, + Virtue should be the turn and end + Of every life, all else is vain, + Duty should be its dearest friend + If higher life, it would attain." + + "So sweet thy words ring on mine ear, + Gentle Savitri, that I fain + Would give some sign to make it clear + Thou hast not prayed to me in vain. + Satyavan's life I may not grant, + Nor take before its term thy life, + But I am not all adamant, + I feel for thee, thou faithful wife! + Ask thou aught else, and let it be + Some good thing for thyself or thine, + And I shall give it, child, to thee, + If any power on earth be mine." + + "Well be it so. My husband's sire, + Hath lost his sight and fair domain, + Give to his eyes their former fire, + And place him on his throne again." + "It shall be done. Go back, my child, + The hour wears late, the wind feels cold, + The path becomes more weird and wild, + Thy feet are torn, there's blood, behold! + Thou feelest faint from weariness, + Oh try to follow me no more; + Go home, and with thy presence bless + Those who thine absence there deplore." + + "No weariness, O Death, I feel, + And how should I, when by the side + Of Satyavan? In woe and weal + To be a helpmate swears the bride. + This is my place; by solemn oath + Wherever thou conductest him + I too must go, to keep my troth; + And if the eye at times should brim, + 'Tis human weakness, give me strength + My work appointed to fulfil, + That I may gain the crown at length + The gods give those who do their will. + + "The power of goodness is so great + We pray to feel its influence + For ever on us. It is late, + And the strange landscape awes my sense; + But I would fain with thee go on, + And hear thy voice so true and kind; + The false lights that on objects shone + Have vanished, and no longer blind, + Thanks to thy simple presence. Now + I feel a fresher air around, + And see the glory of that brow + With flashing rubies fitly crowned. + + "Men call thee Yama--conqueror, + Because it is against their will + They follow thee,--and they abhor + The Truth which thou wouldst aye instil. + If they thy nature knew aright, + O god, all other gods above! + And that thou conquerest in the fight + By patience, kindness, mercy, love, + And not by devastating wrath, + They would not shrink in childlike fright + To see thy shadow on their path, + But hail thee as sick souls the light." + + "Thy words, Savitri, greet mine ear + As sweet as founts that murmur low + To one who in the deserts drear + With parched tongue moves faint and slow, + Because thy talk is heart-sincere, + Without hypocrisy or guile; + Demand another boon, my dear, + But not of those forbad erewhile, + And I shall grant it, ere we part: + Lo, the stars pale,--the way is long, + Receive thy boon, and homewards start, + For ah, poor child, thou art not strong." + + "Another boon! My sire the king + Beside myself hath children none, + Oh grant that from his stock may spring + A hundred boughs." "It shall be done. + He shall be blest with many a son + Who his old palace shall rejoice." + "Each heart-wish from thy goodness won, + If I am still allowed a choice, + I fain thy voice would ever hear, + Reluctant am I still to part, + The way seems short when thou art near + And Satyavan, my heart's dear heart. + + "Of all the pleasures given on earth + The company of the good is best, + For weariness has never birth + In such a commerce sweet and blest; + The sun runs on its wonted course, + The earth its plenteous treasure yields, + All for their sake, and by the force + Their prayer united ever wields. + Oh let me, let me ever dwell + Amidst the good, where'er it be, + Whether in lowly hermit-cell + Or in some spot beyond the sea. + + "The favours man accords to men + Are never fruitless, from them rise + A thousand acts beyond our ken + That float like incense to the skies; + For benefits can ne'er efface, + They multiply and widely spread, + And honour follows on their trace. + Sharp penances, and vigils dread, + Austerities, and wasting fasts, + Create an empire, and the blest + Long as this spiritual empire lasts + Become the saviours of the rest." + + "O thou endowed with every grace + And every virtue,--thou whose soul + Appears upon thy lovely face, + May the great gods who all control + Send thee their peace. I too would give + One favour more before I go; + Ask something for thyself, and live + Happy, and dear to all below, + Till summoned to the bliss above. + Savitri ask, and ask unblamed."-- + She took the clue, felt Death was Love, + For no exceptions now he named, + + And boldly said,--"Thou knowest, Lord, + The inmost hearts and thoughts of all! + There is no need to utter word, + Upon thy mercy sole, I call. + If speech be needful to obtain + Thy grace,--oh hear a wife forlorn, + Let my Satyavan live again + And children unto us be born, + Wise, brave, and valiant." "From thy stock + A hundred families shall spring + As lasting as the solid rock, + Each son of thine shall be a king." + + As thus he spoke, he loosed the knot + The soul of Satyavan that bound, + And promised further that their lot + In pleasant places should be found + Thenceforth, and that they both should live + Four centuries, to which the name + Of fair Savitri, men would give,-- + And then he vanished in a flame. + "Adieu, great god!" She took the soul, + No bigger than the human thumb, + And running swift, soon reached her goal, + Where lay the body stark and dumb. + + She lifted it with eager hands + And as before, when he expired, + She placed the head upon the bands + That bound her breast which hope new-fired, + And which alternate rose and fell; + Then placed his soul upon his heart + Whence like a bee it found its cell, + And lo, he woke with sudden start! + His breath came low at first, then deep, + With an unquiet look he gazed, + As one awaking from a sleep + Wholly bewildered and amazed. + + +PART V. + + As consciousness came slowly back + He recognised his loving wife-- + "Who was it, Love, through regions black + Where hardly seemed a sign of life + Carried me bound? Methinks I view + The dark face yet--a noble face, + He had a robe of scarlet hue, + And ruby crown; far, far through space + He bore me, on and on, but now,"-- + "Thou hast been sleeping, but the man + With glory on his kingly brow, + Is gone, thou seest, Satyavan! + + "O my beloved,--thou art free! + Sleep which had bound thee fast, hath left + Thine eyelids. Try thyself to be! + For late of every sense bereft + Thou seemedst in a rigid trance; + And if thou canst, my love, arise, + Regard the night, the dark expanse + Spread out before us, and the skies." + Supported by her, looked he long + Upon the landscape dim outspread, + And like some old remembered song + The past came back,--a tangled thread. + + "I had a pain, as if an asp + Gnawed in my brain, and there I lay + Silent, for oh! I could but gasp, + Till someone came that bore away + My spirit into lands unknown: + Thou, dear, who watchedst beside me,--say + Was it a dream from elfland blown, + Or very truth,--my doubts to stay." + "O Love, look round,--how strange and dread + The shadows of the high trees fall, + Homeward our path now let us tread, + To-morrow I shall tell thee all. + + "Arise! Be strong! Gird up thy loins! + Think of our parents, dearest friend! + The solemn darkness haste enjoins, + Not likely is it soon to end. + Hark! Jackals still at distance howl, + The day, long, long will not appear, + Lo, wild fierce eyes through bushes scowl, + Summon thy courage, lest I fear. + Was that the tiger's sullen growl? + What means this rush of many feet? + Can creatures wild so near us prowl? + Rise up, and hasten homewards, sweet!" + + He rose, but could not find the track, + And then, too well, Savitri knew + His wonted force had not come back. + She made a fire, and from the dew + Essayed to shelter him. At last + He nearly was himself again,-- + Then vividly rose all the past, + And with the past, new fear and pain. + "What anguish must my parents feel + Who wait for me the livelong hours! + Their sore wound let us haste to heal + Before it festers, past our powers: + + "For broken-hearted, they may die! + Oh hasten dear,--now I am strong, + No more I suffer, let us fly, + Ah me! each minute seems so long. + They told me once, they could not live + Without me, in their feeble age, + Their food and water I must give + And help them in the last sad stage + Of earthly life, and that Beyond + In which a son can help by rites. + Oh what a love is theirs--how fond! + Whom now Despair, perhaps, benights. + + "Infirm herself, my mother dear + Now guides, methinks, the tottering feet + Of my blind father, for they hear + And hasten eagerly to meet + Our fancied steps. O faithful wife + Let us on wings fly back again, + Upon their safety hangs my life!" + He tried his feelings to restrain, + But like some river swelling high + They swept their barriers weak and vain, + Sudden there burst a fearful cry, + Then followed tears,--like autumn rain. + + Hush! Hark, a sweet voice rises clear! + A voice of earnestness intense, + "If I have worshipped Thee in fear + And duly paid with reverence + The solemn sacrifices,--hear! + Send consolation, and thy peace + Eternal, to our parents dear, + That their anxieties may cease. + Oh, ever hath I loved Thy truth, + Therefore on Thee I dare to call, + Help us, this night, and them, for sooth + Without thy help, we perish all." + + She took in hers Satyavan's hand, + She gently wiped his falling tears, + "This weakness, Love, I understand! + Courage!" She smiled away his fears. + "Now we shall go, for thou art strong." + She helped him rise up by her side + And led him like a child along, + He, wistfully the basket eyed + Laden with fruit and flowers. "Not now, + To-morrow we shall fetch it hence." + And so, she hung it on a bough, + "I'll bear thy saw for our defence." + + In one fair hand the saw she took, + The other with a charming grace + She twined around him, and her look + She turned upwards to his face. + Thus aiding him she felt anew + His bosom beat against her own-- + More firm his step, more clear his view, + More self-possessed his words and tone + Became, as swift the minutes past, + And now the pathway he discerns, + And 'neath the trees, they hurry fast, + For Hope's fair light before them burns. + + Under the faint beams of the stars + How beautiful appeared the flowers, + Light scarlet, flecked with golden bars + Of the palasas,[1] in the bowers + That Nature there herself had made + Without the aid of man. At times + Trees on their path cast densest shade, + And nightingales sang mystic rhymes + Their fears and sorrows to assuage. + Where two paths met, the north they chose, + As leading to the hermitage, + And soon before them, dim it rose. + + Here let us end. For all may guess + The blind old king received his sight, + And ruled again with gentleness + The country that was his by right; + And that Savitri's royal sire + Was blest with many sons,--a race + Whom poets praised for martial fire, + And every peaceful gift and grace. + As for Savitri, to this day + Her name is named, when couples wed, + And to the bride the parents say, + Be thou like her, in heart and head. + + +[1] _Butea frondosa._ + + + + +II. + +LAKSHMAN. + + + "Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry! + It is,--it is my husband's voice! + Oh hasten, to his succour fly, + No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice. + He calls on thee, perhaps his foes + Environ him on all sides round, + That wail,--it means death's final throes! + Why standest thou, as magic-bound? + + "Is this a time for thought,--oh gird + Thy bright sword on, and take thy bow! + He heeds not, hears not any word, + Evil hangs over us, I know! + Swift in decision, prompt in deed, + Brave unto rashness, can this be, + The man to whom all looked at need? + Is it my brother, that I see! + + "Ah no, and I must run alone, + For further here I cannot stay; + Art thou transformed to blind dumb stone! + Wherefore this impious, strange delay! + That cry,--that cry,--it seems to ring + Still in my ears,--I cannot bear + Suspense; if help we fail to bring + His death at least we both can share." + + "Oh calm thyself, Videhan Queen, + No cause is there for any fear, + Hast thou his prowess never seen? + Wipe off for shame that dastard tear! + What being of demonian birth + Could ever brave his mighty arm? + Is there a creature on the earth + That dares to work our hero harm? + + "The lion and the grisly bear + Cower when they see his royal look, + Sun-staring eagles of the air + His glance of anger cannot brook, + Pythons and cobras at his tread + To their most secret coverts glide, + Bowed to the dust each serpent head + Erect before in hooded pride. + + "Rakshases, Danavs, demons, ghosts, + Acknowledge in their hearts his might, + And slink to their remotest coasts, + In terror at his very sight. + Evil to him! Oh fear it not, + Whatever foes against him rise! + Banish for aye, the foolish thought, + And be thyself,--bold, great, and wise. + + "He call for help! Canst thou believe + He like a child would shriek for aid + Or pray for respite or reprieve-- + Not of such metal is he made! + Delusive was that piercing cry,-- + Some trick of magic by the foe; + He has a work,--he cannot die, + Beseech me not from hence to go. + + "For here beside thee, as a guard + 'Twas he commanded me to stay, + And dangers with my life to ward + If they should come across thy way. + Send me not hence, for in this wood + Bands scattered of the giants lurk, + Who on their wrongs and vengeance brood, + And wait the hour their will to work." + + "Oh shame! And canst thou make my weal + A plea for lingering! Now I know + What thou art Lakshman! And I feel + Far better were an open foe. + Art thou a coward? I have seen + Thy bearing in the battle-fray + Where flew the death-fraught arrows keen, + Else had I judged thee so to-day. + + "But then thy leader stood beside! + Dazzles the cloud when shines the sun, + Reft of his radiance, see it glide + A shapeless mass of vapours dun; + So of thy courage,--or if not, + The matter is far darker dyed, + What makes thee loth to leave this spot? + Is there a motive thou wouldst hide? + + "He perishes--well, let him die! + His wife henceforth shall be mine own! + Can that thought deep imbedded lie + Within thy heart's most secret zone! + Search well and see! one brother takes + His kingdom,--one would take his wife! + A fair partition!--But it makes + Me shudder, and abhor my life. + + "Art thou in secret league with those + Who from his hope the kingdom rent? + A spy from his ignoble foes + To track him in his banishment? + And wouldst thou at his death rejoice? + I know thou wouldst, or sure ere now + When first thou heardst that well-known voice + Thou shouldst have run to aid, I trow. + + "Learn this,--whatever comes may come, + But I shall not survive my Love,-- + Of all my thoughts here is the sum! + Witness it gods in heaven above. + If fire can burn, or water drown, + I follow him:--choose what thou wilt, + Truth with its everlasting crown, + Or falsehood, treachery, and guilt. + + "Remain here, with a vain pretence + Of shielding me from wrong and shame, + Or go and die in his defence + And leave behind a noble name. + Choose what thou wilt,--I urge no more, + My pathway lies before me clear, + I did not know thy mind before, + I know thee now,--and have no fear." + + She said and proudly from him turned,-- + Was this the gentle Sita? No. + Flames from her eyes shot forth and burned, + The tears therein had ceased to flow. + "Hear me, O Queen, ere I depart, + No longer can I bear thy words, + They lacerate my inmost heart + And torture me, like poisoned swords. + + "Have I deserved this at thine hand? + Of lifelong loyalty and truth + Is this the meed? I understand + Thy feelings, Sita, and in sooth + I blame thee not,--but thou mightst be + Less rash in judgement. Look! I go, + Little I care what comes to me + Wert thou but safe,--God keep thee so! + + "In going hence I disregard + The plainest orders of my chief, + A deed for me,--a soldier,--hard + And deeply painful, but thy grief + And language, wild and wrong, allow + No other course. Mine be the crime, + And mine alone,--but oh, do thou + Think better of me from this time. + + "Here with an arrow, lo, I trace + A magic circle ere I leave, + No evil thing within this space + May come to harm thee or to grieve. + Step not, for aught, across the line, + Whatever thou mayst see or hear, + So shalt thou balk the bad design + Of every enemy I fear. + + "And now farewell! What thou hast said, + Though it has broken quite my heart, + So that I wish that I were dead-- + I would before, O Queen, we part + Freely forgive, for well I know + That grief and fear have made thee wild, + We part as friends,--is it not so?" + And speaking thus,--he sadly smiled. + + "And oh ye sylvan gods that dwell + Among these dim and sombre shades, + Whose voices in the breezes swell + And blend with noises of cascades, + Watch over Sita, whom alone + I leave, and keep her safe from harm, + Till we return unto our own, + I and my brother, arm in arm. + + "For though ill omens round us rise + And frighten her dear heart, I feel + That he is safe. Beneath the skies + His equal is not,--and his heel + Shall tread all adversaries down, + Whoever they may chance to be.-- + Farewell, O Sita! Blessings crown + And Peace for ever rest with thee!" + + He said, and straight his weapons took + His bow and arrows pointed keen, + Kind,--nay, indulgent,--was his look, + No trace of anger there was seen, + Only a sorrow dark, that seemed + To deepen his resolve to dare + All dangers. Hoarse the vulture screamed, + As out he strode with dauntless air. + + + + +III. + +JOGADHYA UMA. + + + "Shell-bracelets ho! Shell-bracelets ho! + Fair maids and matrons come and buy!" + Along the road, in morning's glow, + The pedlar raised his wonted cry. + The road ran straight, a red, red line, + To Khirogram, for cream renowned, + Through pasture-meadows where the kine, + In knee-deep grass, stood magic bound + And half awake, involved in mist, + That floated in dun coils profound, + Till by the sudden sunbeams kist + Rich rainbow hues broke all around. + + "Shell-bracelets ho! Shell-bracelets ho!" + The roadside trees still dripped with dew, + And hung their blossoms like a show. + Who heard the cry? 'Twas but a few, + A ragged herd-boy, here and there, + With his long stick and naked feet; + A ploughman wending to his care, + The field from which he hopes the wheat; + An early traveller, hurrying fast + To the next town; an urchin slow + Bound for the school; these heard and past, + Unheeding all,--"Shell-bracelets ho!" + + Pellucid spread a lake-like tank + Beside the road now lonelier still, + High on three sides arose the bank + Which fruit-trees shadowed at their will; + Upon the fourth side was the Ghat, + With its broad stairs of marble white, + And at the entrance-arch there sat, + Full face against the morning light, + A fair young woman with large eyes, + And dark hair falling to her zone, + She heard the pedlar's cry arise, + And eager seemed his ware to own. + + "Shell-bracelets ho! See, maiden see! + The rich enamel sunbeam-kist! + Happy, oh happy, shalt thou be, + Let them but clasp that slender wrist; + These bracelets are a mighty charm, + They keep a lover ever true, + And widowhood avert, and harm, + Buy them, and thou shalt never rue. + Just try them on!"--She stretched her hand, + "Oh what a nice and lovely fit! + No fairer hand, in all the land, + And lo! the bracelet matches it." + + Dazzled the pedlar on her gazed + Till came the shadow of a fear, + While she the bracelet arm upraised + Against the sun to view more clear. + Oh she was lovely, but her look + Had something of a high command + That filled with awe. Aside she shook + Intruding curls by breezes fanned + And blown across her brows and face, + And asked the price, which when she heard + She nodded, and with quiet grace + For payment to her home referred. + + "And where, O maiden, is thy house? + But no, that wrist-ring has a tongue, + No maiden art thou, but a spouse, + Happy, and rich, and fair, and young." + "Far otherwise, my lord is poor, + And him at home thou shalt not find; + Ask for my father; at the door + Knock loudly; he is deaf, but kind. + Seest thou that lofty gilded spire + Above these tufts of foliage green? + That is our place; its point of fire + Will guide thee o'er the tract between." + + "That is the temple spire."