Maitreya. Of old thou gav'st a promise to relate
 The 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 gods
 Long reigned in Saligram of ancient fame,
 The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world.
 Chief of the virtuous, never in his life
 Harmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man,
 Or any creature sentient. But he left
 His 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 attain
 Perfect dominion on his soul. At morn,
 Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass,
 He gathered for oblations; and he passed
 In 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 went
 To bathe where through the wood the river flows:
 And his ablutions done, he sat him down
 Upon 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-clap
 Burst in that solitude from a thicket nigh.
 Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her womb
 Her offspring tumbled in the rushing stream.
 Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried far
 By 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 sight
 Full of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staff
 He 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 forth
 In search of sustenance. At early morn
 Thenceforth it used to leave the hermitage
 And with the shades of evening come again,
 And in the little courtyard of the hut
 Lie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce,
 Prowling about, compelled it to return
 Earlier 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 think
 Of 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 love
 Sprang 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 jaws
 Already hath devoured it,—timid thing!
 Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs,
 And variegated. Surely for my joy
 It was created. When will it come back,
 And rub its budding antlers on my arms
 In token of its love and deep delight
 To see my face? The shaven stalks of grass,
 Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped,
 Remind me of it, as they stand in lines
 Like pious boys who chant the Samga Veds
 Shorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair."
 Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy,
 With smiles upon his lips, whenever near
 His little favourite; in bitter grief
 And 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 love
 He had bestowed upon a little hind
 Thrown in his way by chance. Years glided on....
 And Death, who spareth none, approached at last
 The hermit-king to summon him away;
 The hind was at his side, with tearful eyes
 Watching his last sad moments, like a child
 Beside a father. He too, watched and watched
 His favourite through a blinding film of tears,
 And could not think of the Beyond at hand,
 So keen he felt the parting, such deep grief
 O'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 old
 By Brahman sage; but we, who happier, live
 Under the holiest dispensation, know
 That God is Love, and not to be adored
 By a devotion born of stoic pride,
 Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard,
 But with a love, in character akin
 To His unselfish, all-including love.
 And therefore little can we sympathize
 With what the Brahman sage would fain imply
 As the concluding moral of his tale,
 That for the hermit-king it was a sin
 To love his nursling. What! a sin to love!
 A sin to pity! Rather should we deem
 Whatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold,
 That he had sinned in casting off all love
 By his retirement to the forest-shades;
 For that was to abandon duties high,
 And, like a recreant soldier, leave the post
 Where 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 not
 Have been ordained to teach him? Call him back
 To 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 soul
 Who strives to enter through the narrow gate.

V.

THE LEGEND OF DHRUVA.

Vishnu Purana. Book I. Chapter XI.

Sprung from great Brahma, Manu had two sons,
 Heroic and devout, as I have said,
 Pryavrata and Uttanapado,—names
 Known in legends; and of these the last
 Married two wives, Suruchee, his adored,
 The mother of a handsome petted boy
 Uttama; and Suneetee, less beloved,
 The mother of another son whose name
 Was Dhruva. Seated on his throne the king
 Uttanapado, on his knee one day
 Had placed Uttama; Dhruva, who beheld
 His brother in that place of honour, longed
 To clamber up and by his playmate sit;
 Led on by Love he came, but found, alas!
 Scant welcome and encouragement; the king
 Saw fair Suruchee sweep into the hall
 With stately step,—aye, every inch a queen,
 And dared not smile upon her co-wife's son.
 Observing him,—her rival's boy,—intent
 To 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 art
 Born of the king; those sleek and tender limbs
 Hold of my blood no portion; I am queen.
 To be the equal of mine only son
 Were 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 fell
 From his step-mother's lips, poor Dhruva ran
 To his own mother's chambers, where he stood
 Beside her with his pale, thin, trembling lips,
 (Trembling with an emotion ill-suppressed)
 And hair in wild disorder, till she took
 And raised him to her lap, and gently said:
 "Oh, child, what means this? What can be the cause
 Of 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 heart
 Repeated to his mother every word
 That 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 say
 Such words as thy step-mother said to thee.
 Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieve
 Or 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 elephant
 Rich caparisoned, must be his by right
 Who has deserved them by his virtuous acts
 In times long past. Oh think on this, my son,
 And be content. For glorious actions done
 Not in this life, but in some previous birth,
 Suruchee by the monarch is beloved.
 Women, unfortunate like myself, who bear
 Only 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 son
 Dhruva the luckless! But for all this, child,
 It is not meet that thou shouldst ever grieve
 As I have said. That man is truly wise
 Who is content with what he has, and seeks
 Nothing beyond, but in whatever sphere,
 Lowly or great, God placed him, works in faith;
 My son, my son, though proud Suruchee spake
 Harsh words indeed, and hurt thee to the quick,
 Yet to thine eyes thy duty should be plain.
 Collect a large sum of the virtues; thence
 A goodly harvest must to thee arise.
 Be meek, devout, and friendly, full of love,
 Intent to do good to the human race
 And to all creatures sentient made of God;
 And oh, be humble, for on modest worth
 Descends prosperity, even as water flows
 Down to low grounds."
She finished, and her son,
 Who patiently had listened, thus replied:—
"Mother, thy words of consolation find
 Nor resting-place, nor echo in this heart
 Broken by words severe, repulsing Love
 That timidly approached to worship. Hear
 My resolve unchangeable. I shall try
 The 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 cost
 Of toil, or penance, or unceasing prayer.
 Not born of proud Suruchee, whom the king
 Favours and loves, but grown up from a germ
 In 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,—all
 My father pleases to confer on him.
 I grudge them not. Not with another's gifts
 Desire I, dearest mother, to be rich,
 But with my own work would acquire a name.
 And I shall strive unceasing for a place
 Such as my father hath not won,—a place
 That would not know him even,—aye, a place
 Far, 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 last
 The highest heavens, and there he shines a star!
 Nightly men see him in the firmament.

