BOOK XXVI.

When that night was passed and over—Nala, that high-gifted king,Wedded to Vidarbha's daughter—in fit hour her sire beheld.Humbly Nala paid his homage—to the father of his queen,Reverently did Damayanti—pay her homage to her sire.Him received the royal Bhima—as his son, with highest joy,Honoured, as became him, nobly:—then consoled that monarch wiseDamayanti, to king Nala—reconciled, the faithful wife.Royal Nala, all these honours—as his homage meet, received;And in fitting terms, devotion—to his royal sire declared.Mighty then, through all the city—ran the wakening sound of joy;All in every street exulting—at king Nala's safe return.All the city with their banners—and with garlands decked they forth.All the royal streets, well watered—and with stainless flowers were strewn;And from door to door the garlands—of festooning flowers were hung;And of all the gods the altars—were with fitting rites adorned.Rituparna heard of Nala—in the form of Vahuca,Now re-wed, to Damayanti—and the king of men rejoiced.To the king, before his presence—Nala courteous made excuse.In his turn Ayodhya's monarch—in like courteous language spake.He, received thus hospitably—wondering to Nishadha's king,"Bliss be with thee, reunited—to thy queen:" 'twas thus he said."Have I aught offensive ever—done to thee, or said, O kingWhilst unknown, within my palace—thou wert dwelling, king of men?If designed or undesigning—any single act I've doneI might wish undone, thy pardon—grant me, I beseech thee, king."

Nalaspake.

"Not or deed or word discourteous—not the slightest hast thou done;Hadst thou, I might not resent it—freely would I pardon all.Thou of old, my friend, my kinsman—wert, O sovereign of men,From this time henceforth thy friendship—be my glory and my joy.Every wish anticipated—pleasantly I dwelt with thee,As in mine own royal palace—dwelt I ever, king, in thine.My surpassing skill in horses—all is thine that I possess;That on thee bestow I gladly—if, O king, it seem thee good."Nala thus to Rituparna—gave his subtle skill in steeds,Gladly he received the present—with each regulation meet.Gifted with that precious knowledge—then Bhangasuri the king,Home returned to his own city—with another charioteer.Rituparna thus departed—Nala, then the king of men,In the city of Kundina—sojourned for no length of time.

