Chapter XXVII: Book XXVI (1)

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.

THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA.

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 Kaikeyi, 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.

THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA.

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 Yayati 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, essayed
The 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.

EXTRACTS FROM THE MAHABHARATA.

THE BRAHMIN'S LAMENT.

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
Nagapur. 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.

THE BRAHMIN'S LAMENT.

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.

_The_ BRAHMIN'S WIFE _speaks_.

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.

* * * * *

Hearing thus his wife, the husband--fondly clasp'd her to his breast,
And their tears they poured together--by their mutual grief oppressed.

THIRD SONG.

Of these two the troubled language--in the chamber as she heard,
Lost herself in grief the daughter--thus took up the doleful word.

_The_ DAUGHTER _spake_.

Why to sorrow thus abandoned?--weep not thus, as all forlorn,
Hear ye now my speech, my parents--and your sorrows may be borne.
Me with right ye may abandon--none that right in doubt will call,
Yield up her that best is yielded--I alone may save you all.
Wherefore wishes man for children?--they in need mine help will be:
Lo, the time is come, my parents--in your need find help in me.
Ever here the son by offering--or hereafter doth atone,
Either way is he th' atoner--hence the wise have named him son.
Daughters too, the great forefathers--of a noble race desire,
And I now shall prove their wisdom--saving thus from death my sire.
Lo, my brother but an infant!--to the other world goest thou,
In a little time we perish--who may dare to question how?
But if first depart to heaven--he that after me was born,
Cease our race's sacred offerings--our offended sires would mourn.
Without father, without mother--of my brother too bereft,
I shall die, unused to sorrow--yet to deepest sorrow left.
But thyself, my sire! my mother--and my gentle brother save,
And their meet, unfailing offerings--shall our fathers' spirits have.
A second self the son, a friend the wife--the daughter's but a grief,
From thy grief thy daughter offering--thou of right wilt find relief.
Desolate and unprotected--ever wandering here and there,
Shall I quickly be, my father!--reft of thy paternal care!
But wert thou through me, my father--and thy race from peril freed,
Noble fruit should I have borne thee--having done this single deed.
But if thou from hence departing-leav'st me, noblest, to my fate,
Down I sink to bitterest misery--save, Oh save me from that state!
For mine own sake, and for virtue's--for our noble race's sake,
Yield up her who best is yielded--me thine own life's ransom make.
Instantly this step, the only--the inevitable take.
Hath the world a fate more wretched--than when thou to heaven art fled,
Like a dog to wander begging--and subsist on others' bread.
But my father, thus preserving--thus preserving all that's thine,
I shall then become immortal--and partake of bliss divine,
And the gods, and our forefathers--all will hail the prudent choice,
Still will have the water offerings--that their holy spirits rejoice.

* * * * *

As they heard her lamentation--in their troubled anguish deep,
Wept the father, wept the mother--'gan the daughter too to weep.
Then the little son beheld them--and their doleful moan he heard;
And with both his eyes wide open--lisped he thus his broken word.
"Weep not father, weep not mother--Oh my sister, weep not so!"
First to one, and then to th' other--smiling went he to and fro.
Then a blade of spear-grass lifting--thus in bolder glee he said,
"With this spear-grass will I kill him--this man-eating giant dead."
Though o'erpowered by bitterest sorrow--as they heard their prattling boy,
Stole into the parents' bosoms--mute and inexpressive joy.

THE DELUGE.

The following extract from the Mahabharata was published by
Bopp, with a German translation, (the promised Latin version
has not yet reached this country,) with four other extracts
from the same poem. It is inserted here not on account of its
poetical merit, but on account of the interest of the
subject. It is the genuine, and probably the earliest,
version of the Indian tradition of the Flood. The author has
made the following observations on this subject in the
Quarterly Review, which he ventures here to transcribe.

