Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan | Page 5

that it gives but a faint and discordant echo
of the music welling in Toru's brain. For it must frankly be confessed
that in the brief May-day of her existence she had not time to master
our language as Blanco White did, or as Chamisso mastered German.
To the end of her days, fluent and graceful as she was, she was not
entirely conversant with English, especially with the colloquial turns of
modern speech. Often a very fine thought is spoiled for hypercritical
ears by the queer turn of expression which she has innocently given to
it. These faults are found to a much smaller degree in her miscellaneous
poems. Her sonnets, here printed for the first time, seem to me to be of
great beauty, and her longer piece entitled "Our Casuarina Tree," needs
no apology for its rich and mellifluous numbers.
It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost
in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honours which
need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one,
and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had
produced so much of lasting worth. And her courage and fortitude were
worthy of her intelligence. Among "last words" of celebrated people,
that which her father has recorded, "It is only the physical pain that
makes me cry," is not the least remarkable, or the least significant of
strong character. It was to a native of our island, and to one ten years

senior to Toru, to whom it was said, in words more appropriate, surely,
to her than to Oldham,
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a
quickness, and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull
sweets of Rime.
That mellow sweetness was all that Toru lacked to perfect her as an
English poet, and of no other Oriental who has ever lived can the same
be said. When the history of the literature of our country comes to be
written, there is sure to be a page in it dedicated to this fragile exotic
blossom of song.
EDMUND W. GOSSE. 1881.

ANCIENT BALLADS OF HINDUSTAN.

I.
SAVITRI.
PART I.
Savitri was the only child Of Madra's wise and mighty king; Stern
warriors, when they saw her, smiled, As mountains smile to see the
spring. Fair as a lotus when the moon Kisses its opening petals red,
After sweet showers in sultry June! With happier heart, and lighter
tread, Chance strangers, having met her, past, And often would they
turn the head A lingering second look to cast, And bless the vision ere
it fled.
What was her own peculiar charm? The soft black eyes, the raven hair,
The curving neck, the rounded arm, All these are common everywhere.
Her charm was this--upon her face Childlike and innocent and fair, No
man with thought impure or base Could ever look;--the glory there, The

sweet simplicity and grace, Abashed the boldest; but the good God's
purity there loved to trace, Mirrored in dawning womanhood.
In those far-off primeval days Fair India's daughters were not pent In
closed zenanas. On her ways Savitri at her pleasure went Whither she
chose,--and hour by hour With young companions of her age, She
roamed the woods for fruit or flower, Or loitered in some hermitage,
For to the Munis gray and old Her presence was as sunshine glad, They
taught her wonders manifold And gave her of the best they had.
Her father let her have her way In all things, whether high or low; He
feared no harm; he knew no ill Could touch a nature pure as snow.
Long childless, as a priceless boon He had obtained this child at last By
prayers, made morning, night, and noon With many a vigil, many a fast;
Would Shiva his own gift recall, Or mar its perfect beauty ever?-- No,
he had faith,--he gave her all She wished, and feared and doubted
never.
And so she wandered where she pleased In boyish freedom. Happy
time! No small vexations ever teased, Nor crushing sorrows dimmed
her prime. One care alone, her father felt-- Where should he find a
fitting mate For one so pure?--His thoughts long dwelt On this as with
his queen he sate. "Ah, whom, dear wife, should we select?" "Leave it
to God," she answering cried, "Savitri, may herself elect Some day, her
future lord and guide."
Months passed, and lo, one summer morn As to the hermitage she went
Through smiling fields of waving corn, She saw some youths on sport
intent, Sons of the hermits, and their peers, And one among them tall
and lithe Royal in port,--on whom the years Consenting, shed a grace
so