Maitreya.Of old thou gav'st a promise to relateThe deeds of Bharat, that great hermit-king:Beloved Master, now the occasion suits,And I am all attention.Parasara.Brahman, hear.With a mind fixed intently on his godsLong reigned in Saligram of ancient fame,The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world.Chief of the virtuous, never in his lifeHarmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man,Or any creature sentient. But he leftHis kingdom in the forest-shades to dwell,And changed his sceptre for a hermit's staff,And with ascetic rites, privations rude,And constant prayers, endeavoured to attainPerfect dominion on his soul. At morn,Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass,He gathered for oblations; and he passedIn stern devotions all his other hours;Of the world heedless, and its myriad cares,And heedless too of wealth, and love, and fame.Once on a time, while living thus, he wentTo bathe where through the wood the river flows:And his ablutions done, he sat him downUpon the shelving bank to muse and pray.Thither impelled by thirst a graceful hind,Big with its young, came fearlessly to drink.Sudden, while yet she drank, the lion's roar,Feared by all creatures, like a thunder-clapBurst in that solitude from a thicket nigh.Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her wombHer offspring tumbled in the rushing stream.Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried farBy the strong current swoln by recent rain,The tiny thing still struggled for its life,While its poor mother, in her fright and pain,Fell down upon the bank, and breathed her last.Up rose the hermit-monarch at the sightFull of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staffHe drew the new-born creature from the wave;'Twas panting fast, but life was in it still.Now, as he saw its luckless mother dead,He would not leave it in the woods alone,But with the tenderest pity brought it home.There, in his leafy hut, he gave it food,And daily nourished it with patient care,Until it grew in stature and in strength,And to the forest skirts could venture forthIn search of sustenance. At early mornThenceforth it used to leave the hermitageAnd with the shades of evening come again,And in the little courtyard of the hutLie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce,Prowling about, compelled it to returnEarlier at noon. But whether near or far,Wandering abroad, or resting in its home,The monarch-hermit's heart was with it still,Bound by affection's ties; nor could he thinkOf anything besides this little hind,His nursling. Though a kingdom he had left,And children, and a host of loving friends,Almost without a tear, the fount of loveSprang out anew within his blighted heart,To greet this dumb, weak, helpless foster-child,And so, whene'er it lingered in the wilds,Or at the 'customed hour could not return,His thoughts went with it; "And alas!" he cried,"Who knows, perhaps some lion or some wolf,Or ravenous tiger with relentless jawsAlready hath devoured it,—timid thing!Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs,And variegated. Surely for my joyIt was created. When will it come back,And rub its budding antlers on my armsIn token of its love and deep delightTo see my face? The shaven stalks of grass,Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped,Remind me of it, as they stand in linesLike pious boys who chant the Samga VedsShorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair."Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy,With smiles upon his lips, whenever nearHis little favourite; in bitter griefAnd fear, and trouble, when it wandered far.And he who had abandoned ease and wealth,And friends and dearest ties, and kingly power,Found his devotions broken by the loveHe had bestowed upon a little hindThrown in his way by chance. Years glided on....And Death, who spareth none, approached at lastThe hermit-king to summon him away;The hind was at his side, with tearful eyesWatching his last sad moments, like a childBeside a father. He too, watched and watchedHis favourite through a blinding film of tears,And could not think of the Beyond at hand,So keen he felt the parting, such deep griefO'erwhelmed him for the creature he had reared.To it devoted was his last, last thought,Reckless of present and of future both!Thus far the pious chronicle, writ of oldBy Brahman sage; but we, who happier, liveUnder the holiest dispensation, knowThat God is Love, and not to be adoredBy a devotion born of stoic pride,Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard,But with a love, in character akinTo His unselfish, all-including love.And therefore little can we sympathizeWith what the Brahman sage would fain implyAs the concluding moral of his tale,That for the hermit-king it was a sinTo love his nursling. What! a sin to love!A sin to pity! Rather should we deemWhatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold,That he had sinned incasting offall loveBy his retirement to the forest-shades;For that was to abandon duties high,And, like a recreant soldier, leave the postWhere God had placed him as a sentinel.This little hind brought strangely on his path,This love engendered in his withered heart,This hindrance to his rituals,—might these notHave been ordained to teach him? Call him backTo ways marked out for him by Love divine?And with a mind less self-willed to adore?Not in seclusion, not apart from all,Not in a place elected for its peace,But in the heat and bustle of the world,'Mid sorrow, sickness, suffering and sin,Must he still labour with a loving soulWho strives to enter through the narrow gate.
Maitreya.Of old thou gav'st a promise to relateThe deeds of Bharat, that great hermit-king:Beloved Master, now the occasion suits,And I am all attention.Parasara.Brahman, hear.With a mind fixed intently on his godsLong reigned in Saligram of ancient fame,The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world.Chief of the virtuous, never in his lifeHarmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man,Or any creature sentient. But he leftHis kingdom in the forest-shades to dwell,And changed his sceptre for a hermit's staff,And with ascetic rites, privations rude,And constant prayers, endeavoured to attainPerfect dominion on his soul. At morn,Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass,He gathered for oblations; and he passedIn stern devotions all his other hours;Of the world heedless, and its myriad cares,And heedless too of wealth, and love, and fame.Once on a time, while living thus, he wentTo bathe where through the wood the river flows:And his ablutions done, he sat him downUpon the shelving bank to muse and pray.Thither impelled by thirst a graceful hind,Big with its young, came fearlessly to drink.Sudden, while yet she drank, the lion's roar,Feared by all creatures, like a thunder-clapBurst in that solitude from a thicket nigh.Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her wombHer offspring tumbled in the rushing stream.Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried farBy the strong current swoln by recent rain,The tiny thing still struggled for its life,While its poor mother, in her fright and pain,Fell down upon the bank, and breathed her last.Up rose the hermit-monarch at the sightFull of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staffHe drew the new-born creature from the wave;'Twas panting fast, but life was in it still.Now, as he saw its luckless mother dead,He would not leave it in the woods alone,But with the tenderest pity brought it home.There, in his leafy hut, he gave it food,And daily nourished it with patient care,Until it grew in stature and in strength,And to the forest skirts could venture forthIn search of sustenance. At early mornThenceforth it used to leave the hermitageAnd with the shades of evening come again,And in the little courtyard of the hutLie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce,Prowling about, compelled it to returnEarlier at noon. But whether near or far,Wandering abroad, or resting in its home,The monarch-hermit's heart was with it still,Bound by affection's ties; nor could he thinkOf anything besides this little hind,His nursling. Though a kingdom he had left,And children, and a host of loving friends,Almost without a tear, the fount of loveSprang out anew within his blighted heart,To greet this dumb, weak, helpless foster-child,And so, whene'er it lingered in the wilds,Or at the 'customed hour could not return,His thoughts went with it; "And alas!" he cried,"Who knows, perhaps some lion or some wolf,Or ravenous tiger with relentless jawsAlready hath devoured it,—timid thing!Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs,And variegated. Surely for my joyIt was created. When will it come back,And rub its budding antlers on my armsIn token of its love and deep delightTo see my face? The shaven stalks of grass,Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped,Remind me of it, as they stand in linesLike pious boys who chant the Samga VedsShorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair."Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy,With smiles upon his lips, whenever nearHis little favourite; in bitter griefAnd fear, and trouble, when it wandered far.And he who had abandoned ease and wealth,And friends and dearest ties, and kingly power,Found his devotions broken by the loveHe had bestowed upon a little hindThrown in his way by chance. Years glided on....And Death, who spareth none, approached at lastThe hermit-king to summon him away;The hind was at his side, with tearful eyesWatching his last sad moments, like a childBeside a father. He too, watched and watchedHis favourite through a blinding film of tears,And could not think of the Beyond at hand,So keen he felt the parting, such deep griefO'erwhelmed him for the creature he had reared.To it devoted was his last, last thought,Reckless of present and of future both!Thus far the pious chronicle, writ of oldBy Brahman sage; but we, who happier, liveUnder the holiest dispensation, knowThat God is Love, and not to be adoredBy a devotion born of stoic pride,Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard,But with a love, in character akinTo His unselfish, all-including love.And therefore little can we sympathizeWith what the Brahman sage would fain implyAs the concluding moral of his tale,That for the hermit-king it was a sinTo love his nursling. What! a sin to love!A sin to pity! Rather should we deemWhatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold,That he had sinned incasting offall loveBy his retirement to the forest-shades;For that was to abandon duties high,And, like a recreant soldier, leave the postWhere God had placed him as a sentinel.This little hind brought strangely on his path,This love engendered in his withered heart,This hindrance to his rituals,—might these notHave been ordained to teach him? Call him backTo ways marked out for him by Love divine?And with a mind less self-willed to adore?Not in seclusion, not apart from all,Not in a place elected for its peace,But in the heat and bustle of the world,'Mid sorrow, sickness, suffering and sin,Must he still labour with a loving soulWho strives to enter through the narrow gate.
