Hindu literature Part 75

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 G.o.d!" 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 gra.s.s, 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 Brahman'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 G.o.d, the like to do.

Because I suffer, should I give Thee, king, a needless pain?

Ah, no! I die, but may'st 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 b.l.o.o.d.y death-- But not for this I mourn, To feel the world pa.s.s 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 neighboring 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?"