--"Yes, there + We live; my father is the priest, + The manse is near, a building fair + But lowly, to the temple's east. + When thou hast knocked, and seen him, say, + His daughter, at Dhamaser Ghat, + Shell-bracelets bought from thee to-day, + And he must pay so much for that. + Be sure, he will not let thee pass + Without the value, and a meal, + If he demur, or cry alas! + No money hath he,--then reveal, + + "Within the small box, marked with streaks + Of bright vermilion, by the shrine, + The key whereof has lain for weeks + Untouched, he'll find some coin,--'tis mine. + That will enable him to pay + The bracelet's price, now fare thee well!" + She spoke, the pedlar went away, + Charmed with her voice, as by some spell; + While she left lonely there, prepared + To plunge into the water pure, + And like a rose her beauty bared, + From all observance quite secure. + + Not weak she seemed, nor delicate, + Strong was each limb of flexile grace, + And full the bust; the mien elate, + Like hers, the goddess of the chase + On Latmos hill,--and oh, the face + Framed in its cloud of floating hair, + No painter's hand might hope to trace + The beauty and the glory there! + Well might the pedlar look with awe, + For though her eyes were soft, a ray + Lit them at times, which kings who saw + Would never dare to disobey. + + Onwards through groves the pedlar sped + Till full in front the sunlit spire + Arose before him. Paths which led + To gardens trim in gay attire + Lay all around. And lo! the manse, + Humble but neat with open door! + He paused, and blest the lucky chance + That brought his bark to such a shore. + Huge straw ricks, log huts full of grain, + Sleek cattle, flowers, a tinkling bell, + Spoke in a language sweet and plain, + "Here smiling Peace and Plenty dwell." + + Unconsciously he raised his cry, + "Shell-bracelets ho!" And at his voice + Looked out the priest, with eager eye, + And made his heart at once rejoice. + "Ho, _Sankha_ pedlar! Pass not by, + But step thou in, and share the food + Just offered on our altar high, + If thou art in a hungry mood. + Welcome are all to this repast! + The rich and poor, the high and low! + Come, wash thy feet, and break thy fast, + Then on thy journey strengthened go." + + "Oh thanks, good priest! Observance due + And greetings! May thy name be blest! + I came on business, but I knew, + Here might be had both food and rest + Without a charge; for all the poor + Ten miles around thy sacred shrine + Know that thou keepest open door, + And praise that generous hand of thine: + But let my errand first be told, + For bracelets sold to thine this day, + So much thou owest me in gold, + Hast thou the ready cash to pay? + + "The bracelets were enamelled,--so + The price is high."--"How! Sold to mine? + Who bought them, I should like to know." + "Thy daughter, with the large black eyne, + Now bathing at the marble ghat." + Loud laughed the priest at this reply, + "I shall not put up, friend, with that; + No daughter in the world have I, + An only son is all my stay; + Some minx has played a trick, no doubt, + But cheer up, let thy heart be gay. + Be sure that I shall find her out." + + "Nay, nay, good father, such a face + Could not deceive, I must aver; + At all events, she knows thy place, + 'And if my father should demur + To pay thee'--thus she said,--'or cry + He has no money, tell him straight + The box vermilion-streaked to try, + That's near the shrine.'" "Well, wait, friend, wait!" + The priest said thoughtful, and he ran + And with the open box came back, + "Here is the price exact, my man, + No surplus over, and no lack. + + "How strange! how strange! Oh blest art thou + To have beheld her, touched her hand, + Before whom Vishnu's self must bow, + And Brahma and his heavenly band! + Here have I worshipped her for years + And never seen the vision bright; + Vigils and fasts and secret tears + Have almost quenched my outward sight; + And yet that dazzling form and face + I have not seen, and thou, dear friend, + To thee, unsought for, comes the grace, + What may its purport be, and end? + + "How strange! How strange! Oh happy thou! + And couldst thou ask no other boon + Than thy poor bracelet's price? That brow + Resplendent as the autumn moon + Must have bewildered thee, I trow, + And made thee lose thy senses all." + A dim light on the pedlar now + Began to dawn; and he let fall + His bracelet basket in his haste, + And backward ran the way he came; + What meant the vision fair and chaste, + Whose eyes were they,--those eyes of flame? + + Swift ran the pedlar as a hind, + The old priest followed on his trace, + They reached the Ghat but could not find + The lady of the noble face. + The birds were silent in the wood, + The lotus flowers exhaled a smell + Faint, over all the solitude, + A heron as a sentinel + Stood by the bank. They called,--in vain, + No answer came from hill or fell, + The landscape lay in slumber's chain, + E'en Echo slept within her cell. + + Broad sunshine, yet a hush profound! + They turned with saddened hearts to go; + Then from afar there came a sound + Of silver bells;--the priest said low, + "O Mother, Mother, deign to hear, + The worship-hour has rung; we wait + In meek humility and fear. + Must we return home desolate? + Oh come, as late thou cam'st unsought, + Or was it but an idle dream? + Give us some sign if it was not, + A word, a breath, or passing gleam." + + Sudden from out the water sprung + A rounded arm, on which they saw + As high the lotus buds among + It rose, the bracelet white, with awe. + Then a wide ripple tost and swung + The blossoms on that liquid plain, + And lo! the arm so fair and young + Sank in the waters down again. + They bowed before the mystic Power, + And as they home returned in thought, + Each took from thence a lotus flower + In memory of the day and spot. + + Years, centuries, have passed away, + And still before the temple shrine + Descendants of the pedlar pay + Shell bracelets of the old design + As annual tribute. Much they own + In lands and gold,--but they confess + From that eventful day alone + Dawned on their industry,--success. + Absurd may be the tale I tell, + Ill-suited to the marching times, + I loved the lips from which it fell, + So let it stand among my rhymes. + + + + +IV. + +THE ROYAL ASCETIC AND THE HIND. + +_From the Vishnu Purana. B. II. Chap. XIII._ + + + MAITREYA. Of old thou gav'st a promise to relate + The deeds of Bharat, that great hermit-king: + Beloved Master, now the occasion suits, + And I am all attention. + PARASARA. Brahman, hear. + With a mind fixed intently on his gods + Long reigned in Saligram of ancient fame, + The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world. + Chief of the virtuous, never in his life + Harmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man, + Or any creature sentient. But he left + His kingdom in the forest-shades to dwell, + And changed his sceptre for a hermit's staff, + And with ascetic rites, privations rude, + And constant prayers, endeavoured to attain + Perfect dominion on his soul. At morn, + Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass, + He gathered for oblations; and he passed + In stern devotions all his other hours; + Of the world heedless, and its myriad cares, + And heedless too of wealth, and love, and fame. + + Once on a time, while living thus, he went + To bathe where through the wood the river flows: + And his ablutions done, he sat him down + Upon the shelving bank to muse and pray. + Thither impelled by thirst a graceful hind, + Big with its young, came fearlessly to drink. + Sudden, while yet she drank, the lion's roar, + Feared by all creatures, like a thunder-clap + Burst in that solitude from a thicket nigh. + Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her womb + Her offspring tumbled in the rushing stream. + Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried far + By the strong current swoln by recent rain, + The tiny thing still struggled for its life, + While its poor mother, in her fright and pain, + Fell down upon the bank, and breathed her last. + Up rose the hermit-monarch at the sight + Full of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staff + He drew the new-born creature from the wave; + 'Twas panting fast, but life was in it still. + Now, as he saw its luckless mother dead, + He would not leave it in the woods alone, + But with the tenderest pity brought it home. + + There, in his leafy hut, he gave it food, + And daily nourished it with patient care, + Until it grew in stature and in strength, + And to the forest skirts could venture forth + In search of sustenance. At early morn + Thenceforth it used to leave the hermitage + And with the shades of evening come again, + And in the little courtyard of the hut + Lie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce, + Prowling about, compelled it to return + Earlier at noon. But whether near or far, + Wandering abroad, or resting in its home, + The monarch-hermit's heart was with it still, + Bound by affection's ties; nor could he think + Of anything besides this little hind, + His nursling. Though a kingdom he had left, + And children, and a host of loving friends, + Almost without a tear, the fount of love + Sprang out anew within his blighted heart, + To greet this dumb, weak, helpless foster-child, + And so, whene'er it lingered in the wilds, + Or at the 'customed hour could not return, + His thoughts went with it; "And alas!" he cried, + "Who knows, perhaps some lion or some wolf, + Or ravenous tiger with relentless jaws + Already hath devoured it,--timid thing! + Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs, + And variegated. Surely for my joy + It was created. When will it come back, + And rub its budding antlers on my arms + In token of its love and deep delight + To see my face? The shaven stalks of grass, + Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped, + Remind me of it, as they stand in lines + Like pious boys who chant the Samga Veds + Shorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair." + Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy, + With smiles upon his lips, whenever near + His little favourite; in bitter grief + And fear, and trouble, when it wandered far. + And he who had abandoned ease and wealth, + And friends and dearest ties, and kingly power, + Found his devotions broken by the love + He had bestowed upon a little hind + Thrown in his way by chance. Years glided on.... + And Death, who spareth none, approached at last + The hermit-king to summon him away; + The hind was at his side, with tearful eyes + Watching his last sad moments, like a child + Beside a father. He too, watched and watched + His favourite through a blinding film of tears, + And could not think of the Beyond at hand, + So keen he felt the parting, such deep grief + O'erwhelmed him for the creature he had reared. + To it devoted was his last, last thought, + Reckless of present and of future both! + + Thus far the pious chronicle, writ of old + By Brahman sage; but we, who happier, live + Under the holiest dispensation, know + That God is Love, and not to be adored + By a devotion born of stoic pride, + Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard, + But with a love, in character akin + To His unselfish, all-including love. + And therefore little can we sympathize + With what the Brahman sage would fain imply + As the concluding moral of his tale, + That for the hermit-king it was a sin + To love his nursling. What! a sin to love! + A sin to pity! Rather should we deem + Whatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold, + That he had sinned in _casting off_ all love + By his retirement to the forest-shades; + For that was to abandon duties high, + And, like a recreant soldier, leave the post + Where God had placed him as a sentinel. + + This little hind brought strangely on his path, + This love engendered in his withered heart, + This hindrance to his rituals,--might these not + Have been ordained to teach him? Call him back + To ways marked out for him by Love divine? + And with a mind less self-willed to adore? + + Not in seclusion, not apart from all, + Not in a place elected for its peace, + But in the heat and bustle of the world, + 'Mid sorrow, sickness, suffering and sin, + Must he still labour with a loving soul + Who strives to enter through the narrow gate. + + + + +V. + +THE LEGEND OF DHRUVA. + +_Vishnu Purana. Book I. Chapter XI._ + + + Sprung from great Brahma, Manu had two sons, + Heroic and devout, as I have said, + Pryavrata and Uttanapado,--names + Known in legends; and of these the last + Married two wives, Suruchee, his adored, + The mother of a handsome petted boy + Uttama; and Suneetee, less beloved, + The mother of another son whose name + Was Dhruva. Seated on his throne the king + Uttanapado, on his knee one day + Had placed Uttama; Dhruva, who beheld + His brother in that place of honour, longed + To clamber up and by his playmate sit; + Led on by Love he came, but found, alas! + Scant welcome and encouragement; the king + Saw fair Suruchee sweep into the hall + With stately step,--aye, every inch a queen, + And dared not smile upon her co-wife's son. + Observing him,--her rival's boy,--intent + To mount ambitious to his father's knee, + Where sat her own, thus fair Suruchee spake: + "Why hast thou, child, formed such a vain design? + Why harboured such an aspiration proud, + Born from another's womb and not from mine? + Oh thoughtless! To desire the loftiest place, + The throne of thrones, a royal father's lap! + It is an honour to the destined given, + And not within thy reach. What though thou art + Born of the king; those sleek and tender limbs + Hold of my blood no portion; I am queen. + To be the equal of mine only son + Were in thee vain ambition. Know'st thou not, + Fair prattler, thou art sprung,--not, not from mine, + But from Suneetee's bowels? Learn thy place." + + Repulsed in silence from his father's lap, + Indignant, furious, at the words that fell + From his step-mother's lips, poor Dhruva ran + To his own mother's chambers, where he stood + Beside her with his pale, thin, trembling lips, + (Trembling with an emotion ill-suppressed) + And hair in wild disorder, till she took + And raised him to her lap, and gently said: + "Oh, child, what means this? What can be the cause + Of this great anger? Who hath given thee pain? + He that hath vexed thee, hath despised thy sire, + For in these veins thou hast the royal blood." + + Thus conjured, Dhruva, with a swelling heart + Repeated to his mother every word + That proud Suruchee spake, from first to last, + Even in the very presence of the king. + + His speech oft broken by his tears and sobs, + Helpless Suneetee, languid-eyed from care, + Heard sighing deeply, and then soft replied: + "Oh son, to lowly fortune thou wert born, + And what my co-wife said to thee is truth; + No enemy to Heaven's favoured ones may say + Such words as thy step-mother said to thee. + Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieve + Or vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done, + The evil, haply, in some former life, + Long, long ago, who may alas! annul, + Or who the good works not done, supplement! + The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit. + The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold, + The best steed, and the royal elephant + Rich caparisoned, must be his by right + Who has deserved them by his virtuous acts + In times long past. Oh think on this, my son, + And be content. For glorious actions done + Not in this life, but in some previous birth, + Suruchee by the monarch is beloved. + Women, unfortunate like myself, who bear + Only the name of wife without the powers, + But pine and suffer for our ancient sins. + Suruchee raised her virtues pile on pile, + Hence Uttama her son, the fortunate! + Suneetee heaped but evil,--hence her son + Dhruva the luckless! But for all this, child, + It is not meet that thou shouldst ever grieve + As I have said. That man is truly wise + Who is content with what he has, and seeks + Nothing beyond, but in whatever sphere, + Lowly or great, God placed him, works in faith; + My son, my son, though proud Suruchee spake + Harsh words indeed, and hurt thee to the quick, + Yet to thine eyes thy duty should be plain. + Collect a large sum of the virtues; thence + A goodly harvest must to thee arise. + Be meek, devout, and friendly, full of love, + Intent to do good to the human race + And to all creatures sentient made of God; + And oh, be humble, for on modest worth + Descends prosperity, even as water flows + Down to low grounds." + + She finished, and her son, + Who patiently had listened, thus replied:-- + + "Mother, thy words of consolation find + Nor resting-place, nor echo in this heart + Broken by words severe, repulsing Love + That timidly approached to worship. Hear + My resolve unchangeable. I shall try + The highest good, the loftiest place to win, + Which the whole world deems priceless and desires. + There is a crown above my father's crown, + I shall obtain it, and at any cost + Of toil, or penance, or unceasing prayer. + Not born of proud Suruchee, whom the king + Favours and loves, but grown up from a germ + In thee, O mother, humble as thou art, + I yet shall show thee what is in my power. + Thou shalt behold my glory and rejoice. + Let Uttama my brother,--not thy son,-- + Receive the throne and royal titles,--all + My father pleases to confer on him. + I grudge them not. Not with another's gifts + Desire I, dearest mother, to be rich, + But with my own work would acquire a name. + And I shall strive unceasing for a place + Such as my father hath not won,--a place + That would not know him even,--aye, a place + Far, far above the highest of this earth." + + He said, and from his mother's chambers past, + And went into the wood where hermits live, + And never to his father's house returned. + + Well kept the boy his promise made that day! + By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at last + The highest heavens, and there he shines a star! + Nightly men see him in the firmament. + + + + +VI. + +BUTTOO. + + + "Ho! Master of the wondrous art! + Instruct me in fair archery, + And buy for aye,--a grateful heart + That will not grudge to give thy fee." + Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes, + A hunter's low-born son was he,-- + To Dronacharjya, great and wise, + Who sat with princes round his knee. + + Up Time's fair stream far back,--oh far, + The great wise teacher must be sought! + The Kurus had not yet in war + With the Pandava brethren fought. + In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet, + Magic and archery they learned, + A complex science, which we meet + No more, with ages past inurned. + + "And who art thou," the teacher said, + "My science brave to learn so fain? + Which many kings who wear the thread + Have asked to learn of me in vain." + "My name is Buttoo," said the youth, + "A hunter's son, I know not Fear;" + The teacher answered, smiling smooth, + "Then know him from this time, my dear." + + Unseen the magic arrow came, + Amidst the laughter and the scorn + Of royal youths,--like lightning flame + Sudden and sharp. They blew the horn, + As down upon the ground he fell, + Not hurt, but made a jest and game;-- + He rose,--and waved a proud farewell, + But cheek and brow grew red with shame. + + And lo,--a single, single tear + Dropped from his eyelash as he past, + "My place I gather is not here; + No matter,--what is rank or caste? + In us is honour, or disgrace, + Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused, + "The question is,--not wealth or place, + But gifts well used, or gifts abused." + + "And I shall do my best to gain + The science that man will not teach, + For life is as a shadow vain, + Until the utmost goal we reach + To which the soul points. I shall try + To realize my waking dream, + And what if I should chance to die? + None miss one bubble from a stream." + + So thinking, on and on he went, + Till he attained the forest's verge, + The garish day was well-nigh spent, + Birds had already raised its dirge. + Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm! + It soothed at once his wounded pride, + And on his spirit shed a balm + That all its yearnings purified. + + What glorious trees! The sombre saul + On which the eye delights to rest, + The betel-nut,--a pillar tall, + With feathery branches for a crest, + The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide, + The pale faint-scented bitter neem, + The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, + With flowers that have the ruby's gleam, + + The Indian fig's pavilion tent + In which whole armies might repose, + With here and there a little rent, + The sunset's beauty to disclose, + The bamboo boughs that sway and swing + 'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows, + The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring, + Home of the rooks and clamorous crows, + + The champac, bok, and South-sea pine, + The nagessur with pendant flowers + Like ear-rings,--and the forest vine + That clinging over all, embowers, + The sirish famed in Sanscrit song + Which rural maidens love to wear, + The peepul giant-like and strong, + The bramble with its matted hair, + + All these, and thousands, thousands more, + With helmet red, or golden crown, + Or green tiara, rose before + The youth in evening's shadows brown. + He passed into the forest,--there + New sights of wonder met his view, + A waving Pampas green and fair + All glistening with the evening dew. + + How vivid was the breast-high grass! + Here waved in patches, forest corn,-- + Here intervened a deep morass,-- + Here arid spots of verdure shorn + Lay open,--rock or barren sand,-- + And here again the trees arose + Thick clustering,--a glorious band + Their tops still bright with sunset glows.-- + + Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs, + And seemed to welcome him with signs, + Onwards and on,--till Buttoo's brows + Are gemmed with pearls, and day declines. + Then in a grassy open space + He sits and leans against a tree, + To let the wind blow on his face + And look around him leisurely. + + Herds, and still herds, of timid deer + Were feeding in the solitude, + They knew not man, and felt no fear, + And heeded not his neighbourhood, + Some young ones with large eyes and sweet + Came close, and rubbed their foreheads smooth + Against his arms, and licked his feet, + As if they wished his cares to soothe. + + "They touch me," he exclaimed with joy, + "They have no pride of caste like men, + They shrink not from the hunter-boy, + Should not my home be with them then? + Here in this forest let me dwell, + With these companions innocent, + And learn each science and each spell + All by myself in banishment. + + "A calm, calm life,--and it shall be + Its own exceeding great reward! + No thoughts to vex in all I see, + No jeers to bear or disregard;-- + All creatures and inanimate things + Shall be my tutors; I shall learn + From beast, and fish, and bird with wings, + And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern." + + With this resolve, he soon began + To build a hut, of reeds and leaves, + And when that needful work was done + He gathered in his store, the sheaves + Of forest corn, and all the fruit, + Date, plum, guava, he could find, + And every pleasant nut and root + By Providence for man designed, + + A statue next of earth he made, + An image of the teacher wise, + So deft he laid, the light and shade, + On figure, forehead, face and eyes, + That any one who chanced to view + That image tall might soothly swear, + If he great Dronacharjya knew, + The teacher in his flesh was there. + + Then at the statue's feet he placed + A bow, and arrows tipped with steel, + With wild-flower garlands interlaced, + And hailed the figure in his zeal + As Master, and his head he bowed, + A pupil reverent from that hour + Of one who late had disallowed + The claim, in pride of place and power. + + By strained sense, by constant prayer, + By steadfastness of heart and will, + By courage to confront and dare, + All obstacles he conquered still; + A conscience clear,--a ready hand, + Joined to a meek humility, + Success must everywhere command, + How could he fail who had all three! + + And now, by tests assured, he knows + His own God-gifted wondrous might, + Nothing to any man he owes, + Unaided he has won the fight; + Equal to gods themselves,--above + Wishmo and Drona,--for his worth + His name, he feels, shall be with love + Reckoned with great names of the earth. + + Yet lacks he not, in reverence + To Dronacharjya, who declined + To teach him,--nay, with e'en offence + That well might wound a noble mind, + Drove him away;--for in his heart + Meek, placable, and ever kind, + Resentment had not any part, + And Malice never was enshrined. + + One evening, on his work intent, + Alone he practised Archery, + When lo! the bow proved false and sent + The arrow from its mark awry; + Again he tried,--and failed again; + Why was it? Hark!--A wild dog's bark! + An evil omen:--it was plain + Some evil on his path hung dark! + + Thus many times he tried and failed, + And still that lean, persistent dog + At distance, like some spirit wailed, + Safe in the cover of a fog. + His nerves unstrung, with many a shout + He strove to frighten it away, + It would not go,--but roamed about, + Howling, as wolves howl for their prey. + + Worried and almost in a rage, + One magic shaft at last he sent, + A sample of his science sage, + To quiet but the noises meant. + Unerring to its goal it flew, + No death ensued, no blood was dropped, + But by the hush the young man knew + At last that howling noise had stopped. + + It happened on this very day + That the Pandava princes came + With all the Kuru princes gay + To beat the woods and hunt the game. + Parted from others in the chase, + Arjuna brave the wild dog found,-- + Stuck still the shaft,--but not a trace + Of hurt, though tongue and lip were bound. + + "Wonder of wonders! Didst not thou + O Dronacharjya, promise me + Thy crown in time should deck my brow + And I be first in archery? + Lo! here, some other thou hast taught + A magic spell,--to all unknown; + Who has in secret from thee bought + The knowledge, in this arrow shown!" + + Indignant thus Arjuna spake + To his great Master when they met-- + "My word, my honour, is at stake, + Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet. + Come, let us see the dog,"--and straight + They followed up the creature's trace. + They found it, in the selfsame state, + Dumb, yet unhurt,--near Buttoo's place. + + A hut,--a statue,--and a youth + In the dim forest,--what mean these? + They gazed in wonder, for in sooth + The thing seemed full of mysteries. + "Now who art thou that dar'st to raise + Mine image in the wilderness? + Is it for worship and for praise? + What is thine object? speak, confess." + + "Oh Master, unto thee I came + To learn thy science. Name or pelf + I had not, so was driven with shame, + And here I learn all by myself. + But still as Master thee revere, + For who so great in archery! + Lo, all my inspiration here, + And all my knowledge is from thee." + + "If I am Master, now thou hast + Finished thy course, give me my due. + Let all the past, be dead and past, + Henceforth be ties between us new." + "All that I have, O Master mine, + All I shall conquer by my skill, + Gladly shall I to thee resign, + Let me but know thy gracious will." + + "Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swear + So long as I have breath and life + To give thee all thou wilt." "Beware! + Rash promise ever ends in strife." + "Thou art my Master,--ask! oh ask! + From thee my inspiration came, + Thou canst not set too hard a task, + Nor aught refuse I, free from blame." + + "If it be so,--Arjuna hear!" + Arjuna and the youth were dumb, + "For thy sake, loud I ask and clear, + Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb. + I promised in my faithfulness + No equal ever shall there be + To thee, Arjuna,--and I press + For this sad recompense--for thee." + + Glanced the sharp knife one moment high, + The severed thumb was on the sod, + There was no tear in Buttoo's eye, + He left the matter with his God. + "For this,"--said Dronacharjya,--"Fame + Shall sound thy praise from sea to sea, + And men shall ever link thy name + With Self-help, Truth, and Modesty." + + + + +VII. + +SINDHU. + + +PART I. + + Deep in the forest shades there dwelt + A _Muni_ and his wife, + Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly felt + Their slender hold on life. + + No friends had they, no help or stay, + Except an only boy, + A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay, + Their leaf-hut filled with joy. + + Attentive, duteous, loving, kind, + Thoughtful, sedate, and calm, + He waited on his parents blind, + Whose days were like a psalm. + + He roamed the woods for luscious fruits, + He brought them water pure, + He cooked their simple mess of roots, + Content to live obscure. + + To fretful questions, answers mild + He meekly ever gave, + If they reproved, he only smiled, + He loved to be their slave. + + Not that to him they were austere, + But age is peevish still, + Dear to their hearts he was,--so dear, + That none his place might fill. + + They called him Sindhu, and his name + Was ever on their tongue, + And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame, + Who dwelt his own among. + + A belt of _Bela_ trees hemmed round + The cottage small and rude, + If peace on earth was ever found + 'Twas in that solitude. + + +PART II. + + Great Dasarath, the King of Oude, + Whom all men love and fear, + With elephants and horses proud + Went forth to hunt the deer. + + Oh gallant was the long array! + Pennons and plumes were seen, + And swords that mirrored back the day, + And spears and axes keen. + + Rang trump, and conch, and piercing fife, + Woke Echo from her bed! + The solemn woods with sounds were rife + As on the pageant sped. + + Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went! + The wild beasts fled away! + Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spent + Became an easy prey. + + Whirring the peacocks from the brake + With Argus wings arose, + Wild swans abandoned pool and lake + For climes beyond the snows. + + From tree to tree the monkeys sprung, + Unharmed and unpursued, + As louder still the trumpets rung + And startled all the wood. + + The porcupines and such small game + Unnoted fled at will, + The weasel only caught to tame + From fissures in the hill. + + Slunk light the tiger from the bank, + But sudden turned to bay! + When he beheld the serried rank + That barred his tangled way. + + Uprooting fig-trees on their path, + And trampling shrubs and flowers, + Wild elephants, in fear and wrath, + Burst through, like moving towers. + + Lowering their horns in crescents grim + Whene'er they turned about, + Retreated into coverts dim + The bisons' fiercer rout. + + And in this mimic game of war + In bands dispersed and past + The royal train,--some near, some far, + As day closed in at last. + + Where was the king? He left his friends + At midday, it was known, + And now that evening fast descends + Where was he? All alone. + + Curving, the river formed a lake, + Upon whose bank he stood, + No noise the silence there to break, + Or mar the solitude. + + Upon the glassy surface fell + The last beams of the day, + Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell, + As breezes wake and play. + + Osiers and willows on the edge + And purple buds and red, + Leant down,--and 'mid the pale green sedge + The lotus raised its head. + + And softly, softly, hour by hour + Light faded, and a veil + Fell over tree, and wave, and flower, + On came the twilight pale. + + Deeper and deeper grew the shades, + Stars glimmered in the sky, + The nightingale along the glades + Raised her preluding cry. + + What is that momentary flash? + A gleam of silver scales + Reveals the _Mahseer_;--then a splash, + And calm again prevails. + + As darkness settled like a pall + The eye would pierce in vain, + The fireflies gemmed the bushes all, + Like fiery drops of rain. + + Pleased with the scene,--and knowing not + Which way, alas! to go, + The monarch lingered on the spot,-- + The lake spread bright below. + + He lingered, when--oh hark! oh hark + What sound salutes his ear! + A roebuck drinking in the dark, + Not hunted, nor in fear. + + Straight to the stretch his bow he drew, + That bow ne'er missed its aim, + Whizzing the deadly arrow flew, + Ear-guided, on the game! + + Ah me! What means this?