Maitreya.Of old thou gav'st a promise to relateThe deeds of Bharat, that great hermit-king:Beloved Master, now the occasion suits,And I am all attention.Parasara.Brahman, hear.With a mind fixed intently on his godsLong reigned in Saligram of ancient fame,The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world.Chief of the virtuous, never in his lifeHarmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man,Or any creature sentient. But he leftHis kingdom in the forest-shades to dwell,And changed his sceptre for a hermit's staff,And with ascetic rites, privations rude,And constant prayers, endeavoured to attainPerfect dominion on his soul. At morn,Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass,He gathered for oblations; and he passedIn stern devotions all his other hours;Of the world heedless, and its myriad cares,And heedless too of wealth, and love, and fame.
Once on a time, while living thus, he wentTo bathe where through the wood the river flows:And his ablutions done, he sat him downUpon the shelving bank to muse and pray.Thither impelled by thirst a graceful hind,Big with its young, came fearlessly to drink.Sudden, while yet she drank, the lion's roar,Feared by all creatures, like a thunder-clapBurst in that solitude from a thicket nigh.Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her wombHer offspring tumbled in the rushing stream.Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried farBy the strong current swoln by recent rain,The tiny thing still struggled for its life,While its poor mother, in her fright and pain,Fell down upon the bank, and breathed her last.Up rose the hermit-monarch at the sightFull of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staffHe drew the new-born creature from the wave;'Twas panting fast, but life was in it still.Now, as he saw its luckless mother dead,He would not leave it in the woods alone,But with the tenderest pity brought it home.
There, in his leafy hut, he gave it food,And daily nourished it with patient care,Until it grew in stature and in strength,And to the forest skirts could venture forthIn search of sustenance. At early mornThenceforth it used to leave the hermitageAnd with the shades of evening come again,And in the little courtyard of the hutLie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce,Prowling about, compelled it to returnEarlier at noon. But whether near or far,Wandering abroad, or resting in its home,The monarch-hermit's heart was with it still,Bound by affection's ties; nor could he thinkOf anything besides this little hind,His nursling. Though a kingdom he had left,And children, and a host of loving friends,Almost without a tear, the fount of loveSprang out anew within his blighted heart,To greet this dumb, weak, helpless foster-child,And so, whene'er it lingered in the wilds,Or at the 'customed hour could not return,His thoughts went with it; "And alas!" he cried,"Who knows, perhaps some lion or some wolf,Or ravenous tiger with relentless jawsAlready hath devoured it,—timid thing!Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs,And variegated. Surely for my joyIt was created. When will it come back,And rub its budding antlers on my armsIn token of its love and deep delightTo see my face? The shaven stalks of grass,Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped,Remind me of it, as they stand in linesLike pious boys who chant the Samga VedsShorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair."Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy,With smiles upon his lips, whenever nearHis little favourite; in bitter griefAnd fear, and trouble, when it wandered far.And he who had abandoned ease and wealth,And friends and dearest ties, and kingly power,Found his devotions broken by the loveHe had bestowed upon a little hindThrown in his way by chance. Years glided on....And Death, who spareth none, approached at lastThe hermit-king to summon him away;The hind was at his side, with tearful eyesWatching his last sad moments, like a childBeside a father. He too, watched and watchedHis favourite through a blinding film of tears,And could not think of the Beyond at hand,So keen he felt the parting, such deep griefO'erwhelmed him for the creature he had reared.To it devoted was his last, last thought,Reckless of present and of future both!
Thus far the pious chronicle, writ of oldBy Brahman sage; but we, who happier, liveUnder the holiest dispensation, knowThat God is Love, and not to be adoredBy a devotion born of stoic pride,Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard,But with a love, in character akinTo His unselfish, all-including love.And therefore little can we sympathizeWith what the Brahman sage would fain implyAs the concluding moral of his tale,That for the hermit-king it was a sinTo love his nursling. What! a sin to love!A sin to pity! Rather should we deemWhatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold,That he had sinned incasting offall loveBy his retirement to the forest-shades;For that was to abandon duties high,And, like a recreant soldier, leave the postWhere God had placed him as a sentinel.
This little hind brought strangely on his path,This love engendered in his withered heart,This hindrance to his rituals,—might these notHave been ordained to teach him? Call him backTo ways marked out for him by Love divine?And with a mind less self-willed to adore?
Not in seclusion, not apart from all,Not in a place elected for its peace,But in the heat and bustle of the world,'Mid sorrow, sickness, suffering and sin,Must he still labour with a loving soulWho strives to enter through the narrow gate.
Sprung from great Brahma, Manu had two sons,Heroic and devout, as I have said,Pryavrata and Uttanapado,—namesKnown in legends; and of these the lastMarried two wives, Suruchee, his adored,The mother of a handsome petted boyUttama; and Suneetee, less beloved,The mother of another son whose nameWas Dhruva. Seated on his throne the kingUttanapado, on his knee one dayHad placed Uttama; Dhruva, who beheldHis brother in that place of honour, longedTo clamber up and by his playmate sit;Led on by Love he came, but found, alas!Scant welcome and encouragement; the kingSaw fair Suruchee sweep into the hallWith stately step,—aye, every inch a queen,And dared not smile upon her co-wife's son.Observing him,—her rival's boy,—intentTo mount ambitious to his father's knee,Where sat her own, thus fair Suruchee spake:"Why hast thou, child, formed such a vain design?Why harboured such an aspiration proud,Born from another's womb and not from mine?Oh thoughtless! To desire the loftiest place,The throne of thrones, a royal father's lap!It is an honour to the destined given,And not within thy reach. What though thou artBorn of the king; those sleek and tender limbsHold of my blood no portion; I am queen.To be the equal of mine only sonWere in thee vain ambition. Know'st thou not,Fair prattler, thou art sprung,—not, not from mine,But from Suneetee's bowels? Learn thy place."Repulsed in silence from his father's lap,Indignant, furious, at the words that fellFrom his step-mother's lips, poor Dhruva ranTo his own mother's chambers, where he stoodBeside her with his pale, thin, trembling lips,(Trembling with an emotion ill-suppressed)And hair in wild disorder, till she tookAnd raised him to her lap, and gently said:"Oh, child, what means this? What can be the causeOf this great anger? Who hath given thee pain?He that hath vexed thee, hath despised thy sire,For in these veins thou hast the royal blood."Thus conjured, Dhruva, with a swelling heartRepeated to his mother every wordThat proud Suruchee spake, from first to last,Even in the very presence of the king.His speech oft broken by his tears and sobs,Helpless Suneetee, languid-eyed from care,Heard sighing deeply, and then soft replied:"Oh son, to lowly fortune thou wert born,And what my co-wife said to thee is truth;No enemy to Heaven's favoured ones may saySuch words as thy step-mother said to thee.Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieveOr vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done,The evil, haply, in some former life,Long, long ago, who may alas! annul,Or who the good works not done, supplement!The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit.The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold,The best steed, and the royal elephantRich caparisoned, must be his by rightWho has deserved them by his virtuous actsIn times long past. Oh think on this, my son,And be content. For glorious actions doneNot in this life, but in some previous birth,Suruchee by the monarch is beloved.Women, unfortunate like myself, who bearOnly the name of wife without the powers,But pine and suffer for our ancient sins.Suruchee raised her virtues pile on pile,Hence Uttama her son, the fortunate!Suneetee heaped but evil,—hence her sonDhruva the luckless! But for all this, child,It is not meet that thou shouldst ever grieveAs I have said. That man is truly wiseWho is content with what he has, and seeksNothing beyond, but in whatever sphere,Lowly or great, God placed him, works in faith;My son, my son, though proud Suruchee spakeHarsh words indeed, and hurt thee to the quick,Yet to thine eyes thy duty should be plain.Collect a large sum of the virtues; thenceA goodly harvest must to thee arise.Be meek, devout, and friendly, full of love,Intent to do good to the human raceAnd to all creatures sentient made of God;And oh, be humble, for on modest worthDescends prosperity, even as water flowsDown to low grounds."She finished, and her son,Who patiently had listened, thus replied:—"Mother, thy words of consolation findNor resting-place, nor echo in this heartBroken by words severe, repulsing LoveThat timidly approached to worship. HearMy resolve unchangeable. I shall tryThe highest good, the loftiest place to win,Which the whole world deems priceless and desires.There is a crown above my father's crown,I shall obtain it, and at any costOf toil, or penance, or unceasing prayer.Not born of proud Suruchee, whom the kingFavours and loves, but grown up from a germIn thee, O mother, humble as thou art,I yet shall show thee what is in my power.Thou shalt behold my glory and rejoice.Let Uttama my brother,—not thy son,—Receive the throne and royal titles,—allMy father pleases to confer on him.I grudge them not. Not with another's giftsDesire I, dearest mother, to be rich,But with my own work would acquire a name.And I shall strive unceasing for a placeSuch as my father hath not won,—a placeThat would not know him even,—aye, a placeFar, far above the highest of this earth."He said, and from his mother's chambers past,And went into the wood where hermits live,And never to his father's house returned.Well kept the boy his promise made that day!By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at lastThe highest heavens, and there he shines a star!Nightly men see him in the firmament.
