THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA.

Scarce Rama to the wilderness — had with his younger brother gone, Abandoned to his deep distress — king Dasaratha sate alone. Upon his sons to exile driven — when thought that king, as Indra bright, Darkness came o'er him, as in heaven — when pales th’ eclipsed sun his light. Six days he sate, and mourned and pined — for Rama all that weary time, At midnight on his wandering mind — rose up his old forgotten crime. His queen Kausalya, the divine — addressed he, as she rested near: “Kausalya, if thou wak'st, incline — to thy lord's speech thy ready ear. Whatever deed, or good or ill — by man, oh blessed queen, is wrought, Its proper fruit he gathers still — by time to slow perfection brought. He who the opposing counsel's weight — compares not in his judgment cool, Or misery or bliss his fate — among the sage is deemed a fool. As one that quits the Amra bower — the bright Palasa's pride to gain, Mocked by the promise of its flower — seeks its unripening fruit in vain. So I the lovely Amra left— for the Palasa's barren bloom, Through mine own fatal error‘ reft — of banished Rama, mourn in gloom. Kausalya! in my early youth — by my keen arrow at its mark, Aimed with too sure and deadly truth — was wrought a deed most fell and dark. At length the evil that I did — hath fallen upon my fatal head, As when on subtle poison hid — an unsuspecting child hath fed; Even as that child unwittingly — hath made the poisonous fare his food, Even so in ignorance by me — was wrought that deed of guilt and blood. Unwed wert thou in virgin bloom — and I in youth's delicious prime, The season of the rains had come — that soft and love-enkindling time. Earth's moisture all absorbed, the sun — through all the world its warmth had spread, Turned from the north, its course begun — where haunt the spirits of the dead! Gathering o'er all th’ horizon's bound — on high the welcome clouds appeared, Exulting all the birds flew round — cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and veered. And all down each wide-water'd shore — the troubled, yet still limpid floods, Over their banks began to pour — as o'er them hung the bursting clouds. And, saturate with cloud-born dew — the glittering verdant-mantled earth, The cuckoos and the peacocks flew — disputing as in drunken mirth. In such a time, so soft, so bland — oh beautiful! I chanced to go, With quiver, and with bow in hand — where clear Sarayu's waters flow. If haply to the river's brink — at night the buffalo might stray, Or elephant, the stream to drink,— intent my savage game to slay, Then of a water cruise, as slow — it filled, the gurgling sound I heard, Nought saw I, but the sullen low — of elephant that sound appeared. The swift well-feathered arrow I — upon the bowstring fitting straight, Toward the sound the shaft let fly — ah, cruelly deceived by fate! The winged arrow scarce had flown — and scarce had reached its destined aim, ‘ Ah me, I'm slain,’ a feeble moan — in trembling human accents came. ‘ Ah whence hath come this fatal shaft — against a poor recluse like me, Who shot that bolt with deadly craft — alas! what cruel man is he? At the lone midnight had I come — to draw the river's limpid flood, And here am struck to death, by whom?— ah whose this wrongful deed of blood. Alas! and in my parent's heart — the old, the blind, and hardly fed, In the wild wood, hath pierced the dart — that here hath struck their offspring dead. Ah, deed most profitless as worst — a deed of wanton useless guilt; As though a pupil's hand accurs'd— his holy master's blood had spilt. But not mine own untimely fate — it is not that which I deplore, My blind, my aged parents state —‘ tis their distress afflicts me more. That sightless pair, for many a day — from me their scanty food have earned, What lot is theirs, when I'm away — to the five elements returned? Alike all wretched they, as I — ah, whose this triple deed of blood? For who the herbs will now supply — the roots, the fruit, their blameless food?’ My troubled soul, that plaintive moan — no sooner heard, so faint and low, Trembled to look on what I'd done — fell from my shuddering hand my bow. Swift I rushed up, I saw him there — heart-pierced, and fall'n the stream beside, That hermit boy with knotted hair — his clothing was the black deer's hide. On me most piteous turned his look — his wounded breast could scarce respire, ‘ What wrong, oh Kshatriya,have I done — to be thy deathful arrow's aim, The forest's solitary son — to draw the limpid stream I came. Both wretched and both blind they lie — in the wild wood all destitute, My parents, listening anxiously — to hear my home-returning foot. By this, thy fatal shaft, this one — three miserable victims fall, The sire, the mother, and the son — ah why? and unoffending all. How vain my father's life austere — the Veda's studied page how vain, He knew not with prophetic fear — his son would fall untimely slain. But had he known, to one as he — so weak, so blind,‘ twere bootless all, No tree can save another tree — by the sharp hatchet marked to fall. But to my father's dwelling haste — oh Raghu'sson, lest in his ire, Thy head with burning curse he blast — as the dry forest tree the fire. Thee to my father's lone retreat — will quickly lead yon onward path, Oh haste, his pardon to entreat — or ere he curse thee in his wrath. Yet first, that gently I may die — draw forth the barbed steel from hence, Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I — not thine of Brahmin blood the offence. My sire, a Brahmin hermit he — my mother was of Sudra race.' So spake the wounded boy, on me — while turned his unreproaching face. As from his palpitating breast — I gently drew the mortal dart, He saw me trembling stand, and blest — that boy's pure spirit seemed to part. As died that holy hermit's son — from me my glory seemed to go, With troubled mind I stood, cast down — t’ inevitable endless woe. That shaft that seemed his life to burn — like serpent venom, thus drawn out, I, taking up his fallen urn — t’ his father's dwelling took my route. There miserable, blind, and old — of their sole helpmate thus forlorn, His parents did these eyes behold — like two sad birds with pinions shorn. Of him in fond discourse they sate — lone, thinking only of their son, For his return so long, so late — impatient, oh by me undone. My footsteps’ sound he seemed to know — and thus the aged hermit said, ‘ Oh, Yajnadatta, why so slow?— haste, let the cooling draught be shed. Long, on the river's pleasant brink — hast thou been sporting in thy joy, Thy mother's fainting spirits sink — in fear for thee, but thou, my boy, If aught to grieve thy gentle heart — thy mother or thy sire do wrong, Bear with us, nor when next we part — on the slow way thus linger long. The feet of those that cannot move — of those that cannot see the eye, Our spirits live but in thy love — Oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?’ My throat thick swollen with bursting tears — my power of speech that seemed to choke, With hands above my head, my fears — breaking my quivering voice, I spoke; ‘ The Kshatriya Dasaratha I — Oh hermit sage,‘ tis not thy son! Most holy ones, unknowingly — a deed of awful guilt I've done. With bow in hand I took my way — along Sarayu's pleasant brink, The savage buffalo to slay — or elephant come down to drink. A sound came murmuring to my ear —‘ twas of the urn that slowly filled, I deemed some savage wild-beast near — my erring shaft thy son had killed. A feeble groan I heard, his breast — was pierced by that dire arrow keen: All trembling to the spot I pressed — lo there thy hermit boy was seen. Flew to the sound my arrow, meant — the wandering elephant to slay, Toward the river brink it went — and there thy son expiring lay. The fatal shaft when forth I drew — to heaven his parting spirit soared, Dying he only thought of you — long, long, your lonely lot deplored. Thus ignorantly did I slay — your child beloved, Oh hermit sage! Turn thou on me, whose fated day — is come, thy all-consuming rage.’ He heard my dreadful tale at length — he stood all lifeless, motionless; Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength — me his meek suppliant did address. ‘ Kshatriya,‘ tis well that thou hast turned — thy deed of murder to rehearse, Else over all thy land had burned — the fire of my wide-wasting curse. If with premeditated crime — the unoffending blood thou'dst spilt, The Thunderer on his throne sublime — had shaken at such tremendous guilt. Against the anchorite's sacred head — hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed, In th’ holy Vedas deeply read — thy skull in seven wide rents had burst. But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought — that deed of death, thou livest still, Oh son of Raghu, from thy thought — dismiss all dread of instant ill. Oh lead me to that doleful spot — where my poor boy expiring lay, Beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot — of my blind age, the staff, the stay. On the cold earth‘ twere yet a joy — to touch my perished child again, ( So long if I may live ) my boy — in one last fond embrace to strain. His body all bedewed with gore — his locks in loose disorder thrown, Let me, let her but touch once more — to the dread realm of Yama gone.’ Then to that fatal place I brought — alone that miserable pair; His sightless hands, and hers I taught — to touch their boy that slumbered there. Nor sooner did they feel him lie — on the moist herbage coldly thrown, Both with a shrill and feeble cry — upon the body cast them down. The mother as she lay and groaned — addressed her boy with quivering tongue, And like a heifer sadly moaned — just plundered of her new-dropped young: ‘ Was not thy mother once, my son — than life itself more dear to thee? Why the long way hast thou begun — without one gentle word to me. One last embrace, and then, beloved — upon thy lonely journey go! Alas! with anger art thou moved — that not a word thou wilt bestow?’ The miserable father now— with gentle touch each cold limb pressed, And to the dead his words of woe — as to his living son, addressed: ‘ I too, my son, am I not here?