The son of Raghu to his queen

Thus far described the unequalled scene,

And, as the hermit's death he rued,

The mournful story thus renewed:

Perplexed me with remorseful thought,

And all alone I pondered still

How kindly deed might salve the ill.

The pitcher from the ground I took,

And filled it from that fairest brook,

Then, by the path the hermit showed,

I reached his sainted sire's abode.

I came, I saw: the aged pair,

Feeble and blind, were sitting there,

Like birds with clipped wings, side by side,

With none their helpless steps to guide.

Their idle hours the twain beguiled

With talk of their returning child,

And still the cheering hope enjoyed,

The hope, alas, by me destroyed.

Then spoke the sage, as drawing near

The sound of footsteps reached his ear:

Why hast thou made this tarrying?

Thy mother thirsts, and thou hast played,

And bathing in the brook delayed.

She weeps because thou camest not;

Haste, O my son, within the cot.

If she or I have ever done

A thing to pain thee, dearest son,

Dismiss the memory from thy mind:

A hermit thou, be good and kind.

On thee our lives, our all, depend:

Thou art thy friendless parents' friend.

The eyeless couple's eye art thou:

With sobbing voice and bosom wrung

I scarce could move my faltering tongue,

And with my spirit filled with dread

I looked upon the sage, and said,

While mind, and sense, and nerve I strung

To fortify my trembling tongue,

And let the aged hermit know

His son's sad fate, my fear and woe:

A warrior, Da?aratha styled.

I bear a grievous sorrow's weight

Born of a deed which good men hate.

My lord, I came to SarjÚ's shore,

And in my hand my bow I bore

For elephant or beast of chase

That seeks by night his drinking place.

There from the stream a sound I heard

As if a jar the water stirred.

An elephant, I thought, was nigh:

I aimed, and let an arrow fly.

Swift to the place I made my way,

And there a wounded hermit lay

Gasping for breath: the deadly dart

Stood quivering in his youthful heart.

I hastened near with pain oppressed;

He faltered out his last behest.

And quickly, as he bade me do,

From his pierced side the shaft I drew.

I drew the arrow from the rent,

And up to heaven the hermit went,

Lamenting, as from earth he passed,

His aged parents to the last.

Thus, unaware, the deed was done:

My hand, unwitting, killed thy son.

For what remains, O, let me win

As the sad tale of sin I told

The hermit's grief was uncontrolled.

With flooded eyes, and sorrow-faint,

Thus spake the venerable saint:

I stood with hand to hand applied,

And listened as he spoke and sighed:

By thine own tongue this tale of dread,

Thy head for hideous guilt accursed

Had in a thousand pieces burst.

A hermit's blood by warrior spilt,

In such a case, with purposed guilt,

Down from his high estate would bring

Even the thunder's mighty King.

And he a dart who conscious sends

Against the devotee who spends

His pure life by the law of Heaven—

That sinner's head will split in seven.

Thou livest, for thy heedless hand

Has wrought a deed thou hast not planned,

Else thou and all of Raghu's line