There a month when he had sojourned—of king Bhima taking leave,Guarded but by few attendants—to Nishadha took his way.With a single splendid chariot—and with elephants sixteen,And with fifty armed horsemen—and six hundred men on foot;Making, as 'twere, earth to tremble—hastening onward, did the king,Enter awful in his anger—and terrific in his speed.Then the son of Virasena—to king Pushkara drew near;"Play we once again," then said he—"much the wealth I have acquired:All I have, even Damayanti—every treasure I possess,Set I now upon the hazard—Pushkara, thy kingdom thou:In the game once more contend we—'tis my settled purpose this,Brother, at a single hazard—play we boldly for our lives.From another he who treasures—he who mighty realm hath won,'Tis esteemed a bounden duty—to play back the counter game.If thou shrinkest from the hazard—be our game the strife of swords,Meet we in the single combat—all our difference to decide.An hereditary kingdom—may by any means be sought,Be re-won by any venture—this the maxim of the wise.Of two courses set before thee—Pushkara, the option make,Or in play to stand the hazard—or in battle stretch the bow."By Nishadha's lord thus challenged—Pushkara, with smile suppressed,As secure of easy victory—answered to the lord of earth;"Oh what joy! abundant treasures—thou hast won, again to play;Oh what joy! of Damayanti—now the hard-won prize is mine:Oh what joy! again thou livest—with thy consort, mighty armed!With the wealth I win bedecked—soon shall Bhima's daughter stand,By my side, as by great Indra—stands the Apsara in heaven.[137]Still on thee hath dwelt my memory—still I've waited, king, for thee;In the play I find no rapture—but 'gainst kinsmen like thyself.When this day the round-limbed princess—Damayanti, undespised,I shall win, I rest contented—still within mine heart she dwells."Hearing his contemptuous language—franticly thus pouring forth,With his sword th' indignant Nala—fain had severed off his head.But with haughty smile, with anger—glaring in his blood-red eyes,"Play we now, nor talk we longer—conquered, thou'lt no longer talk."Then of Pushkara the gaming—and of Nala straight began:In a single throw by Nala—was the perilous venture gained;Pushkara, his gold, his jewels—at one hazard all was won!Pushkara, in play thus conquered—with a smile the king rejoined:"Mine again is all this kingdom—undisturbed, its foes o'ercome.Fallen king! Vidarbha's daughter—by thine eyes may ne'er be seen.Thou art now, with all thy household—unto abject slavery sunk.Not thyself achieved the conquest—that subdued me heretofore!'Twas achieved by mightier Kali—that thou didst not, fool, perceive.Yet my wrath, by him enkindled—will I not 'gainst thee direct;Live thou henceforth at thy pleasure—freely I thy life bestow,And of thine estate and substance—give I thee thy fitting share.Such my pleasure, in thy welfare—hero, do I take delight,And mine unabated friendship—never shall from thee depart.Pushkara, thou art my brother—may'st thou live an hundred years!"Nala thus consoled his brother—in his conscious power and strength,Sent him home to his own city—once embracing, once again.Pushkara, thus finding comfort—answered to Nishadha's lord,Answered he to Punyasloka—bowing low with folded hands:"Everlasting be thy glory! may'st thou live ten thousand years!That my life to me thou grantest—and a city for mine home!"Hospitably entertained—there a month when he had dwelt,Joyful to his own proud city—Pushkara, with all his kin,With a well-appointed army—of attendant slaves an host,Shining like the sun departed,—in his full meridian orb.Pushkara thus crowned with riches—thus unharmed, when he dismissed,[138]Entered then his royal city—with surpassing pomp, the king:As he entered, to his subjects—Nala spake the words of peace.

From the city, from the country—all, with hair erect with joy,Came, with folded hands addressed him—and the counsellors of state."Happy are we now, O monarch—in the city, in the fields,Setting forth to do thee homage—as to Indra all the gods."Then at peace the tranquil city—the first festal gladness o'er,With a mighty host escorted—Damayanti brought he home.Damayanti rich in treasures—in her father's blessings rich,Glad dismissed the mighty-minded—Bhima, fearful in his strength.With the daughter of Vidarbha—with his children in his joy,Nala lived, as lives the sovereign—of the gods in Nandana.[139]Re-ascended thus to glory—he, among the kings of earth,Ruled his realm in Jambudwipa[140]—thus re-won, with highest fame;And all holy rites performed he—with devout munificence.

This extract from the Ramayana has been edited by M. Chezy, with a free translation into French prose by M. Bournouf, a literal version into Latin, and a grammatical commentary and notes by the editor.Through the arts of one of his wives Kaikéyí, to whom he had made an incautious vow to grant her demand, Dasaratha is obliged to send his victorious son Rama into banishment at the very moment of his marriage with the beautiful Sita. Rama is accompanied in his exile by Lakshmana. The following episode describes the misery and distress of the father, deprived of his favourite son.

Through the arts of one of his wives Kaikéyí, to whom he had made an incautious vow to grant her demand, Dasaratha is obliged to send his victorious son Rama into banishment at the very moment of his marriage with the beautiful Sita. Rama is accompanied in his exile by Lakshmana. The following episode describes the misery and distress of the father, deprived of his favourite son.