Sprung from great Brahma, Manu had two sons,Heroic and devout, as I have said,Pryavrata and Uttanapado,—namesKnown in legends; and of these the lastMarried two wives, Suruchee, his adored,The mother of a handsome petted boyUttama; and Suneetee, less beloved,The mother of another son whose nameWas Dhruva. Seated on his throne the kingUttanapado, on his knee one dayHad placed Uttama; Dhruva, who beheldHis brother in that place of honour, longedTo clamber up and by his playmate sit;Led on by Love he came, but found, alas!Scant welcome and encouragement; the kingSaw fair Suruchee sweep into the hallWith stately step,—aye, every inch a queen,And dared not smile upon her co-wife's son.Observing him,—her rival's boy,—intentTo mount ambitious to his father's knee,Where sat her own, thus fair Suruchee spake:"Why hast thou, child, formed such a vain design?Why harboured such an aspiration proud,Born from another's womb and not from mine?Oh thoughtless! To desire the loftiest place,The throne of thrones, a royal father's lap!It is an honour to the destined given,And not within thy reach. What though thou artBorn of the king; those sleek and tender limbsHold of my blood no portion; I am queen.To be the equal of mine only sonWere in thee vain ambition. Know'st thou not,Fair prattler, thou art sprung,—not, not from mine,But from Suneetee's bowels? Learn thy place."Repulsed in silence from his father's lap,Indignant, furious, at the words that fellFrom his step-mother's lips, poor Dhruva ranTo his own mother's chambers, where he stoodBeside her with his pale, thin, trembling lips,(Trembling with an emotion ill-suppressed)And hair in wild disorder, till she tookAnd raised him to her lap, and gently said:"Oh, child, what means this? What can be the causeOf this great anger? Who hath given thee pain?He that hath vexed thee, hath despised thy sire,For in these veins thou hast the royal blood."Thus conjured, Dhruva, with a swelling heartRepeated to his mother every wordThat proud Suruchee spake, from first to last,Even in the very presence of the king.His speech oft broken by his tears and sobs,Helpless Suneetee, languid-eyed from care,Heard sighing deeply, and then soft replied:"Oh son, to lowly fortune thou wert born,And what my co-wife said to thee is truth;No enemy to Heaven's favoured ones may saySuch words as thy step-mother said to thee.Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieveOr vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done,The evil, haply, in some former life,Long, long ago, who may alas! annul,Or who the good works not done, supplement!The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit.The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold,The best steed, and the royal elephantRich caparisoned, must be his by rightWho has deserved them by his virtuous actsIn times long past. Oh think on this, my son,And be content. For glorious actions doneNot in this life, but in some previous birth,Suruchee by the monarch is beloved.Women, unfortunate like myself, who bearOnly the name of wife without the powers,But pine and suffer for our ancient sins.Suruchee raised her virtues pile on pile,Hence Uttama her son, the fortunate!Suneetee heaped but evil,—hence her sonDhruva the luckless! But for all this, child,It is not meet that thou shouldst ever grieveAs I have said. That man is truly wiseWho is content with what he has, and seeksNothing beyond, but in whatever sphere,Lowly or great, God placed him, works in faith;My son, my son, though proud Suruchee spakeHarsh words indeed, and hurt thee to the quick,Yet to thine eyes thy duty should be plain.Collect a large sum of the virtues; thenceA goodly harvest must to thee arise.Be meek, devout, and friendly, full of love,Intent to do good to the human raceAnd to all creatures sentient made of God;And oh, be humble, for on modest worthDescends prosperity, even as water flowsDown to low grounds."She finished, and her son,Who patiently had listened, thus replied:—"Mother, thy words of consolation findNor resting-place, nor echo in this heartBroken by words severe, repulsing LoveThat timidly approached to worship. HearMy resolve unchangeable. I shall tryThe highest good, the loftiest place to win,Which the whole world deems priceless and desires.There is a crown above my father's crown,I shall obtain it, and at any costOf toil, or penance, or unceasing prayer.Not born of proud Suruchee, whom the kingFavours and loves, but grown up from a germIn thee, O mother, humble as thou art,I yet shall show thee what is in my power.Thou shalt behold my glory and rejoice.Let Uttama my brother,—not thy son,—Receive the throne and royal titles,—allMy father pleases to confer on him.I grudge them not. Not with another's giftsDesire I, dearest mother, to be rich,But with my own work would acquire a name.And I shall strive unceasing for a placeSuch as my father hath not won,—a placeThat would not know him even,—aye, a placeFar, far above the highest of this earth."He said, and from his mother's chambers past,And went into the wood where hermits live,And never to his father's house returned.Well kept the boy his promise made that day!By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at lastThe highest heavens, and there he shines a star!Nightly men see him in the firmament.
Sprung from great Brahma, Manu had two sons,Heroic and devout, as I have said,Pryavrata and Uttanapado,—namesKnown in legends; and of these the lastMarried two wives, Suruchee, his adored,The mother of a handsome petted boyUttama; and Suneetee, less beloved,The mother of another son whose nameWas Dhruva. Seated on his throne the kingUttanapado, on his knee one dayHad placed Uttama; Dhruva, who beheldHis brother in that place of honour, longedTo clamber up and by his playmate sit;Led on by Love he came, but found, alas!Scant welcome and encouragement; the kingSaw fair Suruchee sweep into the hallWith stately step,—aye, every inch a queen,And dared not smile upon her co-wife's son.Observing him,—her rival's boy,—intentTo mount ambitious to his father's knee,Where sat her own, thus fair Suruchee spake:"Why hast thou, child, formed such a vain design?Why harboured such an aspiration proud,Born from another's womb and not from mine?Oh thoughtless! To desire the loftiest place,The throne of thrones, a royal father's lap!It is an honour to the destined given,And not within thy reach. What though thou artBorn of the king; those sleek and tender limbsHold of my blood no portion; I am queen.To be the equal of mine only sonWere in thee vain ambition. Know'st thou not,Fair prattler, thou art sprung,—not, not from mine,But from Suneetee's bowels? Learn thy place."
Repulsed in silence from his father's lap,Indignant, furious, at the words that fellFrom his step-mother's lips, poor Dhruva ranTo his own mother's chambers, where he stoodBeside her with his pale, thin, trembling lips,(Trembling with an emotion ill-suppressed)And hair in wild disorder, till she tookAnd raised him to her lap, and gently said:"Oh, child, what means this? What can be the causeOf this great anger? Who hath given thee pain?He that hath vexed thee, hath despised thy sire,For in these veins thou hast the royal blood."
Thus conjured, Dhruva, with a swelling heartRepeated to his mother every wordThat proud Suruchee spake, from first to last,Even in the very presence of the king.
