Hindu literature Part 76

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...o...b.. 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, G.o.d 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 honored 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.

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 pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.ses her by, Help, Samaritan! None is nigh; Who shall staunch 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 pa.s.sed 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.