Scarce Rama to the wilderness—had with his younger brother gone,Abandoned to his deep distress—king Dasaratha sate alone.Upon his sons to exile driven—when thought that king, as Indra bright,Darkness came o'er him, as in heaven—when pales th' eclipsed sun his light.Six days he sate, and mourned and pined—for Rama all that weary time,At midnight on his wandering mind—rose up his old forgotten crime.His queen Kausalya, the divine—addressed he, as she rested near:"Kausalya, if thou wak'st, incline—to thy lord's speech thy ready ear.Whatever deed, or good or ill—by man, oh blessed queen, is wrought,Its proper fruit he gathers still—by time to slow perfection brought.He who the opposing counsel's weight—compares not in his judgment cool,Or misery or bliss his fate—among the sage is deemed a fool.As one that quits the Amra bower—the bright Palasa's pride to gain,Mocked by the promise of its flower—seeks its unripening fruit in vain.So I the lovely Amra left[141]—for the Palasa's barren bloom,[142]Through mine own fatal error 'reft—of banished Rama, mourn in gloom.Kausalya! in my early youth—by my keen arrow at its mark,Aimed with too sure and deadly truth—was wrought a deed most fell and dark.At length the evil that I did—hath fallen upon my fatal head,[143]As when on subtle poison hid—an unsuspecting child hath fed;Even as that child unwittingly—hath made the poisonous fare his food,Even so in ignorance by me—was wrought that deed of guilt and blood.Unwed wert thou in virgin bloom—and I in youth's delicious prime,The season of the rains had come—that soft and love-enkindling time.Earth's moisture all absorbed, the sun—through all the world its warmth had spread,Turned from the north, its course begun—where haunt the spirits of the dead![144]Gathering o'er all th' horizon's bound—on high the welcome clouds appeared,[145]Exulting all the birds flew round—cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and veered.And all down each wide-water'd shore—the troubled, yet still limpid floods,Over their banks began to pour—as o'er them hung the bursting clouds.And, saturate with cloud-born dew—the glittering verdant-mantled earth,The cuckoos and the peacocks flew—disputing as in drunken mirth.In such a time, so soft, so bland—oh beautiful! I chanced to go,With quiver, and with bow in hand—where clear Sarayu's waters flow.If haply to the river's brink—at night the buffalo might stray,Or elephant, the stream to drink,—intent my savage game to slay,Then of a water cruise, as slow—it filled, the gurgling sound I heard,Nought saw I, but the sullen low—of elephant that sound appeared.The swift well-feathered arrow I—upon the bowstring fitting straight,Toward the sound the shaft let fly—ah, cruelly deceived by fate!The winged arrow scarce had flown—and scarce had reached its destined aim,'Ah me, I'm slain,' a feeble moan—in trembling human accents came.'Ah whence hath come this fatal shaft—against a poor recluse like me,Who shot that bolt with deadly craft—alas! what cruel man is he?At the lone midnight had I come—to draw the river's limpid flood,And here am struck to death, by whom?—ah whose this wrongful deed of blood.Alas! and in my parent's heart—the old, the blind, and hardly fed,In the wild wood, hath pierced the dart—that here hath struck their offspring dead.Ah, deed most profitless as worst—a deed of wanton useless guilt;As though a pupil's hand accurs'd[146]—his holy master's blood had spilt.But not mine own untimely fate—it is not that which I deplore,My blind, my aged parents state—'tis their distress afflicts me more.That sightless pair, for many a day—from me their scanty food have earned,What lot is theirs, when I'm away—to the five elements returned?[147]Alike all wretched they, as I—ah, whose this triple deed of blood?For who the herbs will now supply—the roots, the fruit, their blameless food?'My troubled soul, that plaintive moan—no sooner heard, so faint and low,Trembled to look on what I'd done—fell from my shuddering hand my bow.Swift I rushed up, I saw him there—heart-pierced, and fall'n the stream beside,That hermit boy with knotted hair—his clothing was the black deer's hide.On me most piteous turned his look—his wounded breast could scarce respire,'What wrong, oh Kshatriya,[148]have I done—to be thy deathful arrow's aim,The forest's solitary son—to draw the limpid stream I came.Both wretched and both blind they lie—in the wild wood all destitute,My parents, listening anxiously—to hear my home-returning foot.By this, thy fatal shaft, this one—three miserable victims fall,The sire, the mother, and the son—ah why? and unoffending all.How vain my father's life austere—the Veda's studied page how vain,He knew not with prophetic fear—his son would fall untimely slain.But had he known, to one as he—so weak, so blind, 'twere bootless all,No tree can save another tree—by the sharp hatchet marked to fall.But to my father's dwelling haste—oh Raghu's[149]son, lest in his ire,Thy head with burning curse he blast—as the dry forest tree the fire.Thee to my father's lone retreat—will quickly lead yon onward path,Oh haste, his pardon to entreat—or ere he curse thee in his wrath.Yet first, that gently I may die—draw forth the barbed steel from hence,Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I—not thine of Brahmin blood the offence.My sire, a Brahmin hermit he—my mother was of Sudra race.'[150]So spake the wounded boy, on me—while turned his unreproaching face.As from his palpitating breast—I gently drew the mortal dart,He saw me trembling stand, and blest—that boy's pure spirit seemed to part.As died that holy hermit's son—from me my glory seemed to go,With troubled mind I stood, cast down—t' inevitable endless woe.That shaft that seemed his life to burn—like serpent venom, thus drawn out,I, taking up his fallen urn—t' his father's dwelling took my route.There miserable, blind, and old—of their sole helpmate thus forlorn,His parents did these eyes behold—like two sad birds with pinions shorn.Of him in fond discourse they sate—lone, thinking only of their son,For his return so long, so late—impatient, oh by me undone.My footsteps' sound he seemed to know—and thus the aged hermit said,'Oh, Yajnadatta, why so slow?