His speech oft broken by his tears and sobs,Helpless Suneetee, languid-eyed from care,Heard sighing deeply, and then soft replied:"Oh son, to lowly fortune thou wert born,And what my co-wife said to thee is truth;No enemy to Heaven's favoured ones may saySuch words as thy step-mother said to thee.Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieveOr vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done,The evil, haply, in some former life,Long, long ago, who may alas! annul,Or who the good works not done, supplement!The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit.The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold,The best steed, and the royal elephantRich caparisoned, must be his by rightWho has deserved them by his virtuous actsIn times long past. Oh think on this, my son,And be content. For glorious actions doneNot in this life, but in some previous birth,Suruchee by the monarch is beloved.Women, unfortunate like myself, who bearOnly the name of wife without the powers,But pine and suffer for our ancient sins.Suruchee raised her virtues pile on pile,Hence Uttama her son, the fortunate!Suneetee heaped but evil,—hence her sonDhruva the luckless! But for all this, child,It is not meet that thou shouldst ever grieveAs I have said. That man is truly wiseWho is content with what he has, and seeksNothing beyond, but in whatever sphere,Lowly or great, God placed him, works in faith;My son, my son, though proud Suruchee spakeHarsh words indeed, and hurt thee to the quick,Yet to thine eyes thy duty should be plain.Collect a large sum of the virtues; thenceA goodly harvest must to thee arise.Be meek, devout, and friendly, full of love,Intent to do good to the human raceAnd to all creatures sentient made of God;And oh, be humble, for on modest worthDescends prosperity, even as water flowsDown to low grounds."
She finished, and her son,Who patiently had listened, thus replied:—
"Mother, thy words of consolation findNor resting-place, nor echo in this heartBroken by words severe, repulsing LoveThat timidly approached to worship. HearMy resolve unchangeable. I shall tryThe highest good, the loftiest place to win,Which the whole world deems priceless and desires.There is a crown above my father's crown,I shall obtain it, and at any costOf toil, or penance, or unceasing prayer.Not born of proud Suruchee, whom the kingFavours and loves, but grown up from a germIn thee, O mother, humble as thou art,I yet shall show thee what is in my power.Thou shalt behold my glory and rejoice.Let Uttama my brother,—not thy son,—Receive the throne and royal titles,—allMy father pleases to confer on him.I grudge them not. Not with another's giftsDesire I, dearest mother, to be rich,But with my own work would acquire a name.And I shall strive unceasing for a placeSuch as my father hath not won,—a placeThat would not know him even,—aye, a placeFar, far above the highest of this earth."
He said, and from his mother's chambers past,And went into the wood where hermits live,And never to his father's house returned.
Well kept the boy his promise made that day!By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at lastThe highest heavens, and there he shines a star!Nightly men see him in the firmament.
"Ho! Master of the wondrous art!Instruct me in fair archery,And buy for aye,—a grateful heartThat will not grudge to give thy fee."Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes,A hunter's low-born son was he,—To Dronacharjya, great and wise,Who sat with princes round his knee.Up Time's fair stream far back,—oh far,The great wise teacher must be sought!The Kurus had not yet in warWith the Pandava brethren fought.In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet,Magic and archery they learned,A complex science, which we meetNo more, with ages past inurned."And who art thou," the teacher said,"My science brave to learn so fain?Which many kings who wear the threadHave asked to learn of me in vain.""My name is Buttoo," said the youth,"A hunter's son, I know not Fear;"The teacher answered, smiling smooth,"Then know him from this time, my dear."Unseen the magic arrow came,Amidst the laughter and the scornOf royal youths,—like lightning flameSudden and sharp. They blew the horn,As down upon the ground he fell,Not hurt, but made a jest and game;—He rose,—and waved a proud farewell,But cheek and brow grew red with shame.And lo,—a single, single tearDropped from his eyelash as he past,"My place I gather is not here;No matter,—what is rank or caste?In us is honour, or disgrace,Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused,"The question is,—not wealth or place,But gifts well used, or gifts abused.""And I shall do my best to gainThe science that man will not teach,For life is as a shadow vain,Until the utmost goal we reachTo which the soul points. I shall tryTo realize my waking dream,And what if I should chance to die?None miss one bubble from a stream."So thinking, on and on he went,Till he attained the forest's verge,The garish day was well-nigh spent,Birds had already raised its dirge.Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm!It soothed at once his wounded pride,And on his spirit shed a balmThat all its yearnings purified.What glorious trees! The sombre saulOn which the eye delights to rest,The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,With feathery branches for a crest,The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,The pale faint-scented bitter neem,The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,The Indian fig's pavilion tentIn which whole armies might repose,With here and there a little rent,The sunset's beauty to disclose,The bamboo boughs that sway and swing'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,The nagessur with pendant flowersLike ear-rings,—and the forest vineThat clinging over all, embowers,The sirish famed in Sanscrit songWhich rural maidens love to wear,The peepul giant-like and strong,The bramble with its matted hair,All these, and thousands, thousands more,With helmet red, or golden crown,Or green tiara, rose beforeThe youth in evening's shadows brown.He passed into the forest,—thereNew sights of wonder met his view,A waving Pampas green and fairAll glistening with the evening dew.How vivid was the breast-high grass!Here waved in patches, forest corn,—Here intervened a deep morass,—Here arid spots of verdure shornLay open,—rock or barren sand,—And here again the trees aroseThick clustering,—a glorious bandTheir tops still bright with sunset glows.—Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,And seemed to welcome him with signs,Onwards and on,—till Buttoo's browsAre gemmed with pearls, and day declines.Then in a grassy open spaceHe sits and leans against a tree,To let the wind blow on his faceAnd look around him leisurely.Herds, and still herds, of timid deerWere feeding in the solitude,They knew not man, and felt no fear,And heeded not his neighbourhood,Some young ones with large eyes and sweetCame close, and rubbed their foreheads smoothAgainst his arms, and licked his feet,As if they wished his cares to soothe."They touch me," he exclaimed with joy,"They have no pride of caste like men,They shrink not from the hunter-boy,Should not my home be with them then?Here in this forest let me dwell,With these companions innocent,And learn each science and each spellAll by myself in banishment."A calm, calm life,—and it shall beIts own exceeding great reward!No thoughts to vex in all I see,No jeers to bear or disregard;—All creatures and inanimate thingsShall be my tutors; I shall learnFrom beast, and fish, and bird with wings,And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern."With this resolve, he soon beganTo build a hut, of reeds and leaves,And when that needful work was doneHe gathered in his store, the sheavesOf forest corn, and all the fruit,Date, plum, guava, he could find,And every pleasant nut and rootBy Providence for man designed,A statue next of earth he made,An image of the teacher wise,So deft he laid, the light and shade,On figure, forehead, face and eyes,That any one who chanced to viewThat image tall might soothly swear,If he great Dronacharjya knew,The teacher in his flesh was there.Then at the statue's feet he placedA bow, and arrows tipped with steel,With wild-flower garlands interlaced,And hailed the figure in his zealAs Master, and his head he bowed,A pupil reverent from that hourOf one who late had disallowedThe claim, in pride of place and power.By strainèd sense, by constant prayer,By steadfastness of heart and will,By courage to confront and dare,All obstacles he conquered still;A conscience clear,—a ready hand,Joined to a meek humility,Success must everywhere command,How could he fail who had all three!And now, by tests assured, he knowsHis own God-gifted wondrous might,Nothing to any man he owes,Unaided he has won the fight;Equal to gods themselves,—aboveWishmo and Drona,—for his worthHis name, he feels, shall be with loveReckoned with great names of the earth.Yet lacks he not, in reverenceTo Dronacharjya, who declinedTo teach him,—nay, with e'en offenceThat well might wound a noble mind,Drove him away;—for in his heartMeek, placable, and ever kind,Resentment had not any part,And Malice never was enshrined.One evening, on his work intent,Alone he practised Archery,When lo! the bow proved false and sentThe arrow from its mark awry;Again he tried,—and failed again;Why was it? Hark!—A wild dog's bark!An evil omen:—it was plainSome evil on his path hung dark!Thus many times he tried and failed,And still that lean, persistent dogAt distance, like some spirit wailed,Safe in the cover of a fog.His nerves unstrung, with many a shoutHe strove to frighten it away,It would not go,—but roamed about,Howling, as wolves howl for their prey.Worried and almost in a rage,One magic shaft at last he sent,A sample of his science sage,To quiet but the noises meant.Unerring to its goal it flew,No death ensued, no blood was dropped,But by the hush the young man knewAt last that howling noise had stopped.It happened on this very dayThat the Pandava princes cameWith all the Kuru princes gayTo beat the woods and hunt the game.Parted from others in the chase,Arjuna brave the wild dog found,—Stuck still the shaft,—but not a traceOf hurt, though tongue and lip were bound."Wonder of wonders! Didst not thouO Dronacharjya, promise meThy crown in time should deck my browAnd I be first in archery?Lo! here, some other thou hast taughtA magic spell,—to all unknown;Who has in secret from thee boughtThe knowledge, in this arrow shown!"Indignant thus Arjuna spakeTo his great Master when they met—"My word, my honour, is at stake,Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet.Come, let us see the dog,"—and straightThey followed up the creature's trace.They found it, in the selfsame state,Dumb, yet unhurt,—near Buttoo's place.A hut,—a statue,—and a youthIn the dim forest,—what mean these?They gazed in wonder, for in soothThe thing seemed full of mysteries."Now who art thou that dar'st to raiseMine image in the wilderness?Is it for worship and for praise?What is thine object? speak, confess.""Oh Master, unto thee I cameTo learn thy science. Name or pelfI had not, so was driven with shame,And here I learn all by myself.But still as Master thee revere,For who so great in archery!Lo, all my inspiration here,And all my knowledge is from thee.""If I am Master, now thou hastFinished thy course, give me my due.Let all the past, be dead and past,Henceforth be ties between us new.""All that I have, O Master mine,All I shall conquer by my skill,Gladly shall I to thee resign,Let me but know thy gracious will.""Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swearSo long as I have breath and lifeTo give thee all thou wilt." "Beware!Rash promise ever ends in strife.""Thou art my Master,—ask! oh ask!From thee my inspiration came,Thou canst not set too hard a task,Nor aught refuse I, free from blame.""If it be so,—Arjuna hear!"Arjuna and the youth were dumb,"For thy sake, loud I ask and clear,Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb.I promised in my faithfulnessNo equal ever shall there beTo thee, Arjuna,—and I pressFor this sad recompense—for thee."Glanced the sharp knife one moment high,The severed thumb was on the sod,There was no tear in Buttoo's eye,He left the matter with his God."For this,"—said Dronacharjya,—"FameShall sound thy praise from sea to sea,And men shall ever link thy nameWith Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."