Nothing has thrown so much discredit on oriental studies,
particularly on the valuable Asiatic Researches, as the fixed
determination to find the whole of the Mosaic history in the
remoter regions of the East. It was not to be expected that,
when the new world of oriental literature was suddenly
disclosed, the first attempts to explore would be always
guided by cool and dispassionate criticism. Even Sir W. Jones
was led away, at times, by the ardour of his imagination; and
the gorgeous palaces of the Mahabadian dynasty, which were
built on the authority of the Desatir and the Dabistan, and
thrown upward into an age anterior even to the earliest
Indian civilisation, have melted away, and 'left not a wreck
behind,' before the cooler and more profound investigations
of Mr. Erskine[157]. Sir W. Jones was succeeded by Wilford, a
man of most excursive imagination, bred in the school of
Bryant, who, even if he had himself been more deeply versed
in the ancient language, would have been an unsafe guide. But
Wilford, it is well known, unfortunately betrayed to the
crafty and mercenary pundits whom he employed, the objects
which he hoped to find; and these unscrupulous interpreters,
unwilling to disappoint their employer, had little difficulty
in discovering, or forging, or interpolating, whatever might
suit his purpose. The honest candour with which Wilford, a
man of the strictest integrity, made the open and humiliating
confession of the deceptions which had been practised upon
him, ought for ever to preserve his memory from disrespect.
The fictions to which he had given currency, only retained,
and still we are ashamed to say retain, their ground in
histories of the Bible and works of a certain school of
theology, from which no criticism can exorcise an error once
established: still, however, with sensible men, a kind of
suspicion was thrown over the study itself; and the cool and
sagacious researches of men, probably better acquainted with
their own language than some of the Brahmins themselves, were
implicated in the fate of the fantastic and, though
profoundly learned, ever injudicious reveries of Wilford.

Now, however, that we may depend on the genuineness of our
documents, it is curious to examine the Indian version or
versions of the universal tradition of the Deluge; for,
besides this extract from the Mahabharata, Sir W. Jones had
extracted from the Bhagavata Purana another, and, in some
respects, very different legend. Both of these versions are
strongly impregnated with the mythological extravagance of
India; but the Purana, one of the Talmudic books of Indian
tradition, as M. Bopp observes, is evidently of a much later
date than the ruder and simpler fable of the old Epic. It
belongs to a less ancient school of poetry, and a less
ancient system of religion. While it is much more exuberant
in its fiction, it nevertheless betrays a sort of
apprehension lest it shall shock the less easy faith of a
more incredulous reader; it is manifestly from the religious
school of the follower of Vishnu, and, indeed, seems to have
some reference to one of the philosophic systems. Yet the
outline of the story is the same. In the Mahabharatic
version, Manu, like Noah, stands alone in an age of universal
depravity. His virtues, however, are of the Indian cast--the
most severe and excruciating penance by which he extorts, as
it were, the favour of the deity[158].

THE DELUGE.