--Hark, a cry, + A feeble human wail, + "Oh God!" it said--"I die,--I die, + Who'll carry home the pail?" + + Startled, the monarch forward ran, + And then there met his view + A sight to freeze in any man + The warm blood coursing true. + + A child lay dying on the grass, + A pitcher by his side, + Poor Sindhu was the child, alas! + His parents' stay and pride. + + His bow and quiver down to fling, + And lift the wounded boy, + A moment's work was with the king. + Not dead,--that was a joy! + + He placed the child's head on his lap, + And ranged the blinding hair, + The blood welled fearful from the gap + On neck and bosom fair. + + He dashed cold water on the face, + He chafed the hands, with sighs, + Till sense revived, and he could trace + Expression in the eyes. + + Then mingled with his pity, fear-- + In all this universe + What is so dreadful as to hear + A Bramin's dying curse! + + So thought the king, and on his brow + The beads of anguish spread, + And Sindhu, fully conscious now, + The anguish plainly read. + + "What dost thou fear, O mighty king? + For sure a king thou art! + Why should thy bosom anguish wring? + No crime was in thine heart! + + "Unwittingly the deed was done; + It is my destiny, + O fear not thou, but pity one + Whose fate is thus to die. + + "No curses, no!--I bear no grudge, + Not thou my blood hast spilt, + Lo! here before the unseen Judge, + Thee I absolve from guilt. + + "The iron, red-hot as it burns, + Burns those that touch it too, + Not such my nature,--for it spurns, + Thank God, the like to do. + + "Because I suffer, should I give + Thee, king, a needless pain? + Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live, + And cleansed from every stain!" + + Struck with these words, and doubly grieved + At what his hands had done, + The monarch wept, as weeps bereaved + A man his only son. + + "Nay, weep not so," resumed the child, + "But rather let me say + My own sad story, sin-defiled. + And why I die to day! + + "Picking a living in our sheaves, + And happy in their loves, + Near, 'mid a peepul's quivering leaves, + There lived a pair of doves. + + "Never were they two separate, + And lo, in idle mood, + I took a sling and ball, elate + In wicked sport and rude,-- + + "And killed one bird,--it was the male, + Oh cruel deed and base! + The female gave a plaintive wail + And looked me in the face! + + "The wail and sad reproachful look + In plain words seemed to say, + A widowed life I cannot brook, + The forfeit thou must pay. + + "What was my darling's crime that thou + Him wantonly shouldst kill? + The curse of blood is on thee now, + Blood calls for red blood still. + + "And so I die--a bloody death-- + But not for this I mourn, + To feel the world pass with my breath + I gladly could have borne, + + "But for my parents, who are blind, + And have no other stay,-- + This, this, weighs sore upon my mind + And fills me with dismay. + + "Upon the eleventh day of the moon + They keep a rigorous fast, + All yesterday they fasted; soon + For water and repast + + "They shall upon me feebly call! + Ah, must they call in vain? + Bear thou the pitcher, friend--'tis all + I ask--down that steep lane." + + He pointed,--ceased,--then sudden died! + The king took up the corpse, + And with the pitcher slowly hied, + Attended by Remorse, + + Down the steep lane--unto the hut + Girt round with _Bela_ trees; + Gleamed far a light-the door not shut + Was open to the breeze. + + +PART III. + + "Oh why does not our child return? + Too long he surely stays."-- + Thus to the _Muni_, blind and stern, + His partner gently says. + + "For fruits and water when he goes + He never stays so long, + Oh can it be, beset by foes, + He suffers cruel wrong? + + "Some distance he has gone, I fear, + A more circuitous round,-- + Yet why should he? The fruits are near, + The river near our bound. + + "I die of thirst,--it matters not + If Sindhu be but safe, + What if he leave us, and this spot, + Poor birds in cages chafe. + + "Peevish and fretful oft we are,-- + Ah, no--that cannot be: + Of our blind eyes he is the star, + Without him, what were we? + + "Too much he loves us to forsake, + But something ominous, + Here in my heart, a dreadful ache, + Says, he is gone from us. + + "Why do my bowels for him yearn, + What ill has crossed his path? + Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn, + Or how avert the wrath? + + "Lord of my soul--what means my pain? + This horrid terror,--like + Some cloud that hides a hurricane; + Hang not, O lightning,--strike!" + + Thus while she spake, the king drew near + With haggard look and wild, + Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear, + Bearing the lifeless child. + + Rustled the dry leaves neath his foot, + And made an eerie sound, + A neighbouring owl began to hoot, + All else was still around. + + At the first rustle of the leaves + The _Muni_ answered clear, + "Lo, here he is--oh wherefore grieves + Thy soul, my partner dear?" + + The words distinct, the monarch heard, + He could no further go, + His nature to its depths was stirred, + He stopped in speechless woe. + + No steps advanced,--the sudden pause + Attention quickly drew, + Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause, + But, hark!--the steps renew. + + "Where art thou, darling--why so long + Hast thou delayed to-night? + We die of thirst,--we are not strong, + This fasting kills outright. + + "Speak to us, dear one,--only speak, + And calm our idle fears, + Where hast thou been, and what to seek? + Have pity on these tears." + + With head bent low the monarch heard, + Then came a cruel throb + That tore his heart,--still not a word, + Only a stifled sob! + + "It is not Sindhu--who art thou? + And where is Sindhu gone? + There's blood upon thy hands--avow!" + "There is."--"Speak on, speak on." + + The dead child in their arms he placed, + And briefly told his tale, + The parents their dead child embraced, + And kissed his forehead pale. + + "Our hearts are broken. Come, dear wife, + On earth no more we dwell; + Now welcome Death, and farewell Life, + And thou, O king, farewell! + + "We do not curse thee, God forbid + But to my inner eye + The future is no longer hid, + Thou too shalt like us die. + + "Die--for a son's untimely loss! + Die--with a broken heart! + Now help us to our bed of moss, + And let us both depart." + + Upon the moss he laid them down, + And watched beside the bed; + Death gently came and placed a crown + Upon each reverend head. + + Where the Sarayu's waves dash free + Against a rocky bank, + The monarch had the corpses three + Conveyed by men of rank; + + There honoured he with royal pomp + Their funeral obsequies,-- + Incense and sandal, drum and tromp, + And solemn sacrifice. + + What is the sequel of the tale? + How died the king?--Oh man, + A prophet's words can never fail-- + Go, read the Ramayan. + + + + +VIII. + +PREHLAD. + + + A terror both of gods and men + Was Heerun Kasyapu, the king; + No bear more sullen in its den, + No tiger quicker at the spring. + In strength of limb he had not met, + Since first his black flag he unfurled, + Nor in audacious courage, yet, + His equal in the wide, wide world. + + The holy Veds he tore in shreds; + Libations, sacrifices, rites, + He made all penal; and the heads + Of Bramins slain, he flung to kites, + "I hold the sceptre in my hand, + I sit upon the ivory throne, + Bow down to me--'tis my command, + And worship me, and me alone. + + "No god has ever me withstood, + Why raise ye altars?--cease your pains! + I shall protect you, give you food, + If ye obey,--or else the chains." + Fled at such edicts, self-exiled, + The Bramins and the pundits wise, + To live thenceforth in forests wild, + Or caves in hills that touch the skies. + + In secret there, they altars raised, + And made oblations due by fire, + Their gods, their wonted gods, they praised, + Lest these should earth destroy in ire; + They read the Veds, they prayed and mused, + Full well they knew that Time would bring + For favours scorned, and gifts misused, + Undreamt of changes on his wing. + + Time changes deserts bare to meads, + And fertile meads to deserts bare, + Cities to pools, and pools with reeds + To towns and cities large and fair. + Time changes purple into rags, + And rags to purple. Chime by chime, + Whether it flies, or runs, or drags-- + The wise wait patiently on Time. + + Time brought the tyrant children four, + Rahd, Onoorahd, Prehlad, Sunghrad, + Who made his castle gray and hoar, + Once full of gloom, with sunshine glad. + No boys were e'er more beautiful, + No brothers e'er loved more each other, + No sons were e'er more dutiful, + Nor ever kissed a fonder mother. + + Nor less beloved were they of him + Who gave them birth, Kasyapu proud, + But made by nature stern and grim, + His love was covered by a cloud + From which it rarely e'er emerged, + To gladden these sweet human flowers. + They grew apace, and now Time urged + The education of their powers. + + Who should their teacher be? A man + Among the flatterers in the court + Was found, well-suited to the plan + The tyrant had devised. Report + Gave him a wisdom owned by few, + And certainly to trim his sail, + And veer his bark, none better knew, + Before a changing adverse gale. + + And Sonda Marco,--such his name,-- + Took home the four fair boys to teach + All knowledge that their years became, + Science, and war, and modes of speech, + But he was told, if death he feared, + Never to tell them of the soul, + Of vows, and prayers, and rites revered, + And of the gods who all control. + + The sciences the boys were taught + They mastered with a quickness strange, + But Prehlad was the one for thought, + He soared above the lesson's range. + One day the tutor unseen heard + The boy discuss forbidden themes, + As if his inmost heart were stirred, + And he of truth from heaven had gleams. + + "O Prince, what mean'st thou?" In his fright + The teacher thus in private said-- + "Talk on such subjects is not right, + Wouldst thou bring ruin on my head? + There are no gods except the king, + The ruler of the world is he! + Look up to him, and do not bring + Destruction by a speech too free. + + "Be wary for thy own sake, child, + If he should hear thee talking so, + Thou shalt for ever be exiled, + And I shall die, full well I know. + Worthy of worship, honour, praise, + Is thy great father. Things unseen, + What _are_ they?