"Ho! Master of the wondrous art!Instruct me in fair archery,And buy for aye,—a grateful heartThat will not grudge to give thy fee."Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes,A hunter's low-born son was he,—To Dronacharjya, great and wise,Who sat with princes round his knee.Up Time's fair stream far back,—oh far,The great wise teacher must be sought!The Kurus had not yet in warWith the Pandava brethren fought.In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet,Magic and archery they learned,A complex science, which we meetNo more, with ages past inurned."And who art thou," the teacher said,"My science brave to learn so fain?Which many kings who wear the threadHave asked to learn of me in vain.""My name is Buttoo," said the youth,"A hunter's son, I know not Fear;"The teacher answered, smiling smooth,"Then know him from this time, my dear."Unseen the magic arrow came,Amidst the laughter and the scornOf royal youths,—like lightning flameSudden and sharp. They blew the horn,As down upon the ground he fell,Not hurt, but made a jest and game;—He rose,—and waved a proud farewell,But cheek and brow grew red with shame.And lo,—a single, single tearDropped from his eyelash as he past,"My place I gather is not here;No matter,—what is rank or caste?In us is honour, or disgrace,Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused,"The question is,—not wealth or place,But gifts well used, or gifts abused.""And I shall do my best to gainThe science that man will not teach,For life is as a shadow vain,Until the utmost goal we reachTo which the soul points. I shall tryTo realize my waking dream,And what if I should chance to die?None miss one bubble from a stream."So thinking, on and on he went,Till he attained the forest's verge,The garish day was well-nigh spent,Birds had already raised its dirge.Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm!It soothed at once his wounded pride,And on his spirit shed a balmThat all its yearnings purified.What glorious trees! The sombre saulOn which the eye delights to rest,The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,With feathery branches for a crest,The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,The pale faint-scented bitter neem,The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,The Indian fig's pavilion tentIn which whole armies might repose,With here and there a little rent,The sunset's beauty to disclose,The bamboo boughs that sway and swing'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,The nagessur with pendant flowersLike ear-rings,—and the forest vineThat clinging over all, embowers,The sirish famed in Sanscrit songWhich rural maidens love to wear,The peepul giant-like and strong,The bramble with its matted hair,All these, and thousands, thousands more,With helmet red, or golden crown,Or green tiara, rose beforeThe youth in evening's shadows brown.He passed into the forest,—thereNew sights of wonder met his view,A waving Pampas green and fairAll glistening with the evening dew.How vivid was the breast-high grass!Here waved in patches, forest corn,—Here intervened a deep morass,—Here arid spots of verdure shornLay open,—rock or barren sand,—And here again the trees aroseThick clustering,—a glorious bandTheir tops still bright with sunset glows.—Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,And seemed to welcome him with signs,Onwards and on,—till Buttoo's browsAre gemmed with pearls, and day declines.Then in a grassy open spaceHe sits and leans against a tree,To let the wind blow on his faceAnd look around him leisurely.Herds, and still herds, of timid deerWere feeding in the solitude,They knew not man, and felt no fear,And heeded not his neighbourhood,Some young ones with large eyes and sweetCame close, and rubbed their foreheads smoothAgainst his arms, and licked his feet,As if they wished his cares to soothe."They touch me," he exclaimed with joy,"They have no pride of caste like men,They shrink not from the hunter-boy,Should not my home be with them then?Here in this forest let me dwell,With these companions innocent,And learn each science and each spellAll by myself in banishment."A calm, calm life,—and it shall beIts own exceeding great reward!No thoughts to vex in all I see,No jeers to bear or disregard;—All creatures and inanimate thingsShall be my tutors; I shall learnFrom beast, and fish, and bird with wings,And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern."With this resolve, he soon beganTo build a hut, of reeds and leaves,And when that needful work was doneHe gathered in his store, the sheavesOf forest corn, and all the fruit,Date, plum, guava, he could find,And every pleasant nut and rootBy Providence for man designed,A statue next of earth he made,An image of the teacher wise,So deft he laid, the light and shade,On figure, forehead, face and eyes,That any one who chanced to viewThat image tall might soothly swear,If he great Dronacharjya knew,The teacher in his flesh was there.Then at the statue's feet he placedA bow, and arrows tipped with steel,With wild-flower garlands interlaced,And hailed the figure in his zealAs Master, and his head he bowed,A pupil reverent from that hourOf one who late had disallowedThe claim, in pride of place and power.By strainèd sense, by constant prayer,By steadfastness of heart and will,By courage to confront and dare,All obstacles he conquered still;A conscience clear,—a ready hand,Joined to a meek humility,Success must everywhere command,How could he fail who had all three!And now, by tests assured, he knowsHis own God-gifted wondrous might,Nothing to any man he owes,Unaided he has won the fight;Equal to gods themselves,—aboveWishmo and Drona,—for his worthHis name, he feels, shall be with loveReckoned with great names of the earth.Yet lacks he not, in reverenceTo Dronacharjya, who declinedTo teach him,—nay, with e'en offenceThat well might wound a noble mind,Drove him away;—for in his heartMeek, placable, and ever kind,Resentment had not any part,And Malice never was enshrined.One evening, on his work intent,Alone he practised Archery,When lo! the bow proved false and sentThe arrow from its mark awry;Again he tried,—and failed again;Why was it? Hark!—A wild dog's bark!An evil omen:—it was plainSome evil on his path hung dark!Thus many times he tried and failed,And still that lean, persistent dogAt distance, like some spirit wailed,Safe in the cover of a fog.His nerves unstrung, with many a shoutHe strove to frighten it away,It would not go,—but roamed about,Howling, as wolves howl for their prey.Worried and almost in a rage,One magic shaft at last he sent,A sample of his science sage,To quiet but the noises meant.Unerring to its goal it flew,No death ensued, no blood was dropped,But by the hush the young man knewAt last that howling noise had stopped.It happened on this very dayThat the Pandava princes cameWith all the Kuru princes gayTo beat the woods and hunt the game.Parted from others in the chase,Arjuna brave the wild dog found,—Stuck still the shaft,—but not a traceOf hurt, though tongue and lip were bound."Wonder of wonders! Didst not thouO Dronacharjya, promise meThy crown in time should deck my browAnd I be first in archery?Lo! here, some other thou hast taughtA magic spell,—to all unknown;Who has in secret from thee boughtThe knowledge, in this arrow shown!"Indignant thus Arjuna spakeTo his great Master when they met—"My word, my honour, is at stake,Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet.Come, let us see the dog,"—and straightThey followed up the creature's trace.They found it, in the selfsame state,Dumb, yet unhurt,—near Buttoo's place.A hut,—a statue,—and a youthIn the dim forest,—what mean these?They gazed in wonder, for in soothThe thing seemed full of mysteries."Now who art thou that dar'st to raiseMine image in the wilderness?Is it for worship and for praise?What is thine object? speak, confess.""Oh Master, unto thee I cameTo learn thy science. Name or pelfI had not, so was driven with shame,And here I learn all by myself.But still as Master thee revere,For who so great in archery!Lo, all my inspiration here,And all my knowledge is from thee.""If I am Master, now thou hastFinished thy course, give me my due.Let all the past, be dead and past,Henceforth be ties between us new.""All that I have, O Master mine,All I shall conquer by my skill,Gladly shall I to thee resign,Let me but know thy gracious will.""Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swearSo long as I have breath and lifeTo give thee all thou wilt." "Beware!Rash promise ever ends in strife.""Thou art my Master,—ask! oh ask!From thee my inspiration came,Thou canst not set too hard a task,Nor aught refuse I, free from blame.""If it be so,—Arjuna hear!"Arjuna and the youth were dumb,"For thy sake, loud I ask and clear,Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb.I promised in my faithfulnessNo equal ever shall there beTo thee, Arjuna,—and I pressFor this sad recompense—for thee."Glanced the sharp knife one moment high,The severed thumb was on the sod,There was no tear in Buttoo's eye,He left the matter with his God."For this,"—said Dronacharjya,—"FameShall sound thy praise from sea to sea,And men shall ever link thy nameWith Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."