Vivaswata's son, a raja--and a sage of mighty fame,
King of men, the first great fathers--in his glory equalled he,
In his might and kingly power--Manu, and in earthly bliss,
And in wonder-working penance--sire and grandsire far surpassed.
With his arms on high outstretching--wrought the sovereign of men,
Steadily on one foot standing--penance rigorous and dread,
With his downward head low-drooping--with his fixed, unwavering eyes,
Dreed he thus his awful penance--many a long and weary year.
To the penitent with tresses--streaming loose, and wet, and long,
By the margin of Wirini--thus the fish began to speak:
"Blessed! lo, the least of fishes--of the mighty fish in dread,
Wilt thou not from death preserve me--thou that all thy vows fulfill'st?
Since the strongest of the fishes--persecute the weaker still,
Over us impends for ever--our inevitable fate.
Ere I sink, if thou wilt free me--from th' extremity of dread,
Meet return can I compensate--when the holy deed is done."
Speaking thus the fish when heard he--full of pity all his heart,
In his hand that fish king Manu--son of Vivaswata took.
Brought the son of Vivaswata--to the river shore the fish,
Cast it in a crystal vessel--like the moonshine clear and bright.
"Rapid grew that fish, O raja--tended with such duteous care,
Cleaved to him the heart of Manu--as to a beloved son.
Time rolled on, and larger, larger--ever waxed that wonderous fish,
Nor within that crystal vessel--found he longer space to move."
Spake again the fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake:
"O all prosperous! O all gentle!--bring me to another place."
Then the fish from out the vessel--blessed Manu took again;
And with gentle speed he bare him,--Manu, to a spacious lake.
There the conqueror of cities,--mighty Manu, cast him in.
Still he grew, that fish so wondrous--many a circling round of years.
Three miles long that lake expanded--and a single mile its breadth,
Yet that fish with eyes like lotus--there no longer might endure;
Nor, O sovereign of the Vaisyas!--might that lake his bulk contain.
Spake again that fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake:
"Bring me now, O blest and holy!--to the Ganga, ocean's bride,
Let me dwell in her wide waters--yet, O loved one, as thou wilt,
Be it so; whate'er thy bidding,--murmur would beseem me ill,
Since through thee, O blest and blameless!--to this wondrous bulk I've
grown."
Thus addressed, the happy Manu--took again the fish, and bore
To the sacred stream of Ganga--and himself he cast him in.
Still it grew, as time rolled onward--tamer of thy foes! that fish.
Spake again that fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake:
"Mightiest! I can dwell no longer--here in Ganga's narrow stream;
Best of men! once more befriend me--bear me to the ocean swift."
Manu's self from Ganga's water--took again that wondrous fish,
And he brought him to the ocean,--with his own hand cast him in.
Brought by Manu to the ocean--very large that fish appeared,
But not yet of form unmeasured,--spread delicious odours round.
But that fish by kingly Manu--cast into the ocean wide,
In these words again bespake him--and he smiled as thus he spake:
"Blessed! thou hast still preserved me--still my every wish fulfilled,
When the awful time approaches--hear from me what thou must do.
In a little time, O blessed!--all this firm and seated earth,
All that moves upon its surface--shall a deluge sweep away.
Near it comes, of all creation--the ablution day is near;
Therefore what I now forewarn thee--may thy highest weal secure.
All the fixed and all the moving--all that stirs, or stirreth not,
Lo, of all the time approaches--the tremendous time of doom.
Build thyself a ship, O Manu--strong, with cables well prepared,
And thyself, with the seven Sages--mighty Manu enter in.
All the living seeds of all things--by the Brahmins named of yore,
Place thou first within thy vessel--well secured, divided well.
From thy ship keep watch, O hermit--watch for me, as I draw near;
Horned shall I swim before thee--by my horn thou'lt know me well.
This the work thou must accomplish,--I depart; so fare thee well--
Over these tumultuous waters--none without mine aid can sail.
Doubt thou not, O lofty minded!--of my warning speech the truth."
To the fish thus answered Manu--"All that thou requir'st, I'll do."
Thus they parted, of each other--mutual leave when they had ta'en,
Manu, raja! to accomplish--all to him the fish had said.
Taking first the seeds of all things--launched he forth upon the sea;
On the billowy sea, the prudent--in a beauteous vessel rode.
Manu of the fish bethought him;--conscious of his thought the fish,
Conqueror of hostile cities!--with his horn came floating by.
King of men, the born of Manu!--Manu saw the sea-borne fish,
In his form foreshewn, the horned--like a mountain huge and high.
To the fish's head his cable, Manu bound--O king of men!
Strong and firm his cable wound he--round and round on either horn:
And the fish, all conquering raja!--with that twisted cable bound,
With the utmost speed that vessel--dragged along the ocean tide.
In his bark along the ocean--boldly went the king of men:
Dancing with the tumbling billows--dashing through the roaring spray,
Tossed about by winds tumultuous--in the vast and heaving sea,
Like a trembling, drunken woman--reeled that ship, O king of men.
Earth was seen no more, no region--nor the intermediate space;
All around a waste of water--water all, and air and sky.
In the whole world of creation--princely son of Bharata!
None was seen but those seven Sages--Manu only, and the fish.
Years on years, and still unwearied--drew that fish the bark along,
Till at length it came, where lifted--Himavan its loftiest peak.
There at length it came, and smiling--thus the fish addressed the sage:
"To the peak of Himalaya--bind thou now thy stately ship."
At the fish's mandate quickly--to the peak of Himavan
Bound the sage his bark, and ever--to this day that loftiest peak,
Bears the name of Manubandhan--from the binding of the bark.
To the sage, the god of mercy--thus with fixed look bespake:
"I am lord of all creation--Brahma, higher than all height;
I in fishlike form have saved thee--Manu, in the perilous hour;
But from thee new tribes of creatures--gods, asuras, men must spring.
All the worlds must be created--all that moves or moveth not,
By an all-surpassing penance--this great work must be achieved.
Through my mercy, thy creation--to confusion ne'er shall run,"
Spake the fish, and on the instant--to the invisible he passed.
Vivaswata's son, all eager--the creation to begin,
Stood amid his work confounded:--mighty penance wrought he then.
So fulfilled that rigorous penance--instant Manu 'gan create--
Instant every living creature--Raja! he began to form.
Such the old, the famous legend--named the story of the Fish,
Which to thee I have related--this for all our sins atones.
He that hears it, Manu's legend,--in the full possession he,
Of all things complete and perfect--to the heavenly world ascends.