VI.

BUTTOO.

"Ho! Master of the wondrous art!
 Instruct me in fair archery,
 And buy for aye,—a grateful heart
 That 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 war
 With the Pandava brethren fought.
 In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet,
 Magic and archery they learned,
 A complex science, which we meet
 No 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 thread
 Have 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 scorn
 Of royal youths,—like lightning flame
 Sudden 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 tear
 Dropped 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 gain
 The science that man will not teach,
 For life is as a shadow vain,
 Until the utmost goal we reach
 To which the soul points. I shall try
 To 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 balm
 That all its yearnings purified.
What glorious trees! The sombre saul
 On 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 tent
 In 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 flowers
 Like ear-rings,—and the forest vine
 That clinging over all, embowers,
 The sirish famed in Sanscrit song
 Which 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 before
 The youth in evening's shadows brown.
 He passed into the forest,—there
 New sights of wonder met his view,
 A waving Pampas green and fair
 All 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 shorn
 Lay open,—rock or barren sand,—
 And here again the trees arose
 Thick clustering,—a glorious band
 Their 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 brows
 Are gemmed with pearls, and day declines.
 Then in a grassy open space
 He sits and leans against a tree,
 To let the wind blow on his face
 And look around him leisurely.
Herds, and still herds, of timid deer
 Were feeding in the solitude,
 They knew not man, and felt no fear,
 And heeded not his neighbourhood,
 Some young ones with large eyes and sweet
 Came close, and rubbed their foreheads smooth
 Against 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 spell
 All by myself in banishment.
"A calm, calm life,—and it shall be
 Its own exceeding great reward!
 No thoughts to vex in all I see,
 No jeers to bear or disregard;—
 All creatures and inanimate things
 Shall be my tutors; I shall learn
 From beast, and fish, and bird with wings,
 And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern."
With this resolve, he soon began
 To build a hut, of reeds and leaves,
 And when that needful work was done
 He gathered in his store, the sheaves
 Of forest corn, and all the fruit,
 Date, plum, guava, he could find,
 And every pleasant nut and root
 By 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 view
 That image tall might soothly swear,
 If he great Dronacharjya knew,
 The teacher in his flesh was there.
Then at the statue's feet he placed
 A bow, and arrows tipped with steel,
 With wild-flower garlands interlaced,
 And hailed the figure in his zeal
 As Master, and his head he bowed,
 A pupil reverent from that hour
 Of one who late had disallowed
 The 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 knows
 His own God-gifted wondrous might,
 Nothing to any man he owes,
 Unaided he has won the fight;
 Equal to gods themselves,—above
 Wishmo and Drona,—for his worth
 His name, he feels, shall be with love
 Reckoned with great names of the earth.
Yet lacks he not, in reverence
 To Dronacharjya, who declined
 To teach him,—nay, with e'en offence
 That well might wound a noble mind,
 Drove him away;—for in his heart
 Meek, 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 sent
 The 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 plain
 Some evil on his path hung dark!
Thus many times he tried and failed,
 And still that lean, persistent dog
 At distance, like some spirit wailed,
 Safe in the cover of a fog.
 His nerves unstrung, with many a shout
 He 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 knew
 At last that howling noise had stopped.
It happened on this very day
 That the Pandava princes came
 With all the Kuru princes gay
 To 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 trace
 Of hurt, though tongue and lip were bound.
"Wonder of wonders! Didst not thou
 O Dronacharjya, promise me
 Thy crown in time should deck my brow
 And I be first in archery?
 Lo! here, some other thou hast taught
 A magic spell,—to all unknown;
 Who has in secret from thee bought
 The knowledge, in this arrow shown!"
Indignant thus Arjuna spake
 To 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 straight
 They 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 youth
 In the dim forest,—what mean these?
 They gazed in wonder, for in sooth
 The thing seemed full of mysteries.
 "Now who art thou that dar'st to raise
 Mine image in the wilderness?
 Is it for worship and for praise?
 What is thine object? speak, confess."
"Oh Master, unto thee I came
 To learn thy science. Name or pelf
 I 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 hast
 Finished 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 swear
 So long as I have breath and life
 To 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 faithfulness
 No equal ever shall there be
 To thee, Arjuna,—and I press
 For 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,—"Fame
 Shall sound thy praise from sea to sea,
 And men shall ever link thy name
 With Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."

