  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, 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; 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 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, 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 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 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. 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, 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. |
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