—haste, let the cooling draught be shed.Long, on the river's pleasant brink—hast thou been sporting in thy joy,Thy mother's fainting spirits sink—in fear for thee, but thou, my boy,If aught to grieve thy gentle heart—thy mother or thy sire do wrong,Bear with us, nor when next we part—on the slow way thus linger long.The feet of those that cannot move—of those that cannot see the eye,Our spirits live but in thy love—Oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?'My throat thick swollen with bursting tears—my power of speech that seemed to choke,With hands above my head, my fears—breaking my quivering voice, I spoke;'The Kshatriya Dasaratha I—Oh hermit sage, 'tis not thy son!Most holy ones, unknowingly—a deed of awful guilt I've done.With bow in hand I took my way—along Sarayu's pleasant brink,The savage buffalo to slay—or elephant come down to drink.A sound came murmuring to my ear—'twas of the urn that slowly filled,I deemed some savage wild-beast near—my erring shaft thy son had killed.A feeble groan I heard, his breast—was pierced by that dire arrow keen:All trembling to the spot I pressed—lo there thy hermit boy was seen.Flew to the sound my arrow, meant—the wandering elephant to slay,Toward the river brink it went—and there thy son expiring lay.The fatal shaft when forth I drew—to heaven his parting spirit soared,Dying he only thought of you—long, long, your lonely lot deplored.Thus ignorantly did I slay—your child beloved, Oh hermit sage!Turn thou on me, whose fated day—is come, thy all-consuming rage.'He heard my dreadful tale at length—he stood all lifeless, motionless;Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength—me his meek suppliant did address.'Kshatriya, 'tis well that thou hast turned—thy deed of murder to rehearse,Else over all thy land had burned—the fire of my wide-wasting curse.If with premeditated crime—the unoffending blood thou'dst spilt,The Thunderer on his throne sublime—had shaken at such tremendous guilt.Against the anchorite's sacred head—hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed,In th' holy Vedas deeply read—thy skull in seven wide rents had burst.But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought—that deed of death, thou livest still,Oh son of Raghu, from thy thought—dismiss all dread of instant ill.Oh lead me to that doleful spot—where my poor boy expiring lay,Beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot—of my blind age, the staff, the stay.On the cold earth 'twere yet a joy—to touch my perished child again,(So long if I may live) my boy—in one last fond embrace to strain.His body all bedewed with gore—his locks in loose disorder thrown,Let me, let her but touch once more—to the dread realm of Yama gone.'Then to that fatal place I brought—alone that miserable pair;His sightless hands, and hers I taught—to touch their boy that slumbered there.Nor sooner did they feel him lie—on the moist herbage coldly thrown,Both with a shrill and feeble cry—upon the body cast them down.The mother as she lay and groaned—addressed her boy with quivering tongue,And like a heifer sadly moaned—just plundered of her new-dropped young:'Was not thy mother once, my son—than life itself more dear to thee?Why the long way hast thou begun—without one gentle word to me.One last embrace, and then, beloved—upon thy lonely journey go!Alas! with anger art thou moved—that not a word thou wilt bestow?'The miserable father now[151]—with gentle touch each cold limb pressed,And to the dead his words of woe—as to his living son, addressed:'I too, my son, am I not here?—thy sire with thy sad mother stands;Awake, arise, my child, draw near—and clasp each neck with loving hands.Who now, 'neath the dark wood by night—a pious reader shall be heard?Whose honied voice my ear delight—with th' holy Veda's living word?The evening prayer, th' ablution done—the fire adored with worship meet,Who now shall soothe like thee, my son—with fondling hand, my aged feet?And who the herb, the wholesome root—or wild fruit from the wood shall bring?To us the blind, the destitute—with helpless hunger perishing?Thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned—within our hermit-dwelling lone,How shall I tend, myself as blind—now all my strength of life is gone!Oh stay, my child, Oh part not yet—to Yama's dwelling go not now,To-morrow forth we all will set—thy mother, and myself, and thou:For both, in grief for thee, and both—so helpless, ere another day,From this dark world, but little loath—shall we depart, death's easy prey!And I myself, by Yama's seat—companion of thy darksome way,The guerdon to thy virtues meet—from that great Judge of men will pray.Because, my boy, in innocence—by wicked deed thou hast been slain,Rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence—ne'er stoop to this dark world again.Those that to earth return no more—the sense-subdued, the hermits wise,Priests their sage masters that adore—to their eternal seats arise.Those that have studied to the last—the Veda's, the Vedanga's page,Where saintly kings of earth have passed—Nahusa and Yayáti sage;The sires of holy families—the true to wedlock's sacred vow;And those that cattle, gold, or rice—or lands with liberal hands bestow;That ope th' asylum to th' oppressed—that ever love, and speak the truth,Up to the dwellings of the blest—th' eternal, soar thou, best loved youth.For none of such a holy race—within the lowest seat may dwell;But that will be his fatal place—by whom my only offspring fell.'So groaning deep, that wretched pair—the hermit and his wife, essayedThe meet ablution to prepare—their hands their last faint effort made.Divine, with glorious body bright—in splendid car of heaven elate,Before them stood their son in light—and thus consoled their helpless state:'Meed of my duteous filial care—I've reached the wished for realms of joy;[152]And ye, in those glad realms, prepare—to meet full soon your dear-loved boy.My parents, weep no more for me—yon warrior monarch slew me not,My death was thus ordained to be;—predestined was the shaft he shot."Thus, as he spoke, the anchorite's son—soared up the glowing heaven afar,In air his heavenly body shone—while stood he in his gorgeous car.But they, of that lost boy so dear—the last ablution meetly made,Thus spoke to me that holy seer—with folded hands above his head.'Albeit by thy unknowing dart—my blameless boy untimely fell,A curse I lay upon thy heart—whose fearful pain I know too well.As sorrowing for my son I bow—and yield up my unwilling breath,So, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou—at life's last close repose in death.'That curse, dread sounding in mine ear—to mine own city forth I set,Nor long survived that hermit seer—to mourn his child in lone regret.This day that Brahmin curse fulfilled—hath fallen on my devoted head,In anguish for any parted child—have all my sinking spirits fled.No more my darkened eyes can see—my clouded memory is o'ercast,Dark Yama's heralds summon me—to his deep, dreary, realm to haste.Mine eye no more my Rama sees—and grief o'erburns, my spirits sink,As the swollen stream sweeps down the trees—that grow upon the crumbling brink.Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake—one word his home-returning voice,Again to life should I awake—as quaffing nectar draughts rejoice,But what so sad could e'er have been—celestial partner of my heart,Than, Rama's beauteous face unseen,—from life untimely to depart.His exile in the forest o'er—him home returned to Oudes high town,Oh happy those, that see once more—like Indra from the sky come down.No mortal men, but gods I deem—moonlike, before whose wondering sight,My Rama's glorious face shall beam—from the dark forest bursting bright.Happy that gaze on Rama's face—with beauteous teeth and smile of love,Like the blue lotus in its grace—and like the starry king above.Like to the full autumnal moon—and like the lotus in its bloom,That youth who sees returning soon—how blest shall be that mortal's doom.Dwelling on that sweet memory—on his last bed the monarch lay,And slowly, softly, seemed to die—as fades the moon at dawn away."Ah, Rama! ah, my son!" thus said—or scarcely said, the king of men,His gentle hapless spirit fled—in sorrow for his Rama then,The shepherd of his people old—at midnight on his bed of death,The tale of his son's exile told—and breathed away his dying breath.

