By this, thy fatal shaft, this one, three miserable victims fall, 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. My footsteps' sound he seemed to know, and thus the aged hermit said, "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, O hermit sage, 't is not thy son! Most holy ones, unknowingly a deed of awful guilt I've done. 't was of the urn that slowly I deemed some savage wild-beast near, - my erring shaft thy son had killed. Thus ignorantly did I slay your child beloved, O hermit sage! Turn thou on me, whose fated day is come, thy all-consuming rage!' Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength, me the meek suppliant did address. 'Kshatriya, 't is 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, 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, O son of Taghu, from thy thought dismiss all dread of instant ill. On the cold earth 't were 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. 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 thou hast 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 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 honeyed 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, The guerdon to thy virtues meet from that great Judge of men will pray. 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. "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 ; 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, Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake one word his home-returning voice, 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 in 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. Milman's Translation. THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. "It is a deep and noble forest, abounding in delicious fruits and fragrant flowers, shaded and watered by perennial springs." THO HOUGH parts of the Mahâ-Bhârata, or story of the great war, are of great antiquity, the entire poem was undoubtedly collected and re-written in the first or second. century A. D. Tradition ascribes the Mahâ-Bhârata to the Brahman Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa. The Mahâ-Bhârata, unlike the Râmâyana, is not the story of some great event, but consists of countless episodes, legends, and philosophical treatises, strung upon the thread of a single story. These episodes are called Upakhyanani, and the five most beautiful are called, in India, the five precious stones. Its historical basis is the strife between the Aryan invaders of India and the original inhabitants, illustrated in the strife between the sons of the Raja Pandu and the blind Raja, Dhrita-rashtra, which forms the main story of the poem. Though marred by the exaggerations peculiar to the Hindu, the poem is a great treasure house of Indian history, and from it the Indian poets, historical writers, and philosophers have drawn much of their material. The Mahâ-Bhârata is written in the Sanskrit language; it is the longest poem ever written, its eighteen cantos containing two hundred thousand lines. It is held in even higher regard than the Râmâyana, and the reading of it is supposed to confer upon the happy reader every good and perfect gift. G. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE MAHÂ-BHARATA. W. Cox's Mythology and Folklore, 1881, p. 313; John |