A deep calm sea; on the blue waters toiled,

From morn till eve, the simple fishermen;

And, on the beach, there stood a group of huts

Before whose gates old men sat mending nets

And eyed with secret joy the little boys

That gaily gambolled on the sandy beach

Regardless of their parents' daily toils.

And all the busy women left their homes

And their young ones with baskets on their heads

Filled with the finny treasures of the deep.

A thousand yards to landward rose a town

With its broad streets, high roofs, and busy marts.

An ancient temple in the centre stood,

Where to his servant Nandi once appeared

Great Siva, it is said, in human frame.

E'en learned saints sang of the holy shrine;

And to this sacred spot from far-off lands

For adoration countless pilgrims came

And men to buy all rarest things that poured

Into her busy marts from foreign parts.

Here in this ancient port of Nundipore

In royal splendour lived a merchant youth,

Who scarce had reached his one-and-twentieth year.

His aged father had but lately died

And left him the sole heir of all his wealth.

And Rudra—for that was the brave youth's name—

Had heard from infant days full many tales

Of how his grandsire and his sire had braved

The perils of the deep in search of gold,

And in his bosom fondly nurtured hopes

To travel likewise on the dang'rous sea.

And oft would he to Rati, his fair wife,

Exulting tell how wisely he would trade

In foreign shores and with rare gems return;

How even princes, by those gems allured,

To court his friendship come from distant lands,

And he dictate his own high terms to them,

And thus add glory to his glorious house.

And often would she vainly plead in turn

Her desolate position and her youth.

And her dear lord implore upon her knees

For ever to dismiss his cherished thoughts

And turn to her and to their lordly wealth

Which God had given them, to live in peace.

Thus wrangled for some months the timid wife

And he whom woman's charms could not subdue

Until at last arrived th' appointed day.

The little ship was waiting in the port,

And Rudra to his youthful wife repaired

His purpose to disclose; and as at times

Clouds hover over us and darken all

The sky for days, and still no rain descends—

But suddenly when least expected comes—

So she to whom her husband's parting lay

In words saw it burst in reality.

He said, "Dear Rati! well thou knowest how

I fondly wish to trade in distant realms.

The time has come for me to part from thee.

This morn a little ship was sighted here,

And she is riding yonder on the sea.

And ere the setting sun sinks down to rest

Into the western waves the little bark

Now destined to take me will leave the port;

And I have therefore one, but one short hour.

'Tis willed by Him above that I should soon

Bid farewell to the place where I was born,

Where all my thoughts for ever centred lie,—

Soon part from all that to my heart is dear,

But soon come richer, greater to my home,

To spend my days in joy and happiness.

Dear wife! allow me therefore to depart."

To which the wife—"Dear husband, sad it is

To me to think that thou shouldst part from me;

But sadder still the thought that thou shouldst go

On seas to roam in lands unknown and strange,

And canst not tell when to this spot return.

There is our lordly mansion here; there is

Our wealth, and here I am thy youthful wife.

Why go away and risk thy precious life

While we enjoy our days like king and queen?

Why leave me here to pine away in grief

And loneliness? Without my lord it is

Half death to me, and I would rather die

Than see him part; hence banish from thy mind

All thoughts of going and stay here with me."

"My wife!" he said, "why cherish idle fears?

The holy Brahmin whom thou knowest well,

So deeply versed in all the starry lore,

Tells me that I am fated to return.

It is an evil omen that thou shouldst,

Lamenting, hinder me at this last hour

And tell me not to go. Send me away

With thy good wishes, I will soon return.

By Him above that rules man's destinies,

By mother earth, by yonder setting sun,

The moon that shines up in the starry heav'ns,

By all that to his heart is sacred deemed,

And lastly by his sire whose picture hangs

On the wall there, thy husband Rudra swears

That after he returns he'll stay with thee,

And nevermore e'en think of leaving thee,

And let him therefore go in peace of mind."

"If it is true," replied the crying maid,

"That Sita followed Rama to the woods,

And that she of the Pandus also shared

With them their toils—if ever woman's charms

Had power to move the adamantine heart

Of man, then let thy Rati go with thee

To share with thee thy joys and woes as well.