VII.

SINDHU.

Part I.

Deep in the forest shades there dwelt
 A Muni and his wife,
 Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly felt
 Their 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 mild
 He 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 name
 Was ever on their tongue,
 And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,
 Who dwelt his own among.
A belt of Bela trees hemmed round
 The cottage small and rude,
 If peace on earth was ever found
 'Twas in that solitude.

Part II.

Great Dasarath, the King of Oude,
 Whom all men love and fear,
 With elephants and horses proud
 Went 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 rife
 As on the pageant sped.
Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went!
 The wild beasts fled away!
 Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spent
 Became an easy prey.
Whirring the peacocks from the brake
 With Argus wings arose,
 Wild swans abandoned pool and lake
 For climes beyond the snows.
From tree to tree the monkeys sprung,
 Unharmed and unpursued,
 As louder still the trumpets rung
 And startled all the wood.
The porcupines and such small game
 Unnoted fled at will,
 The weasel only caught to tame
 From fissures in the hill.
Slunk light the tiger from the bank,
 But sudden turned to bay!
 When he beheld the serried rank
 That 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 grim
 Whene'er they turned about,
 Retreated into coverts dim
 The bisons' fiercer rout.
And in this mimic game of war
 In bands dispersed and past
 The royal train,—some near, some far,
 As day closed in at last.
Where was the king? He left his friends
 At midday, it was known,
 And now that evening fast descends
 Where 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 fell
 The last beams of the day,
 Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell,
 As breezes wake and play.
Osiers and willows on the edge
 And purple buds and red,
 Leant down,—and 'mid the pale green sedge
 The lotus raised its head.
And softly, softly, hour by hour
 Light faded, and a veil
 Fell 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 glades
 Raised her preluding cry.
What is that momentary flash?
 A gleam of silver scales
 Reveals the Mahseer;—then a splash,
 And calm again prevails.
As darkness settled like a pall
 The eye would pierce in vain,
 The fireflies gemmed the bushes all,
 Like fiery drops of rain.
Pleased with the scene,—and knowing not
 Which way, alas! to go,
 The monarch lingered on the spot,—
 The lake spread bright below.
He lingered, when—oh hark! oh hark
 What 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 view
 A sight to freeze in any man
 The 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 gap
 On neck and bosom fair.
He dashed cold water on the face,
 He chafed the hands, with sighs,
 Till sense revived, and he could trace
 Expression in the eyes.
Then mingled with his pity, fear—
 In all this universe
 What is so dreadful as to hear
 A Bramin's dying curse!
So thought the king, and on his brow
 The 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 one
 Whose 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 give
 Thee, king, a needless pain?
 Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live,
 And cleansed from every stain!"
Struck with these words, and doubly grieved
 At what his hands had done,
 The monarch wept, as weeps bereaved
 A man his only son.
"Nay, weep not so," resumed the child,
 "But rather let me say
 My 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, elate
 In wicked sport and rude,—
"And killed one bird,—it was the male,
 Oh cruel deed and base!
 The female gave a plaintive wail
 And looked me in the face!
"The wail and sad reproachful look
 In plain words seemed to say,
 A widowed life I cannot brook,
 The forfeit thou must pay.
"What was my darling's crime that thou
 Him 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 breath
 I gladly could have borne,
"But for my parents, who are blind,
 And have no other stay,—
 This, this, weighs sore upon my mind
 And fills me with dismay.
"Upon the eleventh day of the moon
 They keep a rigorous fast,
 All yesterday they fasted; soon
 For water and repast
"They shall upon me feebly call!
 Ah, must they call in vain?
 Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis all
 I 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 hut
 Girt round with Bela trees;
 Gleamed far a light-the door not shut
 Was open to the breeze.

Part III.