— thy sire with thy sad mother stands; Awake, arise, my child, draw near — and clasp each neck with loving hands. Who now,‘ neath the dark wood by night — a pious reader shall be heard? Whose honied voice my ear delight — with th’ holy Veda's living word? The evening prayer, th’ ablution done — the fire adored with worship meet, Who now shall soothe like thee, my son — with fondling hand, my aged feet? And who the herb, the wholesome root — or wild fruit from the wood shall bring? To us the blind, the destitute — with helpless hunger perishing? Thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned — within our hermit-dwelling lone, How shall I tend, myself as blind — now all my strength of life is gone! Oh stay, my child, Oh part not yet — to Yama's dwelling go not now, To-morrow forth we all will set — thy mother, and myself, and thou: For both, in grief for thee, and both — so helpless, ere another day, From this dark world, but little loath — shall we depart, death's easy prey! And I myself, by Yama's seat — companion of thy darksome way, The guerdon to thy virtues meet — from that great Judge of men will pray. Because, my boy, in innocence — by wicked deed thou hast been slain, Rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence — ne'er stoop to this dark world again. Those that to earth return no more — the sense-subdued, the hermits wise, Priests their sage masters that adore — to their eternal seats arise. Those that have studied to the last — the Veda's, the Vedanga's page, Where saintly kings of earth have passed — Nahusa and Yayáti sage; The sires of holy families — the true to wedlock's sacred vow; And those that cattle, gold, or rice — or lands with liberal hands bestow; That ope th’ asylum to th’ oppressed — that ever love, and speak the truth, Up to the dwellings of the blest — th’ eternal, soar thou, best loved youth. For none of such a holy race — within the lowest seat may dwell; But that will be his fatal place — by whom my only offspring fell.’ So groaning deep, that wretched pair — the hermit and his wife, essayed The meet ablution to prepare — their hands their last faint effort made. Divine, with glorious body bright — in splendid car of heaven elate, Before them stood their son in light — and thus consoled their helpless state: ‘ Meed of my duteous filial care — I've reached the wished for realms of joy; And ye, in those glad realms, prepare — to meet full soon your dear-loved boy. My parents, weep no more for me — yon warrior monarch slew me not, My death was thus ordained to be;— predestined was the shaft he shot.” Thus, as he spoke, the anchorite's son — soared up the glowing heaven afar, In air his heavenly body shone — while stood he in his gorgeous car. But they, of that lost boy so dear — the last ablution meetly made, Thus spoke to me that holy seer — with folded hands above his head. ‘ Albeit by thy unknowing dart — my blameless boy untimely fell, A curse I lay upon thy heart — whose fearful pain I know too well. As sorrowing for my son I bow — and yield up my unwilling breath, So, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou — at life's last close repose in death.’ That curse, dread sounding in mine ear — to mine own city forth I set, Nor long survived that hermit seer — to mourn his child in lone regret. This day that Brahmin curse fulfilled — hath fallen on my devoted head, In anguish for any parted child — have all my sinking spirits fled. No more my darkened eyes can see — my clouded memory is o'ercast, Dark Yama's heralds summon me — to his deep, dreary, realm to haste. Mine eye no more my Rama sees — and grief o'erburns, my spirits sink, As the swollen stream sweeps down the trees — that grow upon the crumbling brink. Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake — one word his home-returning voice, Again to life should I awake — as quaffing nectar draughts rejoice, But what so sad could e'er have been — celestial partner of my heart, Than, Rama's beauteous face unseen,— from life untimely to depart. His exile in the forest o'er — him home returned to Oudes high town, Oh happy those, that see once more — like Indra from the sky come down. No mortal men, but gods I deem — moonlike, before whose wondering sight, My Rama's glorious face shall beam — from the dark forest bursting bright. Happy that gaze on Rama's face — with beauteous teeth and smile of love, Like the blue lotus in its grace — and like the starry king above. Like to the full autumnal moon — and like the lotus in its bloom, That youth who sees returning soon — how blest shall be that mortal's doom. Dwelling on that sweet memory — on his last bed the monarch lay, And slowly, softly, seemed to die — as fades the moon at dawn away. “Ah, Rama! ah, my son!” thus said — or scarcely said, the king of men, His gentle hapless spirit fled — in sorrow for his Rama then, The shepherd of his people old — at midnight on his bed of death, The tale of his son's exile told — and breathed away his dying breath.