--Themes of poets' lays! + They _are_ not and have never been." + + Smiling, the boy, with folded hands, + As sign of a submission meek, + Answered his tutor. "Thy commands + Are ever precious. Do not seek + To lay upon me what I feel + Would be unrighteous. Let me hear + Those inner voices that reveal + Long vistas in another sphere. + + "The gods that rule the earth and sea, + Shall I abjure them and adore + A man? It may not, may not be; + Though I should lie in pools of gore + My conscience I would hurt no more; + But I shall follow what my heart + Tells me is right, so I implore + My purpose fixed no longer thwart. + + "The coward calls black white, white black, + At bidding, or in fear of death; + Such suppleness, thank God, I lack, + To die is but to lose my breath. + Is death annihilation? No. + New worlds will open on my view, + When persecuted hence I go, + The right is right,--the true is true." + + All's over now, the teacher thought, + Now let this reach the monarch's ear! + And instant death shall be my lot. + They parted, he in abject fear. + And soon he heard a choral song + Sung by young voices in the praise + Of gods unseen, who right all wrong, + And rule the worlds from primal days. + + "What progress have thy charges made? + Let them be called, that I may see." + And Sonda Marco brought as bade + His pupils to the royal knee. + Three passed the monarch's test severe, + The fourth remained: then spake the king, + "Now, Prehlad, with attention hear, + I know thou hast the strongest wing! + + "What is the cream of knowledge, child, + Which men take such great pains to learn?" + With folded hands he answered mild: + "Listen, O Sire! To speak I yearn. + All sciences are nothing worth,-- + Astronomy that tracks the star, + Geography that maps the earth, + Logic, and Politics, and War,-- + + "And Medicine, that strives to heal + But only aggravates disease, + All, all are futile,--so I feel, + For me, O father, none of these. + That is true knowledge which can show + The glory of the living gods,-- + Divest of pride, make men below + Humble and happy, though but clods. + + "That is true knowledge which can make + Us mortals, saintlike, holy, pure, + The strange thirst of the spirit slake + And strengthen suffering to endure. + That is true knowledge which can change + Our very natures, with its glow; + The sciences whate'er their range + Feed but the flesh, and make a show." + + "Where hast thou learnt this nonsense, boy? + Where live these gods believed so great? + Can they like me thy life destroy? + Have they such troops and royal state? + Above all gods is he who rules + The wide, wide earth, from sea to sea, + Men, devils, gods,--yea, all but fools + Bow down in fear and worship me! + + "And dares an atom from my loins + Against my kingly power rebel? + Though heaven itself to aid him joins, + His end is death--the infidel! + I warn thee yet,--bow down, thou slave, + And worship me, or thou shalt die! + We'll see what gods descend to save-- + What gods with me their strength will try!" + + Thus spake the monarch in his ire, + One hand outstretched, in menace rude, + And eyes like blazing coals of fire. + And Prehlad, in unruffled mood + Straight answered him; his head bent low, + His palms joined meekly on his breast + As ever, and his cheeks aglow + His rock-firm purpose to attest. + + "Let not my words, Sire, give offence, + To thee, and to my mother, both + I give as due all reverence, + And to obey thee am not loth. + But higher duties sometimes clash + With lower,--then these last must go,-- + Or there will come a fearful crash + In lamentation, fear, and woe! + + "The gods who made us are the life + Of living creatures, small and great; + We see them not, but space is rife + With their bright presence and their state. + They are the parents of us all, + 'Tis they create, sustain, redeem, + Heaven, earth and hell, they hold in thrall, + And shall we these high gods blaspheme? + + "Blest is the man whose heart obeys + And makes their law of life his guide, + He shall be led in all his ways, + His footsteps shall not ever slide; + In forests dim, on raging seas, + In certain peace shall he abide, + What though he all the world displease, + His gods shall all his wants provide!" + + "Cease, babbler! 'tis enough! I know + Thy proud, rebellious nature well. + Ho! Captain of our lifeguards, ho! + Take down this lad to dungeon-cell, + And bid the executioner wait + Our orders." All unmoved and calm, + He went, as reckless of his fate, + Erect and stately as a palm. + + Hushed was the hall, as down he past, + No breath, no whisper, not a sign, + Through ranks of courtiers, all aghast + Like beaten hounds that dare not whine. + Outside the door, the Captain spoke, + "Recant," he said beneath his breath; + "The lion's anger to provoke + Is death, O prince, is certain death." + + "Thanks," said the prince,--"I have revolved + The question in my mind with care, + Do what you will,--I am resolved, + To do the right, all deaths I dare. + The gods, perhaps, may please to spare + My tender years; if not,--why, still + I never shall my faith forswear, + I can but say, be done their will." + + Whether in pity for the youth, + The headsman would not rightly ply + The weapon, or the gods in truth + Had ordered that he should not die, + Soon to the king there came report + The sword would not destroy his son, + The council held thereon was short, + The king's look frightened every one. + + "There is a spell against cold steel + Which known, the steel can work no harm, + Some sycophant with baneful zeal + Hath taught this foolish boy the charm. + It would be wise, O king, to deal + Some other way, or else I fear + Much damage to the common weal." + Thus spake the wily-tongued vizier. + + Dark frowned the king.--"Enough of this,-- + Death, instant death, is my command! + Go throw him down some precipice, + Or bury him alive in sand." + With terror dumb, from that wide hall + Departed all the courtier band, + But not one man amongst them all + Dared raise against the prince his hand. + + And now vague rumours ran around, + Men talked of them with bated breath: + The river has a depth profound, + The elephants trample down to death, + The poisons kill, the firebrands burn. + Had every means in turn been tried? + Some said they had,--but soon they learn + The brave young prince had not yet died. + + For once more in the Council-Hall + He had been cited to appear, + 'Twas open to the public all, + And all the people came in fear. + Banners were hung along the wall, + The King sat on his peacock throne, + And now the hoary Marechal + Brings in the youth,--bare skin and bone. + + "Who shall protect thee, Prehlad, now? + Against steel, poison, water, fire, + Thou art protected, men avow + Who treason, if but bold, admire. + In our own presence thou art brought + That we and all may know the truth-- + Where are thy gods?--I long have sought + But never found them, hapless youth. + + "Will they come down, to prove their strength? + Will they come down, to rescue thee? + Let them come down, for once, at length, + Come one, or all, to fight with me. + Where are thy gods? Or are they dead, + Or do they hide in craven fear? + There lies my gage. None ever said + I hide from any,--far or near." + + "My gracious Liege, my Sire, my King! + If thou indeed wouldst deign to hear, + In humble mood, my words would spring + Like a pellucid fountain clear, + For I have in my dungeon dark + Learnt more of truth than e'er I knew, + There is one God--One only,--mark! + To Him is all our service due. + + "Hath He a shape, or hath He none? + I know not this, nor care to know, + Dwelling in light, to which the sun + Is darkness,--He sees all below, + Himself unseen! In Him I trust, + He can protect me if He will, + And if this body turn to dust, + He can new life again instil. + + "I fear not fire, I fear not sword, + All dangers, father, I can dare; + Alone, I can confront a horde, + For oh! my God is everywhere!" + "What! everywhere? Then in this hall, + And in this crystal pillar bright? + Now tell me plain, before us all, + Is He herein, thy God of light?" + + The monarch placed his steel-gloved hand + Upon a crystal pillar near, + In mockful jest was his demand, + The answer came, low, serious, clear: + "Yes, father, God is even here, + And if He choose this very hour + Can strike us dead, with ghastly fear, + And vindicate His name and power." + + "Where is this God? Now let us see." + He spumed the pillar with his foot, + Down, down it tumbled, like a tree + Severed by axes from the root, + And from within, with horrid clang + That froze the blood in every vein, + A stately sable warrior sprang, + Like some phantasma of the brain. + + He had a lion head and eyes, + A human body, feet and hands, + Colossal,--such strange shapes arise + In clouds, when Autumn rules the lands! + He gave a shout;--the boldest quailed, + Then struck the tyrant on the helm, + And ripped him down; and last, he hailed + Prehlad as king of all the realm! + + A thunder clap--the shape was gone! + One king lay stiff, and stark, and dead, + Another on the peacock throne + Bowed reverently his youthful head. + Loud rang the trumpets; louder still + A sovereign people's wild acclaim. + The echoes ran from hill to hill, + "Kings rule for us and in our name." + + Tyrants of every age and clime + Remember this,--that awful shape + Shall startle you when comes the time, + And send its voice from cape to cape. + As human, peoples suffer pain, + But oh, the lion strength is theirs, + Woe to the king when galls the chain! + Woe, woe, their fury when he dares! + + + + +IX. + +SITA. + + + Three happy children in a darkened room! + What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes? + A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries, + And in its centre a cleared spot.