The hostility of the kindred races of Pandu and Kuru forms one of the great circles of Indian fable. It fills great part of the immense poem, the Mahabharata. At this period the five sons of Pandu and their mother Kunti have been driven into the wilderness from the court of their uncle Dritarashtra at Nâgapur. The brothers, during their residence in the forest, have an encounter with a terrible giant, Hidimba, the prototype of the Cyclops of Homer, and of the whole race of giants of northern origin, who, after amusing our ancestors, children of larger growth, descended to our nurseries, from whence they are now well-nigh exploded. After this adventure the brothers take up their residence in the city of Ekachara, where they are hospitably received in the house of a Brahmin. The neighbourhood of this city is haunted by another terrible giant, Baka, whose cannibal appetite has been glutted by a succession of meaner victims. It is now come to the Brahmin's turn to furnish the fatal banquet; they overhear the following complaint of their host, whose family, consisting of himself, his wife, a grown up daughter, and a son a little child, must surrender one to become the horrible repast of the monster. In turn, the father, the mother, in what may be fairly called three singularly pathetic Indian elegies, enforce each their claim to the privilege of suffering for the rest.

Alas for life, so vain, so weary—in this changing world below,Ever-teeming root of sorrow—still dependent, full of woe!Still to life clings strong affliction—life that's one long suffering all,Whoso lives must bear his sorrow—soon or late that must befall.