"Ho! Master of the wondrous art!Instruct me in fair archery,And buy for aye,—a grateful heartThat will not grudge to give thy fee."Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes,A hunter's low-born son was he,—To Dronacharjya, great and wise,Who sat with princes round his knee.
Up Time's fair stream far back,—oh far,The great wise teacher must be sought!The Kurus had not yet in warWith the Pandava brethren fought.In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet,Magic and archery they learned,A complex science, which we meetNo more, with ages past inurned.
"And who art thou," the teacher said,"My science brave to learn so fain?Which many kings who wear the threadHave asked to learn of me in vain.""My name is Buttoo," said the youth,"A hunter's son, I know not Fear;"The teacher answered, smiling smooth,"Then know him from this time, my dear."
Unseen the magic arrow came,Amidst the laughter and the scornOf royal youths,—like lightning flameSudden and sharp. They blew the horn,As down upon the ground he fell,Not hurt, but made a jest and game;—He rose,—and waved a proud farewell,But cheek and brow grew red with shame.
And lo,—a single, single tearDropped from his eyelash as he past,"My place I gather is not here;No matter,—what is rank or caste?In us is honour, or disgrace,Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused,"The question is,—not wealth or place,But gifts well used, or gifts abused."
"And I shall do my best to gainThe science that man will not teach,For life is as a shadow vain,Until the utmost goal we reachTo which the soul points. I shall tryTo realize my waking dream,And what if I should chance to die?None miss one bubble from a stream."
So thinking, on and on he went,Till he attained the forest's verge,The garish day was well-nigh spent,Birds had already raised its dirge.Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm!It soothed at once his wounded pride,And on his spirit shed a balmThat all its yearnings purified.
What glorious trees! The sombre saulOn which the eye delights to rest,The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,With feathery branches for a crest,The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,The pale faint-scented bitter neem,The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,
The Indian fig's pavilion tentIn which whole armies might repose,With here and there a little rent,The sunset's beauty to disclose,The bamboo boughs that sway and swing'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,
The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,The nagessur with pendant flowersLike ear-rings,—and the forest vineThat clinging over all, embowers,The sirish famed in Sanscrit songWhich rural maidens love to wear,The peepul giant-like and strong,The bramble with its matted hair,
All these, and thousands, thousands more,With helmet red, or golden crown,Or green tiara, rose beforeThe youth in evening's shadows brown.He passed into the forest,—thereNew sights of wonder met his view,A waving Pampas green and fairAll glistening with the evening dew.
How vivid was the breast-high grass!Here waved in patches, forest corn,—Here intervened a deep morass,—Here arid spots of verdure shornLay open,—rock or barren sand,—And here again the trees aroseThick clustering,—a glorious bandTheir tops still bright with sunset glows.—
Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,And seemed to welcome him with signs,Onwards and on,—till Buttoo's browsAre gemmed with pearls, and day declines.Then in a grassy open spaceHe sits and leans against a tree,To let the wind blow on his faceAnd look around him leisurely.
Herds, and still herds, of timid deerWere feeding in the solitude,They knew not man, and felt no fear,And heeded not his neighbourhood,Some young ones with large eyes and sweetCame close, and rubbed their foreheads smoothAgainst his arms, and licked his feet,As if they wished his cares to soothe.
"They touch me," he exclaimed with joy,"They have no pride of caste like men,They shrink not from the hunter-boy,Should not my home be with them then?Here in this forest let me dwell,With these companions innocent,And learn each science and each spellAll by myself in banishment.
"A calm, calm life,—and it shall beIts own exceeding great reward!No thoughts to vex in all I see,No jeers to bear or disregard;—All creatures and inanimate thingsShall be my tutors; I shall learnFrom beast, and fish, and bird with wings,And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern."
With this resolve, he soon beganTo build a hut, of reeds and leaves,And when that needful work was doneHe gathered in his store, the sheavesOf forest corn, and all the fruit,Date, plum, guava, he could find,And every pleasant nut and rootBy Providence for man designed,
A statue next of earth he made,An image of the teacher wise,So deft he laid, the light and shade,On figure, forehead, face and eyes,That any one who chanced to viewThat image tall might soothly swear,If he great Dronacharjya knew,The teacher in his flesh was there.
Then at the statue's feet he placedA bow, and arrows tipped with steel,With wild-flower garlands interlaced,And hailed the figure in his zealAs Master, and his head he bowed,A pupil reverent from that hourOf one who late had disallowedThe claim, in pride of place and power.
By strainèd sense, by constant prayer,By steadfastness of heart and will,By courage to confront and dare,All obstacles he conquered still;A conscience clear,—a ready hand,Joined to a meek humility,Success must everywhere command,How could he fail who had all three!
And now, by tests assured, he knowsHis own God-gifted wondrous might,Nothing to any man he owes,Unaided he has won the fight;Equal to gods themselves,—aboveWishmo and Drona,—for his worthHis name, he feels, shall be with loveReckoned with great names of the earth.
Yet lacks he not, in reverenceTo Dronacharjya, who declinedTo teach him,—nay, with e'en offenceThat well might wound a noble mind,Drove him away;—for in his heartMeek, placable, and ever kind,Resentment had not any part,And Malice never was enshrined.
One evening, on his work intent,Alone he practised Archery,When lo! the bow proved false and sentThe arrow from its mark awry;Again he tried,—and failed again;Why was it? Hark!—A wild dog's bark!An evil omen:—it was plainSome evil on his path hung dark!
Thus many times he tried and failed,And still that lean, persistent dogAt distance, like some spirit wailed,Safe in the cover of a fog.His nerves unstrung, with many a shoutHe strove to frighten it away,It would not go,—but roamed about,Howling, as wolves howl for their prey.
Worried and almost in a rage,One magic shaft at last he sent,A sample of his science sage,To quiet but the noises meant.Unerring to its goal it flew,No death ensued, no blood was dropped,But by the hush the young man knewAt last that howling noise had stopped.