--There bloom + Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace + Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake + The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake," + The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race; + There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain; + There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light, + There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite. + But who is this fair lady? Not in vain + She weeps,--for lo! at every tear she sheds + Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain, + And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads. + It is an old, old story, and the lay + Which has evoked sad Sita from the past + Is by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at last + And melts the picture from their sight away, + Yet shall they dream of it until the day! + When shall those children by their mother's side + Gather, ah me! as erst at eventide? + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + + + + +NEAR HASTINGS. + + + Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach, + We loitered at the time + When ripens on the wall the peach, + The autumn's lovely prime. + Far off,--the sea and sky seemed blent, + The day was wholly done, + The distant town its murmurs sent, + Strangers,--we were alone. + + We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint, + Then one of us sat down, + No nature hers, to make complaint;-- + The shadows deepened brown. + A lady past,--she was not young, + But oh! her gentle face + No painter-poet ever sung, + Or saw such saintlike grace. + + She past us,--then she came again, + Observing at a glance + That we were strangers; one, in pain,-- + Then asked,--Were we from France? + We talked awhile,--some roses red + That seemed as wet with tears, + She gave my sister, and she said, + "God bless you both, my dears!" + + Sweet were the roses,--sweet and full, + And large as lotus flowers + That in our own wide tanks we cull + To deck our Indian bowers. + But sweeter was the love that gave + Those flowers to one unknown, + I think that He who came to save + The gift a debt will own. + + The lady's name I do not know, + Her face no more may see, + But yet, oh yet I love her so! + Blest, happy, may she be! + Her memory will not depart, + Though grief my years should shade, + Still bloom her roses in my heart! + And they shall never fade! + + + + +FRANCE. + +1870. + + + Not dead,--oh no,--she cannot die! + Only a swoon, from loss of blood! + Levite England passes her by, + Help, Samaritan! None is nigh; + Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood? + + Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne, + Dash cold water over her face! + Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign, + Give her a draught of generous wine. + None heed, none hear, to do this grace. + + Head of the human column, thus + Ever in swoon wilt thou remain? + Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous, + Whence then shall Hope arise for us, + Plunged in the darkness all again! + + No, she stirs!--There's a fire in her glance, + Ware, oh ware of that broken sword! + What, dare ye for an hour's mischance, + Gather around her, jeering France, + Attila's own exultant horde? + + Lo, she stands up,--stands up e'en now, + Strong once more for the battle-fray, + Gleams bright the star, that from her brow + Lightens the world. Bow, nations, bow, + Let her again lead on the way! + + + + +THE TREE OF LIFE. + + + Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness! + Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep, + My hand was in my father's, and I felt + His presence near me. Thus we often past + In silence, hour by hour. What was the need + Of interchanging words when every thought + That in our hearts arose, was known to each, + And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone + A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed. + I was awake:--It was an open plain + Illimitable,--stretching, stretching--oh, so far! + And o'er it that strange light,--a glorious light + Like that the stars shed over fields of snow + In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night, + Only intenser in its brilliance calm. + And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw, + For I was wide awake,--it was no dream, + A tree with spreading branches and with leaves + Of divers kinds,--dead silver and live gold, + Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell! + Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked + A few small sprays, and bound them round my head. + Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves! + No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt + The fever in my limbs--"And oh," I cried, + "Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves." + One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched + His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!" + Never, oh never had I seen a face + More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full + Of holy pity and of love divine. + Wondering I looked awhile,--then, all at once + Opened my tear-dimmed eyes--When lo! the light + Was gone--the light as of the stars when snow + Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more, + Was seen the Angel's face. I only found + My father watching patient by my bed, + And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand. + + + + +ON THE FLY-LEAF OF ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN'S NOVEL ENTITLED "MADAME THERESE." + + + Wavered the foremost soldiers,--then fell back. + Fallen was their leader, and loomed right before + The sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black, + With lighted matches waving. Now, once more, + Patriots and veterans!--Ah! 'Tis in vain! + Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave; + No human troops may stand that murderous rain; + But who is this--that rushes to a grave? + + It is a woman,--slender, tall, and brown! + She snatches up the standard as it falls,-- + In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down, + And to the drummer-boy aloud she calls + To beat the charge; then forwards on the _pont_ + They dash together;--who could bear to see + A woman and a child, thus Death confront, + Nor burn to follow them to victory? + + I read the story and my heart beats fast! + Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, + Battling against oppression! Years have past, + Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. + _Va-nu-pieds!_ When rose high your Marseillaise + Man knew his rights to earth's remotest bound, + And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise! + Ah, had a Washington but then been found! + + + + +SONNET.--BAUGMAREE. + + + A sea of foliage girds our garden round, + But not a sea of dull unvaried green, + Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen; + The light-green graceful tamarinds abound + Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound, + And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; + And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean, + Red,--red, and startling like a trumpet's sound. + But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges + Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon + Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes + Into a cup of silver. One might swoon + Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze + On a primeval Eden, in amaze. + + + + +SONNET.--THE LOTUS. + + + Love came to Flora asking for a flower + That would of flowers be undisputed queen, + The lily and the rose, long, long had been + Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power + Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower + Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"-- + "But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between + Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower. + "Give me a flower delicious as the rose + And stately as the lily in her pride"-- + "But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose, + Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;" + And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed, + And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows. + + + + +OUR CASUARINA TREE. + + + Like a huge Python, winding round and round + The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars + Up to its very summit near the stars, + A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound + No other tree could live. But gallantly + The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung + In crimson clusters all the boughs among, + Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; + And oft at nights the garden overflows + With one sweet song that seems to have no close, + Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose. + + When first my casement is wide open thrown + At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest; + Sometimes, and most in winter,--on its crest + A grey baboon sits statue-like alone + Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs + His puny offspring leap about and play; + And far and near kokilas hail the day; + And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows; + And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast + By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast, + The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed. + + But not because of its magnificence + Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: + Beneath it we have played; though years may roll, + O sweet companions, loved with love intense, + For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear! + Blent with your images, it shall arise + In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes! + What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear + Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach? + It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech, + That haply to the unknown land may reach. + + Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith! + Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away + In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, + When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith + And the waves gently kissed the classic shore + Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, + When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon: + And every time the music rose,--before + Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, + Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime + I saw thee, in my own loved native clime. + + Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay + Unto thy honour, Tree, beloved of those + Who now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose, + Dearer than life to me, alas! were they! + Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done + With deathless trees--like those in Borrowdale, + Under whose awful branches lingered pale + "Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton, + And Time the shadow;" and though weak the verse + That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse, + May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse. + + + + + CHISWICK PRESS: + C. 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