NOTES ON NALA.

[Footnote 1: p. 3. l. 4. _Over, over all exalted_. This repetition is in the original.]

[Footnote 2: p. 3. l. 5. _Holy deep-read in the Vedas_. All the perfections, which, according to the opinions and laws of the Hindus, distinguish the sovereign from the rest of mankind, are here ascribed to the hero of the poem. The study of the Vedas must be cultivated by the three superior castes, and ensures both temporal and eternal beatitude. In the laws of Menu it is said, "Greatness is not conferred by years, not by grey hairs, not by wealth, not by powerful kindred." The divine sages have established this rule--Whoever has read the Vedas and their Angas, he is among us great. (JONES'S MENU, ii. 254). Of all these duties, answered Bhrigu, the principal is to acquire from the Upanishads a true knowledge of the one supreme God: that is the most exalted of all sciences, because it ensures immortality, (xii. 85). For in the knowledge and adoration of one God, which the Veda teaches, all the rules of good conduct before-mentioned in order, are fully comprised, (ib. 87.)

The study of the Vedas is considered the peculiar duty of kings, (vii. 43). The Upanishads are doctrinal extracts of the Vedas.

The Indian law demands in the most rigorous manner from every one of noble birth, the mastery over the _senses_. Menu says, c. ii. 93, "A man by the attachment of his organs to sensual pleasure, incurs certain guilt; but having wholly subdued them, he thence attains heavenly bliss. v. 94. Desire is never satisfied with the enjoyment of desired objects; as the fire is not appeased with clarified butter; it only blazes more vehemently. v. 97. To a man contaminated by sensuality, neither the Vedas, nor liberality, nor sacrifices, nor strict observances, nor pious austerities, ever procure felicity." The control over every kind of sensual indulgence is enjoined upon the king. vii. 44. Day and night must he strenuously exert himself to gain complete victory over his own organs; since that king alone whose organs are completely subdued, can keep his people firm to their duty.

