Tales Of Ind, And Other Poems Part 1

Tales of Ind.

by T. Ramakrishna.

_LORD TENNYSON._

A poet of my native land has said-- The life the good and virtuous lead on earth Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East, Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair.

The eyes may smart and water, but withal She loves to please them that behold her face.

E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been.

Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine Have purified, likewise enn.o.bled man.

And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine, But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page?

To please and teach the world for two dear ones You mourned--a friend in youth, a son in age 'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy To one lone mortal is not lived in vain; But lives like thine G.o.d grants as shining lights That we in darkness Him aright may see.

Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset Do shine the more and better teach His ways.

Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one Obscure--a stranger in a distant land.

Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words Which do but half express the grief he feels.

_SEETA AND RAMA_.

A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE.

It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:-- A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold Communion with the changing skies above; Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys And wearied peasants in the midday noon; A lake that shone in l.u.s.tre clear and bright Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes Of future plenty and of future joys.

Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys!

In this enchanted hollow that was scooped-- For so it seemed--by G.o.d's own mighty hand, Where Nature shower'd her richest gifts to make Another paradise, stood Krishnapore With her two score and seven huts reared by The patient labour of her simple men.

In this blest hamlet one there was that owned Its richest lands: beloved by all its men, Their friend in times of need, their guide in life, Partaker of their joys and woes as well, The arbiter of all their petty strifes.

By him his friend the village master lived That at his door a group of children taught; A man he was well versed in ancient lore; And oft at night, when ended was their toil, The villagers with souls enraptured heard him In fiery accents speak of Krishna's deeds And Rama's warlike skill, and wondered that He knew so well the deities they adored.

One only daughter this schoolmaster had, And Seeta was her name, the prettiest maid In all the village, nursed by the fond cares Of her indulgent sire, and loved with all The tender feelings that pure love inspires By the rich villager's only son, the heir Of all his father's wealth; the best at school, The boldest of the village youths at play, And the delight of all those that saw him; And these seemed such a fitting pair that oft The secret whisper round the village ran That Seeta was to wed the rich man's son.

Thus, in this Eden, its blest inmates lived And pa.s.sed their days, the villagers at the fields, Their busy women at the blazing hearths, The village master at his cottage door, And Rama and fair Seeta in true love.

Hither a monster came, that slowly sucked The vigour, the very life of Krishnapore.

The brilliant l.u.s.tre of the diamond lake, The emerald greenness of the waving fields, The shady groves and pleasant cottage grounds, And all the beauties of the happy vale Soon vanished imperceptibly, as if Some unconsuming furnace underneath Had baked the earth and rendered it all bare, Until its inmates wandered desolate, With hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, and haggard faces, Like walking skeletons pasted o'er with skin.

No more would blooming girls with pitchers laden Repair to the clear lake while curling smoke Rose from their cottage roofs; no more at morn Would Rama be the first at school to see His Seeta deck her father's house with flowers; No more at eve the village master pour From Hindu lore the mighty deeds of G.o.ds To the delighted ears of simple men; For these have left their lands and their dear homes.

And Seeta with her father left her cot, And cast behind, with a deep, heavy sigh, One ling'ring look upon that vale where she Was born and fondly nursed,--where glided on Her days in pleasure and pure innocence,-- Where Rama lived and loved her tenderly.

Her father died of hunger on the way, And the lone creature wandered in the streets Of towns from door to door, and vainly begged For food, till some, deep moved by the sad tales Of the lone straggler, safely lodged her in A famine camp, where, heavy laden with A double sorrow (for her lover too, She thought, had died), her tedious life she spent.

And days and weeks and months thus rolled away, Until at last her love for the dead youth Mysterious waned, and, like a shallow lamp, Burnt in her breast with nothing to feed it.

One day the news went through the famine shed That a lean youth, plucked from the very arms Of cruel death, was tenderly nursed there; And all its inmates hurried to the scene.

Poor Seeta saw the youth, and that sad sight She ne'er forgot; the youth was in her mind Too firmly rooted to be rooted out, Who ev'ry day in strength and beauty grew, till he Appeared the fairest youth in all the camp.

First pity for the youth, then love for him Mysterious came to her, until at last The flick'ring flame shone sudden in her breast.

"This stranger I must wed, for him I love, I know not how; that pleasant face is like The face of him I dearly loved; I see Appearing ev'ry day upon that face, As if by magic wrought, those beauties that Were seated on dead Rama's face." Thus mused This maiden of the camp, and the fair youth Thus kindled in her breast the hidden flame Of love and fed it ever with new strength, Which shone again in all its purity.

As the moon whose effulgence hidden lies When dimmed by clouds, suddenly blazes forth And in her wonted beauty shines again What time she darts into the cloudless vault, So shone again in lovely Seeta's breast The lamp of love by clouds of sorrow dimmed.

The smothered pa.s.sion suddenly blazed forth In brighter l.u.s.tre, and to her returned With double force, as when the flaming fire Is smothered when more fuel is on it thrown, And straightway flames and gives a brighter light.

At last the monster left the land, the camp Was broke, its inmates left it for their homes.

England, would that one of thy sons were there To hear what words, what blessings now burst from Their inward hearts for nursing them when they From all estranged had poured into thine arms!

Poor Seeta hastened to the youth she loved, And to him with a gladdened heart thus spake:-- Her rosy lips, just oped to speak, were like A half-blown rosebud blossoming all at once; Such magic was wrought on her ere she spake: "Kind stranger, whither goest thou? I am A lonely maiden, and friends I have none; And thee alone I trust as my safe guide To Krishnapore."

"Dear maid! thy sorrows cease; My way now lies through Krishnapore: fear not, I shall restore thee to thy home and friends; Trust me as your safe guide and dearest friend."