Oh to find a place of refuge—in this dire extremity,For my wife, my son, my daughter—and myself what hope may be?Oft I've said to thee, my dearest—Priestess, that thou knowest well,But my word thou never heededst—let us go where peace may dwell."Here I had my birth, my nurture—still my sire is living here;Oh unwise!" 'twas thus thou answeredst—to my oft-repeated prayer.Thine old father went to heaven—slept thy mother by his side,Then thy near and dear relations—why delight'st thou here t' abide?Fondly loving still thy kindred—thine old home thou would'st not leave,Of thy kindred death deprived thee—in thy griefs I could but grieve.Now to me is death approaching—never victim will I give,From mine house, like some base craven—and myself consent to live.Thee with righteous soul, the gentle—ever like a mother deemed,A sweet friend the gods have given me—aye my choicest wealth esteem'd.From thy parents thee, consenting—mistress of my house I took,Thee I chose, and thee I honoured—as enjoins the holy book.Thou the high-born, thou the virtuous!—my dear children's mother thou,Only to prolong my being—thee the good, the blameless, now,Can to thy death surrender—mine own true, my faithful wife?Yet my son can I abandon—in his early bloom of life,Offer him in his sweet childhood—with no down his cheek to shade?Her, whom Brahma, the all-bounteous—for a lovely bride hath made,Mother of a race of heroes—a heaven-winning race may make;[153]Of myself begot, the virgin—could I ever her forsake?Towards a son the hearts of fathers—some have thought, are deepest moved,Others deem the daughter dearer—both alike I've ever loved:She that sons, that heaven hath in her—sons whose offerings heaven may win,Can I render up my daughter—blameless, undefiled by sin?If myself I offer, sorrow—in the next world my lot must be,Hardly then could live my children—and my wife bereft of me.One of these so dear to offer—to the wise, were sin, were shame,Yet without me they must perish—how to 'scape the sin, the blame!Woe! Oh woe! where find I refuge—for myself, for mine, oh where!Better 'twere to die together—for to live I cannot bear.

