Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan | Page 9

e'en a chance of danger run.
"Go then, my child,--we give thee leave, But with thy husband quick
return, Before the flickering shades of eve Deepen to night, and planets
burn, And forest-paths become obscure, Lit only by their doubtful rays.
The gods, who guard all women pure, Bless thee and kept thee in thy
ways, And safely bring thee and thy lord!" On this she left, and swiftly
ran Where with his saw in lieu of sword, And basket, plodded
Satyavan.
Oh, lovely are the woods at dawn, And lovely in the sultry noon, But
loveliest, when the sun withdrawn The twilight and a crescent moon
Change all asperities of shape, And tone all colours softly down, With a
blue veil of silvered crape! Lo! By that hill which palm-trees crown,
Down the deep glade with perfume rife From buds that to the dews
expand, The husband and the faithful wife Pass to dense jungle,--hand
in hand.
Satyavan bears beside his saw A forkèd stick to pluck the fruit, His
wife, the basket lined with straw; He talks, but she is almost mute, And
very pale. The minutes pass; The basket has no further space, Now on
the fruits they flowers amass That with their red flush all the place
While twilight lingers; then for wood He saws the branches of the trees,
The noise, heard in the solitude, Grates on its soft, low harmonies.
And all the while one dreadful thought Haunted Savitri's anxious mind,
Which would have fain its stress forgot; It came as chainless as the
wind, Oft and again: thus on the spot Marked with his heart-blood oft
comes back The murdered man, to see the clot! Death's final blow,--the
fatal wrack Of every hope, whence will it fall? For fall, by Narad's
words, it must; Persistent rising to appall This thought its horrid
presence thrust.
Sudden the noise is hushed,--a pause! Satyavan lets the weapon drop--
Too well Savitri knows the cause, He feels not well, the work must stop.

A pain is in his head,--a pain As if he felt the cobra's fangs, He tries to
look around,--in vain, A mist before his vision hangs; The trees whirl
dizzily around In a fantastic fashion wild; His throat and chest seem
iron-bound, He staggers, like a sleepy child.
"My head, my head!--Savitri, dear, This pain is frightful. Let me lie
Here on the turf." Her voice was clear And very calm was her reply, As
if her heart had banished fear: "Lean, love, thy head upon my breast,"
And as she helped him, added--"here, So shall thou better breathe and
rest." "Ah me, this pain,--'tis getting dark, I see no more,--can this be
death? What means this, gods?--Savitri, mark, My hands wax cold, and
fails my breath."
"It may be but a swoon." "Ah! no-- Arrows are piercing through my
heart,-- Farewell my love! for I must go, This, this is death." He gave
one start And then lay quiet on her lap, Insensible to sight and sound,
Breathing his last.... The branches flap And fireflies glimmer all around;
His head upon her breast; his frame Part on her lap, part on the ground,
Thus lies he. Hours pass. Still the same, The pair look statues,
magic-bound.
PART III.
Death in his palace holds his court, His messengers move to and fro,
Each of his mission makes report, And takes the royal orders,--Lo,
Some slow before his throne appear And humbly in the Presence kneel:
"Why hath the Prince not been brought here? The hour is past; nor is
appeal Allowed against foregone decree; There is the mandate with the
seal! How comes it ye return to me Without him? Shame upon your
zeal!"
"O King, whom all men fear,--he lies Deep in the dark Medhya wood,
We fled from thence in wild surprise, And left him in that solitude. We
dared not touch him, for there sits, Beside him, lighting all the place, A
woman fair, whose brow permits In its austerity of grace And
purity,--no creatures foul As we seemed, by her loveliness, Or soul of
evil, ghost or ghoul, To venture close, and far, far less

"To stretch a hand, and bear the dead; We left her leaning on her hand,
Thoughtful; no tear-drop had she shed, But looked the goddess of the
land, With her meek air of mild command."-- "Then on this errand I
must go Myself, and bear my dreaded brand, This duty unto Fate I owe;
I know the merits of the prince, But merit saves not from the doom
Common to man; his death long since Was destined in his beauty's
bloom."
PART IV.
As still Savitri sat beside Her husband dying,--dying fast, She saw a
stranger slowly glide Beneath the boughs that shrunk aghast. Upon his
head