She, overjoyed, recounted to the youth Her tale--how she, her father's only hope And pride, reluctant left their native vale And cottage home; how he died on the way, And she, a lonely creature, wandered in The streets from door to door and begged for food; How she was taken to the famine camp; How he, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, Was brought one day and there nursed tenderly; And how in beauty ev'ry day he grew Until like her dead Rama he appeared.

The village youth, unable any more Now to suppress him, suddenly exclaimed, "Look here, whose name is on this arm tattooed?"

"O Rama, Krishna, Govinda, and all Ye G.o.ds that I adore, ye have blest me; This is the happiest moment in my life, And this the happiest spot in all the earth, For now my long-lost Rama I have found."

So saying, she intently gazed on him.

As a rich mine pours forth its hidden wealth To the delight of those that day and night Court eagerly its treasures them t' enrich; So from this lovely pair's deep mine of feelings, What honeyed words escaped now through their lips To their intense joy, better far than all The treasures any ample mine bestows!

With sweet talk they beguiled their tedious way; The verdant hills sublime rose to the view; The broad lake glittered diamond-like again; And wreathing smoke curled from the cottage roofs; The lovely vale became the lovely vale Again, and all the long forgotten scenes In quick succession flowed before them both; And never was a happier marriage seen In all that happy vale of Krishnapore.

_THE STORY OF PRINCE DeSING_.

It was the month of May, and glorious rose The sun on Jinji, bathing in his light Her lofty hills, her ancient walls and towers, Her battlements, and all the glittering scene That bade the stranger tell--"here lives a prince;"

And greeting late, as if too long he slept Upon his ocean bed, the eager crowd That in their best attire at early dawn Fast gathered from their hamlets far and wide, And like a hive swarmed on the castled hills.

Perhaps some village poet waited there, Who day and night toiled hard in metres rare To sing the deeds and virtues of his prince And trace them on the leaves of that lone palm Which stood close by his humble cottage home.

Perhaps with faces that bespoke deep grief A troop of farmers there had come to tell To their sport-loving prince the havoc wrought Upon their toiling cattle by wild beasts That nightly from their hill abodes came down To feast on them. And in that motley crowd Were servants of the state and many more Who long had waited merely for a glimpse Of their just ruler Desing holding court.

But soon there echoed through the lofty hills The sound of th' Indian bugle and the drum Proclaiming the arrival of the prince; And often, as the new flood rushing down With the still waters of a sleeping stream, Leaves nought behind, and all is vacancy, Or as the dim light of a shallow lamp Suddenly blazes forth and soon is quenched, So louder rose the clamour of the crowd At the sound of the bugle and the drum, Then straightway in deep silence died away, And perfect stillness reigned everywhere.

Upon his gorgeous throne sat Jinji's prince With servants fanning him on either side; And in a place of honour sate in that Capacious hall his holy Brahmin priest, The master of his well-trained army there, The chief and trusted min'ster of the state, The aged poet that his praises sang, The sage that, versed in all the starry lore, His royal master's fortunes daily told; The painter that adorned those ancient walls, And countless other servants of the prince There gathered each in his accustomed seat.

Then from the gate approached a trusty page, And said with folded hands and trembling lips-- "O royal master, at the gate there waits A man of n.o.ble mien from the far north Requesting audience on affairs of state."

"Conduct him to our presence," said the prince.

The stranger came,--upon the floor he knelt And said--"Thou mighty prince of these fair lands, I come from Arcot, and the Nabob sent His humble servant to demand of thee Thy dues which these five years thou hast not paid.

Know, then, if these are not now duly paid, From thee he will these broad dominions wrest, And give them those who will his rule obey."

The angry prince made answer--"Go and tell Your master that his vain threats move us not, Say we will gladly meet him on the field."

So saying, from his royal seat he rose, And to his palace instantly withdrew.

As when a stone dropped in the middle of A placid pool its slumb'ring waters wakes, And the calm surface is all ruffled seen, Or at the merest touch of ruthless man Bent on the honeyed treasures of the hive Those myriad ones leave murm'ring to the foe Their h.o.a.rded wealth to which they fondly clung, So scattered to their distant native homes The bustling crowd that met on Jinji's hills, When he of Arcot came to mar their joys.

And days and months rolled on until one day To Desing came his loyal spy and said-- "My n.o.ble ruler, on the other side Of the fair stream that runs through yonder plain, There waits our foe of Arcot with his men: Prepare to go and meet him on the field."

'Twas even time--the warrior prince soon wrote To Mamood Khan, the master of his troops, To hasten to his country's duty first.

What though it was that soldier's bridal hour, When he received his royal master's call!

"My country's welfare first, then my fair spouse,"

He said, and leapt upon his faithful steed And stood, ere morn had streaked the eastern sky, Before his lord his bidding to obey.

The prince rose early on that fated day And to the temple of his G.o.d repaired, There to invoke His blessing on the field.

Then to the palace hastened he to meet, Ere he went forth to fight, his youthful wife, Who day by day in beauty grew amidst A score of maidens, like the waxing moon; And, with a screen of silk between, they met.

As one lured by the fragrance of the rose Stoops down gently to lift the truant stalk That to the other side of the thick hedge Shoots out alone from its own parent stem, So fondly down stooped Jinji's n.o.ble prince To kiss the jewelled arm of his fair spouse Which through the screen she offered to her lord.

Prince Desing was the first who silence broke.

"My dear wife! on the day when we were wed These eyes of mine had not e'en this arm seen, Although on the same bridal seat we sat.

The screen which by the custom of our race Was drawn by cruel hands hid thee from view.

So wondrous fair this arm looks that methinks Rare beauties must be seated on thy face.