but the ashes of his brothers cannot be purified by earthly water; the god dess Ganga must first be brought to earth, and having undergone lustration from that holy flood, the race of Sagara are to ascend to heaven. Brahma at last gives his permission to Ganga to descend. King Bhagiratha takes his stand on the top of Gokarna, the sacred peak of Himavan (the Himalaya), and here Stands with arms outstretch'd on high, amid five blazing fires, the one High on the top of Himavan the mighty Mashawara stood; And "Descend," he gave the word to the heaven-meandering water- To a giant's stature soaring and intolerable speed, From heaven's height down rushed she, pouring upon Siva's sacred head, Down on Sankara's holy head, down the holy fell, and there, By the penances of the king, Siva is propitiated, and the stream, by seven channels, finds its way to the plains of India. Up the Raja at the sign upon his glittering chariot leaps, Instant Ganga the divine follows his majestic steps. From the high heaven burst she forth first on Siva's lofty crown, Headlong then, and prone to earth thundering rushed the cataract down, And with the fish and dolphins gleaming, and scaly crocodiles and snakes, By that heaven-welling water's breast, the genii and the sages stood, Whoe'er beneath the curse of heaven from that immaculate world had fled, To th' impure earth in exile driven, to that all-holy baptism sped; And purified from every sin, to the bright spirit's bliss restor'd, Th' ethereal sphere they entered in, and through th' empyreal mansions soar'd. The world in solemn jubilee beheld those heavenly waves draw near, And swift with her obeisant wave bright Ganga followed him afar. THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA. THE Raja Dasaratha was compelled to banish his favorite son Rama, immediately after his marriage to Sita, because his banishment was demanded by the Raja's wife Kaikeyi, to whom he had once promised to grant any request she might make. His grief at the loss of his son is described in this selection. Scarce Rama to the wilderness had with his younger brother gone, Upon his sons to exile driven when thought that king, as Indra bright, light. Six days he sate, and mourned and pined for Rama all that weary time. "Kausalya, if thou wakest, incline to thy lord's speech thy ready ear. As one that quits the Amra bower, the bright Palasa's pride to gain Through mine own fatal error 'reft of banished Rama, mourn in gloom. 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 fated head, As when on subtle poison hid an unsuspecting child hath fed; spread, Turned from the north, its course begun, where haunt the spirits of the dead: Gathering o'er all the horizon's bound on high the welcome clouds ap peared, Exulting, all the birds flew round, cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and veered. And all down each wide-watered 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 cruse, 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, Towards 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 parents' 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: My troubled soul, that plaintive moan no sooner heard, so faint and low, bow. Swift I rushed up, I saw him there, heart-pierced, and fallen the stream beside, The 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, And these the words, O queen, he spoke, as to consume me in his ire: The forest's solitary son, to draw the limpid stream I came. 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. There miserable, blind, and old, of their sole helpmate thus forlorn, "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 : - "A sound came murmuring to my ear, 't was of the urn that slowly filled, 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!' He heard my dreadful tale at length, he stood all lifeless, motionless; 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, 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, 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.' 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, For both, in grief for thee, and both so helpless, ere another day, |