It happened on this very dayThat the Pandava princes cameWith all the Kuru princes gayTo beat the woods and hunt the game.Parted from others in the chase,Arjuna brave the wild dog found,—Stuck still the shaft,—but not a traceOf hurt, though tongue and lip were bound.
"Wonder of wonders! Didst not thouO Dronacharjya, promise meThy crown in time should deck my browAnd I be first in archery?Lo! here, some other thou hast taughtA magic spell,—to all unknown;Who has in secret from thee boughtThe knowledge, in this arrow shown!"
Indignant thus Arjuna spakeTo his great Master when they met—"My word, my honour, is at stake,Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet.Come, let us see the dog,"—and straightThey followed up the creature's trace.They found it, in the selfsame state,Dumb, yet unhurt,—near Buttoo's place.
A hut,—a statue,—and a youthIn the dim forest,—what mean these?They gazed in wonder, for in soothThe thing seemed full of mysteries."Now who art thou that dar'st to raiseMine image in the wilderness?Is it for worship and for praise?What is thine object? speak, confess."
"Oh Master, unto thee I cameTo learn thy science. Name or pelfI had not, so was driven with shame,And here I learn all by myself.But still as Master thee revere,For who so great in archery!Lo, all my inspiration here,And all my knowledge is from thee."
"If I am Master, now thou hastFinished thy course, give me my due.Let all the past, be dead and past,Henceforth be ties between us new.""All that I have, O Master mine,All I shall conquer by my skill,Gladly shall I to thee resign,Let me but know thy gracious will."
"Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swearSo long as I have breath and lifeTo give thee all thou wilt." "Beware!Rash promise ever ends in strife.""Thou art my Master,—ask! oh ask!From thee my inspiration came,Thou canst not set too hard a task,Nor aught refuse I, free from blame."
"If it be so,—Arjuna hear!"Arjuna and the youth were dumb,"For thy sake, loud I ask and clear,Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb.I promised in my faithfulnessNo equal ever shall there beTo thee, Arjuna,—and I pressFor this sad recompense—for thee."
Glanced the sharp knife one moment high,The severed thumb was on the sod,There was no tear in Buttoo's eye,He left the matter with his God."For this,"—said Dronacharjya,—"FameShall sound thy praise from sea to sea,And men shall ever link thy nameWith Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."
Deep in the forest shades there dweltAMuniand his wife,Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly feltTheir slender hold on life.No friends had they, no help or stay,Except an only boy,A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay,Their leaf-hut filled with joy.Attentive, duteous, loving, kind,Thoughtful, sedate, and calm,He waited on his parents blind,Whose days were like a psalm.He roamed the woods for luscious fruits,He brought them water pure,He cooked their simple mess of roots,Content to live obscure.To fretful questions, answers mildHe meekly ever gave,If they reproved, he only smiled,He loved to be their slave.Not that to him they were austere,But age is peevish still,Dear to their hearts he was,—so dear,That none his place might fill.They called him Sindhu, and his nameWas ever on their tongue,And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,Who dwelt his own among.A belt ofBelatrees hemmed roundThe cottage small and rude,If peace on earth was ever found'Twas in that solitude.
Deep in the forest shades there dweltAMuniand his wife,Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly feltTheir slender hold on life.No friends had they, no help or stay,Except an only boy,A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay,Their leaf-hut filled with joy.Attentive, duteous, loving, kind,Thoughtful, sedate, and calm,He waited on his parents blind,Whose days were like a psalm.He roamed the woods for luscious fruits,He brought them water pure,He cooked their simple mess of roots,Content to live obscure.To fretful questions, answers mildHe meekly ever gave,If they reproved, he only smiled,He loved to be their slave.Not that to him they were austere,But age is peevish still,Dear to their hearts he was,—so dear,That none his place might fill.They called him Sindhu, and his nameWas ever on their tongue,And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,Who dwelt his own among.A belt ofBelatrees hemmed roundThe cottage small and rude,If peace on earth was ever found'Twas in that solitude.
Deep in the forest shades there dweltAMuniand his wife,Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly feltTheir slender hold on life.
No friends had they, no help or stay,Except an only boy,A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay,Their leaf-hut filled with joy.
Attentive, duteous, loving, kind,Thoughtful, sedate, and calm,He waited on his parents blind,Whose days were like a psalm.
He roamed the woods for luscious fruits,He brought them water pure,He cooked their simple mess of roots,Content to live obscure.
To fretful questions, answers mildHe meekly ever gave,If they reproved, he only smiled,He loved to be their slave.
Not that to him they were austere,But age is peevish still,Dear to their hearts he was,—so dear,That none his place might fill.
They called him Sindhu, and his nameWas ever on their tongue,And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,Who dwelt his own among.
A belt ofBelatrees hemmed roundThe cottage small and rude,If peace on earth was ever found'Twas in that solitude.
Great Dasarath, the King of Oude,Whom all men love and fear,With elephants and horses proudWent forth to hunt the deer.Oh gallant was the long array!Pennons and plumes were seen,And swords that mirrored back the day,And spears and axes keen.Rang trump, and conch, and piercing fife,Woke Echo from her bed!The solemn woods with sounds were rifeAs on the pageant sped.Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went!The wild beasts fled away!Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spentBecame an easy prey.Whirring the peacocks from the brakeWith Argus wings arose,Wild swans abandoned pool and lakeFor climes beyond the snows.From tree to tree the monkeys sprung,Unharmed and unpursued,As louder still the trumpets rungAnd startled all the wood.The porcupines and such small gameUnnoted fled at will,The weasel only caught to tameFrom fissures in the hill.Slunk light the tiger from the bank,But sudden turned to bay!When he beheld the serried rankThat barred his tangled way.Uprooting fig-trees on their path,And trampling shrubs and flowers,Wild elephants, in fear and wrath,Burst through, like moving towers.Lowering their horns in crescents grimWhene'er they turned about,Retreated into coverts dimThe bisons' fiercer rout.And in this mimic game of warIn bands dispersed and pastThe royal train,—some near, some far,As day closed in at last.Where was the king? He left his friendsAt midday, it was known,And now that evening fast descendsWhere was he? All alone.Curving, the river formed a lake,Upon whose bank he stood,No noise the silence there to break,Or mar the solitude.Upon the glassy surface fellThe last beams of the day,Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell,As breezes wake and play.Osiers and willows on the edgeAnd purple buds and red,Leant down,—and 'mid the pale green sedgeThe lotus raised its head.And softly, softly, hour by hourLight faded, and a veilFell over tree, and wave, and flower,On came the twilight pale.Deeper and deeper grew the shades,Stars glimmered in the sky,The nightingale along the gladesRaised her preluding cry.What is that momentary flash?A gleam of silver scalesReveals theMahseer;—then a splash,And calm again prevails.As darkness settled like a pallThe eye would pierce in vain,The fireflies gemmed the bushes all,Like fiery drops of rain.Pleased with the scene,—and knowing notWhich way, alas! to go,The monarch lingered on the spot,—The lake spread bright below.He lingered, when—oh hark! oh harkWhat 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 God!" it said—"I die,—I die,Who'll carry home the pail?"Startled, the monarch forward ran,And then there met his viewA sight to freeze in any manThe warm blood coursing true.A child lay dying on the grass,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 gapOn neck and bosom fair.He dashed cold water on the face,He chafed the hands, with sighs,Till sense revived, and he could traceExpression in the eyes.Then mingled with his pity, fear—In all this universeWhat is so dreadful as to hearA Bramin's dying curse!So thought the king, and on his browThe 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 oneWhose 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 God, the like to do."Because I suffer, should I giveThee, king, a needless pain?Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live,And cleansed from every stain!"Struck with these words, and doubly grievedAt what his hands had done,The monarch wept, as weeps bereavedA man his only son."Nay, weep not so," resumed the child,"But rather let me sayMy 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, elateIn wicked sport and rude,—"And killed one bird,—it was the male,Oh cruel deed and base!The female gave a plaintive wailAnd looked me in the face!"The wail and sad reproachful lookIn plain words seemed to say,A widowed life I cannot brook,The forfeit thou must pay."What was my darling's crime that thouHim wantonly shouldst kill?The curse of blood is on thee now,Blood calls for red blood still."And so I die—a bloody death—But not for this I mourn,To feel the world pass with my breathI gladly could have borne,"But for my parents, who are blind,And have no other stay,—This, this, weighs sore upon my mindAnd fills me with dismay."Upon the eleventh day of the moonThey keep a rigorous fast,All yesterday they fasted; soonFor water and repast"They shall upon me feebly call!Ah, must they call in vain?Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis allI 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 hutGirt round withBelatrees;Gleamed far a light-the door not shutWas open to the breeze.