TheBrahmin's wifespeaks.

As of lowly caste, my husband—yield not thus thy soul to woe,This is not a time for wailing—who the Vedas knows must know:Fate inevitable orders—all must yield to death in turn,Hence the doom, th' irrevocable—it beseems not thee to mourn.Man hath wife, and son, and daughter—for the joy of his own heart.Wherefore wisely check thy sorrow—it is I must hence depart.Tis the wife's most holy duty—law on earth without repeal,That her life she offer freely—when demands her husband's weal.And e'en now, a deed so noble—hath its meed of pride and bliss,In the next world life eternal—and unending fame in this.'Tis a high, yet certain duty—that my life I thus resign,'Tis thy right, as thy advantage—both the willing deed enjoin—All for which a wife is wedded—long erenow through me thou'st won,Blooming son and gentle daughter—that my debt is paid and done.Thou may'st well support our children—gently guard, when I am gone,I shall have no power to guard them—nor support them, left alone.Oh, despoiled of thy assistance—lord of me, and all I have,How these little ones from ruin—how my hapless self to save:Widow'd, reft of thee, and helpless—with two children in their youth,How maintain my son, and daughter—in the path of right and truth.From the lustful, from the haughty—how shall I our child protect,When they seek thy blameless daughter—by a father's awe unchecked.As the birds in numbers swarming—gather o'er the earth-strewn corn,Thus the men round some sad widow—of her noble lord forlorn.Thus by all the rude and reckless—with profane desires pursued,[154]How shall I the path still follow—loved and honoured by the good.This thy dear, thy only daughter—this pure maiden innocent,How to teach the way of goodness—where her sire, her fathers went.How can I instil the virtues—in the bosom of our child,Helpless and beset on all sides—as thou would'st in duty skilled.Round thy unprotected daughter—Sudras like[155]to holy lore,Scorning me in their wild passion—will unworthy suitors pour.And if I refuse to give her—mindful of thy virtuous course,As the storks the rice of offering[156]—they will bear her off by force.Should I see my son degenerate—like his noble sire no more,In the power of the unworthy—the sweet daughter that I bore;And myself, the world's scorn, wandering—so as scarce myself to know,Of proud men the scoff, the outcast—I should die of shame and woe.And bereft of me, my children—and without thy aid to cherish,As the fish when water fails them—both would miserably perish.Thus of all the three is ruin—the inevitable lot,Desolate of thee, their guardian—wherefore, Oh, forsake us not!The dark way before her husband—'tis a wife's first bliss to go,'Tis a wife's that hath borne children—this the wise, the holy know.For thee forsaken be my daughter—let my son forsaken be,I for thee forsook my kindred—and forsake my life for thee.More than offering 'tis, than penance—liberal gift or sacrifice,When a wife, thus clearly summoned—for her husband's welfare dies.That which now to do I hasten—all the highest duty feel,For thy bliss, for thy well-doing—thine and all thy race's weal.Men, they say, but pray for children—riches, or a generous friend,To assist them in misfortune—and a wife for the same end.The whole race (the wise declare it)—thou the increaser of thy race,Than the single self less precious—ever holds a second place.Let me then discharge the duty—and preserve thyself by me,Give me thine assent, all-honoured—and my children's guardian be.Women must be spared from slaughter—this the learn'd in duty say,Even the giant knows that duty—me he will not dare to slay.Of the man the death is certain—of the woman yet in doubt,Wherefore, noblest, on the instant—as the victim send me out.I have lived with many blessings—I have well fulfilled my part,I have given thee beauteous offspring—death hath nought t' appal mine heart.I've borne children, I am aged—in my soul I've all revolved,And with spirit strong to serve thee—I am steadfast and resolved.Offering me, all-honoured husband—thou another wife wilt find,And to her wilt do thy duty—gentle as to me, and kind.Many wives if he espouses—man incurs nor sin nor blame,For a wife to wed another—'tis inexpiable shame.This well weighed within thy spirit—and the sin thyself to die,Save thyself, thy race, thy children—be the single victim I.

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