Skill in the management of horses and chariots, which in a subsequent part of the poem is of great importance to Nala, is often mentioned as a praiseworthy accomplishment of kings. In the Ramayana, for instance, in the description of king Dasaratha, which likewise contains the above-mentioned traits of character--"In this city Ayodhya was a king named Dusharutha, descended from Ikshwaku, perfectly skilled in the Veda and Vedangas, prescient, of great ability, beloved by all his people, a great charioteer, constant in sacrifice, eminent in sacred duties, a royal sage, nearly equalling a Muhurshi, famed throughout the three worlds, mighty, triumphant over his enemies, observant of justice, having a perfect command of his appetites." CAREY and MARSHMAN'S translation, sect. vi. p. 64.]

[Footnote 3: p. 3. l. 5. _--in Nishadha lord of earth_. I have accented this word not quite correctly Nishadha, in order to harmonise with the trochaic flow of my metre. It appears to be the same as Nishadha-rashtra and Nishadha-desa. See Wilford's list of mountains, rivers, countries; from the Puranas and other books. Asiatic Researches, vol. viii. BOPP.]

[Footnote 4: p. 3. l. 6. _Loving dice, of truth unblemished_. The Sanscrit word Akshapujah is differently interpreted. Kosegarten renders it in a good sense as "fearing heaven." He argues that it is the poet's object in this passage to describe the good qualities of Nala, and that he does not become a gamester till possessed by the demon Kali. Bopp gives the sense in the text, which seems to connect it with the history of king Yudishthira, to whom it is addressed.]

[Footnote 5: p. 3. l. 7. _Sense subdued_. The highest notion of this favourite perfection of Indian character, may be given in the words of the author of the Bhagavat-Gita: "The highest perfection to which the soul can attain, is action without passion. The mind is to be entirely independent of external objects; to preserve its undisturbed serenity it should have the conscious power of withdrawing all its senses within itself, as the tortoise draws all its limbs beneath in shell." Action is necessary, but action must produce no emotion--no sensation on the calm spirit within; whatever may be their consequences, however important, however awful, events are to be unfelt, and almost unperceived by the impassive mind; and on this principle Arjuna is to execute the fated slaughter upon his kindred without the least feeling of sorrow or compunction being permitted to intrude on the divine apathy of his soul. Some of the images in which this passionless tranquillity of the spirit is described, appear singularly beautiful:

As to th' unrais'd unswelling ocean flow the multitudinous streams,
So to the soul serene, unmov'd--flow in the undisturbing lusts.

And then again the soul, in this state of unbroken quietude,

Floats like the lotus on the lake, unmov'd, unruffled by the tide.]

[Footnote 6: p. 3. l. 8. _Best, a present Manu he_. Manu, or Menu, the representative of the human race; the holy, mythological ancestor of the Hindus. In the Diluvium, the Indian version of the Deluge, (see the latter part of this volume), Manu is the survivor of the human race--the second ancestor of mankind. The first Menu is named "Swayambhuva, or sprung from the self-existing." From him "came six descendants, other Menus, or perfectly understanding the Scripture, each giving birth to a race of his own, all exalted in dignity, eminent in power." Laws of Menu, i. 61. The great code of law "the Hindus firmly believe to have been promulged in the beginning of time by Menu, son or grandson of Brahma, or in plain English the first of created beings, and not the oldest only but the noblest of legislators." Sir W. JONES'S preface to Laws of Menu; Works, vii. 76. In the Ramayana, in like manner, king Dasaratha is compared to the ancient king, Menu. The word Manu, as the name of the ancestor of men, is derived from the Sanscrit root Man, to know (WILSONin voce); in the same manner as the Sanscrit Manisha, knowledge, Manushya, Man--as also the Latin Mens, and the German Mensch. According to this etymology, Man, Mensch, properly means "the knowing," the Being endowed with knowledge. The German word, Meinen, to mean, or be of opinion, belongs to the same stock.]

[Footnote 7: p. 3. l. 9. _So there dwelt in high Vidarbha_. This city is called by our poet Vidarbha Nagara, the city of Vidarbha, and Cundina. According to Wilford it is Burra Nag-poor. BOPP. Colebrooke, Asiatic Researches, remarks, that some suppose it to be the modern Berar, which borders on the mountain Vindhya or Gondwanah. The kingdom of Vidarbha, and its capital Kundini, are mentioned in the very remarkable drama Malati and Madhava. WILSON's Hindu Theatre, ii. 16; and extract from Harivansa, in LANGLOIS Monumens de l'Inde, p. 54.]

