  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 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, 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. Turned from the north, its course begun—where haunt the spirits of the dead! Gathering o'er all th' horizon's bound—on high the welcome clouds appeared, 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. As though a pupil's hand accurs'd 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? 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, 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 |
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