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.