If thou shouldst go alone, remember then,

Dear lord, the sin rests solely on thy head

That a young maiden has been left alone

To mourn for ever for her husband on

The seas—and all for gold and for a name."

"A name thou sayest—never, never would

Thy Rudra die unhonoured and unknown

And bear the evil name and the reproach

For ever with his sons and his sons' sons,

That of his old illustrious family

He was the only one that feared to go

Upon the sea. The sun is going down,

And cruel darkness is invading fast

On us; and soon the ship will leave the port.

Within a year thou shalt see me again.

But if 'tis ruled by God that I should not

Return, to one thing listen ere I go.

To soothe thy spirits in a few short months

An infant will be lying on thy lap,

And if a daughter she should be, let her

Be married to one worthy of our race.

But if a son is born tend him with care;

When he grows old, let it be said of him

That he is his lost father's worthy son."

And when the few last awful words were spoke

The frighted wife that stood supported by

Her lord at once grew pale and motionless.

As one that watched with anxious care the growth

Of a young tendril slowly fixes it

Upon a new and stronger prop, e'en so

Brave Rudra extricated himself from

Her grasp and gently placed her on the couch;

Then gazed on her for a few moments with

His hands upon her throbbing temples, kissed

Her brow, and straightway vanished from the room.

And now the little ship in which he sailed

Safe bore the crew along the wat'ry waste,

And after twenty days' fast sailing she

Encountered on the way a storm, was wrecked,

And all save Rudra perished in the waves.

The shipwrecked merchant lost all that he had,

And wandered through a distant country with

No friends, no money but his hands to earn

For him his daily bread: the lonely youth

Thus dragged for years his miserable life

With nothing to make it worth living save

The hope, the only hope, to see his wife;

Till at the end of twenty years a ship

Was sighted that was bound for Nundipore.

In it he sailed and safely landed in

His native port. It was the midday noon;

He saw the selfsame fishing village that

Stood years ago upon the sandy beach,

And with a joyful heart he hastened to

His house which all deserted seemed; inside

With falt'ring steps he went, and on the walls

Of the big hall were hanging pictures of

His sire, of Krishna playing on the flute,

Of Rama, Siva, and the other gods

Whom in his childhood days his house adored,

And seemed as they were drawn but yesterday;

A thousand other old familiar scenes

In quick succession passed before his eyes,

Then quickly passed into a room, where lo!

There slept a youth and she for whom for years

Life's toils he patient bore. As one born blind

Had after years of pray'r the gift of sight

Vouchsafed to him by God, his Maker, to

Behold the beauties of the universe,

His wife, his children, and those dear to him,

But straightway feels the precious gift withdrawn;

Or as a lonely bird that unawares

Has wandered far into the deep blue sea

Finds nothing but a wat'ry waste all round,

And knows not where to rest its wearied limbs,

But at a distance kens at last a ship

To which with doubled speed it flies and flies,

And there discerns a seaman with his bow

Preventing it from sitting on the mast—

So Rudra felt. "Is this my wife?" he thought.

"Yes, by the mole upon her cheek she is;

And beauty, spite of age, still lingers on

Her face, and this fair youth, attracted by

Her charms, came here. Why hast Thou brought me home,

O God! why was I not drowned in the sea?

Why did I leave that distant country where

These twenty years I toiled for bread and lived?

And why was I not spared this ghastly sight?

No, Rati! never would thy husband bear

To see thee lying with another man.

First he will kill you both, then die himself."

So saying, from a sheath a blade he drew,

When lo! there fell the piece of a palm leaf

Whereon were writ—think well before you do.

"This is," he said, "my father's dying gift;

By the advice here giv'n I will abide,"

Then woke his wife, and in firm tones thus asked,

"Who is this youth that has defiled my bed?

Speak ere I strike you both." The wond'ring wife

The dagger and the stranger saw and cried—

"Kill me alone, but spare my only son."

"Thy only son!" he said; "now wake him up,

And let us all adore our Maker first,

Who saved us from my frenzy, which in one

Short moment would have shattered all our bliss."