[Footnote 8: p. 3. l. 9. _Bhima, terrible in strength_. Bhima-parakrama. There is a play upon the words, Bhima meaning terrible.]

[Footnote 9: p. 3. l. 11. _Many a holy act, on offspring_. He made offerings and performed penance, by which blessings were forced from the reluctant gods. In India not only temporal, but eternal happiness, depends on having children. The son alone by the offering of the Sraddha, or libation for the dead, can obtain rest for the departed spirit of the father. Hence the begetting of a son is a religious duty, particularly for a Brahmin, and is one of the three debts to which he is bound during life. After he has read the Vedas in the form prescribed by Law, has legally begotten a son, and has performed sacrifices to the best of his power, he has paid his three debts, and may then apply his heart to eternal bliss. MENU, vi. 36. By a son a man obtains victory over all people; by a son's son he enjoys immortality; and afterwards, by the son of that grandson, he reaches the solar abode. MENU, ix. 137.

This last passage is immediately followed by the explanation of the Sanscrit word Puttra, son, by "the deliverer from hell." Since the son (trayate) delivers his father from the hell, named put, he was therefore called puttra by Brahma himself. This explanation, which it given by the Indian etymologists, appears nevertheless, as is often the case, rather forced; since the final syllable, tra, which is translated by deliver (or preserve, WILSON, in voce) is a common ending of many words, without the peculiar signification of delivering: as with this final syllable on the word Pu, to be pure, is formed the noun Puwitra, pure. WILKINS, Grammar, p. 454; KOSEGARTEN. The affix with which this last is formed however, is not tra, but itra, and it affords therefore no ground of objection to the usual etymology of Puttra. WILSON.

The Indian poetry is full of instances of this strong desire for offspring. In the Ramayana, king Dasaratha performs the Aswamedha, or offering of a horse, to obtain a son. "To this magnanimous king, acquainted in every duty, pre-eminent in virtue, and performing sacred austerities for the sake of obtaining children, there was no son to perpetuate his family. At length in the anxious mind of this noble one the thought arose, 'Why do I not perform an Ushwamedha to obtain a son.'" CAREY and MARSHMAN's translation, sect. viii. p. 74. Compare the Raghu Vansa, canto i., and all that is done by king Dilipa to obtain a son: and the poem of the death of Hidimbha, published by Bopp.]

[Footnote 10: p. 3. l. 14. _--in his hospitable hall_. Hospitality to a Brahmin is of course one of the greatest virtues. "A Brahmin coming as a guest, and not received with just honour, takes to himself all the reward of the housekeeper's former virtue, even though he had been so temperate as to live on the gleanings of harvests, and so pious as to make oblations in five distinct fires." Sir W. JONES, Menu, iii. 100.]

[Footnote 11: p. 3. l. 22. _--as around great Indra's queen_. Sachi.

Sachi, soft as morning light,
Blithe Sachi, from her lord Indrani hight.--Sir W. JONES's Hymn to Indra.]

[Footnote 12: p. 4. l. 2. _Mid her handmaids, like the lightning_. There are two words of similar signification in the original; one of them implies life-giving. Lightning in India being the forerunner of the rainy season, is looked on as an object of delight as much as terror. BOPP, from the Scholiast.]

[Footnote 13: p. 4. l. 2. _--shone she with her faultless form_. Sri, or Lakshmi, the goddess of beauty and abundance, at once the Ceres and the Alma Venus of India.

Daughter of ocean and primeval night,
Who fed with moonbeams dropping silent dew,
And cradled in a wild wave dancing light.--Sir W. JONES's Ode to Lacshmi.]