Great Dasarath, the King of Oude,Whom all men love and fear,With elephants and horses proudWent forth to hunt the deer.Oh gallant was the long array!Pennons and plumes were seen,And swords that mirrored back the day,And spears and axes keen.Rang trump, and conch, and piercing fife,Woke Echo from her bed!The solemn woods with sounds were rifeAs on the pageant sped.Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went!The wild beasts fled away!Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spentBecame an easy prey.Whirring the peacocks from the brakeWith Argus wings arose,Wild swans abandoned pool and lakeFor climes beyond the snows.From tree to tree the monkeys sprung,Unharmed and unpursued,As louder still the trumpets rungAnd startled all the wood.The porcupines and such small gameUnnoted fled at will,The weasel only caught to tameFrom fissures in the hill.Slunk light the tiger from the bank,But sudden turned to bay!When he beheld the serried rankThat barred his tangled way.Uprooting fig-trees on their path,And trampling shrubs and flowers,Wild elephants, in fear and wrath,Burst through, like moving towers.Lowering their horns in crescents grimWhene'er they turned about,Retreated into coverts dimThe bisons' fiercer rout.And in this mimic game of warIn bands dispersed and pastThe royal train,—some near, some far,As day closed in at last.Where was the king? He left his friendsAt midday, it was known,And now that evening fast descendsWhere was he? All alone.Curving, the river formed a lake,Upon whose bank he stood,No noise the silence there to break,Or mar the solitude.Upon the glassy surface fellThe last beams of the day,Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell,As breezes wake and play.Osiers and willows on the edgeAnd purple buds and red,Leant down,—and 'mid the pale green sedgeThe lotus raised its head.And softly, softly, hour by hourLight faded, and a veilFell over tree, and wave, and flower,On came the twilight pale.Deeper and deeper grew the shades,Stars glimmered in the sky,The nightingale along the gladesRaised her preluding cry.What is that momentary flash?A gleam of silver scalesReveals theMahseer;—then a splash,And calm again prevails.As darkness settled like a pallThe eye would pierce in vain,The fireflies gemmed the bushes all,Like fiery drops of rain.Pleased with the scene,—and knowing notWhich way, alas! to go,The monarch lingered on the spot,—The lake spread bright below.He lingered, when—oh hark! oh harkWhat 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 God!" it said—"I die,—I die,Who'll carry home the pail?"Startled, the monarch forward ran,And then there met his viewA sight to freeze in any manThe warm blood coursing true.A child lay dying on the grass,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 gapOn neck and bosom fair.He dashed cold water on the face,He chafed the hands, with sighs,Till sense revived, and he could traceExpression in the eyes.Then mingled with his pity, fear—In all this universeWhat is so dreadful as to hearA Bramin's dying curse!So thought the king, and on his browThe 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 oneWhose 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 God, the like to do."Because I suffer, should I giveThee, king, a needless pain?Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live,And cleansed from every stain!"Struck with these words, and doubly grievedAt what his hands had done,The monarch wept, as weeps bereavedA man his only son."Nay, weep not so," resumed the child,"But rather let me sayMy 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, elateIn wicked sport and rude,—"And killed one bird,—it was the male,Oh cruel deed and base!The female gave a plaintive wailAnd looked me in the face!"The wail and sad reproachful lookIn plain words seemed to say,A widowed life I cannot brook,The forfeit thou must pay."What was my darling's crime that thouHim wantonly shouldst kill?The curse of blood is on thee now,Blood calls for red blood still."And so I die—a bloody death—But not for this I mourn,To feel the world pass with my breathI gladly could have borne,"But for my parents, who are blind,And have no other stay,—This, this, weighs sore upon my mindAnd fills me with dismay."Upon the eleventh day of the moonThey keep a rigorous fast,All yesterday they fasted; soonFor water and repast"They shall upon me feebly call!Ah, must they call in vain?Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis allI 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 hutGirt round withBelatrees;Gleamed far a light-the door not shutWas open to the breeze.
Great Dasarath, the King of Oude,Whom all men love and fear,With elephants and horses proudWent forth to hunt the deer.
Oh gallant was the long array!Pennons and plumes were seen,And swords that mirrored back the day,And spears and axes keen.
Rang trump, and conch, and piercing fife,Woke Echo from her bed!The solemn woods with sounds were rifeAs on the pageant sped.
Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went!The wild beasts fled away!Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spentBecame an easy prey.
Whirring the peacocks from the brakeWith Argus wings arose,Wild swans abandoned pool and lakeFor climes beyond the snows.
From tree to tree the monkeys sprung,Unharmed and unpursued,As louder still the trumpets rungAnd startled all the wood.
The porcupines and such small gameUnnoted fled at will,The weasel only caught to tameFrom fissures in the hill.
Slunk light the tiger from the bank,But sudden turned to bay!When he beheld the serried rankThat barred his tangled way.
Uprooting fig-trees on their path,And trampling shrubs and flowers,Wild elephants, in fear and wrath,Burst through, like moving towers.
Lowering their horns in crescents grimWhene'er they turned about,Retreated into coverts dimThe bisons' fiercer rout.
And in this mimic game of warIn bands dispersed and pastThe royal train,—some near, some far,As day closed in at last.
Where was the king? He left his friendsAt midday, it was known,And now that evening fast descendsWhere was he? All alone.
Curving, the river formed a lake,Upon whose bank he stood,No noise the silence there to break,Or mar the solitude.
Upon the glassy surface fellThe last beams of the day,Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell,As breezes wake and play.
Osiers and willows on the edgeAnd purple buds and red,Leant down,—and 'mid the pale green sedgeThe lotus raised its head.
And softly, softly, hour by hourLight faded, and a veilFell over tree, and wave, and flower,On came the twilight pale.
Deeper and deeper grew the shades,Stars glimmered in the sky,The nightingale along the gladesRaised her preluding cry.
What is that momentary flash?A gleam of silver scalesReveals theMahseer;—then a splash,And calm again prevails.
As darkness settled like a pallThe eye would pierce in vain,The fireflies gemmed the bushes all,Like fiery drops of rain.
Pleased with the scene,—and knowing notWhich way, alas! to go,The monarch lingered on the spot,—The lake spread bright below.
He lingered, when—oh hark! oh harkWhat 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 God!" it said—"I die,—I die,Who'll carry home the pail?"
Startled, the monarch forward ran,And then there met his viewA sight to freeze in any manThe warm blood coursing true.
A child lay dying on the grass,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 gapOn neck and bosom fair.
He dashed cold water on the face,He chafed the hands, with sighs,Till sense revived, and he could traceExpression in the eyes.
Then mingled with his pity, fear—In all this universeWhat is so dreadful as to hearA Bramin's dying curse!
So thought the king, and on his browThe 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 oneWhose 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 God, the like to do.
"Because I suffer, should I giveThee, king, a needless pain?Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live,And cleansed from every stain!"
Struck with these words, and doubly grievedAt what his hands had done,The monarch wept, as weeps bereavedA man his only son.
"Nay, weep not so," resumed the child,"But rather let me sayMy 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, elateIn wicked sport and rude,—
"And killed one bird,—it was the male,Oh cruel deed and base!The female gave a plaintive wailAnd looked me in the face!
"The wail and sad reproachful lookIn plain words seemed to say,A widowed life I cannot brook,The forfeit thou must pay.
"What was my darling's crime that thouHim wantonly shouldst kill?The curse of blood is on thee now,Blood calls for red blood still.
"And so I die—a bloody death—But not for this I mourn,To feel the world pass with my breathI gladly could have borne,
"But for my parents, who are blind,And have no other stay,—This, this, weighs sore upon my mindAnd fills me with dismay.
"Upon the eleventh day of the moonThey keep a rigorous fast,All yesterday they fasted; soonFor water and repast
"They shall upon me feebly call!Ah, must they call in vain?Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis allI 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 hutGirt round withBelatrees;Gleamed far a light-the door not shutWas open to the breeze.