Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan | Page 9

woods at dawn, And lovely in the sultry noon, But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn The twilight and a crescent moon Change all asperities of shape, And tone all colours softly down, With a blue veil of silvered crape!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 fork��d 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 he wore a crown That shimmered in the doubtful light; His vestment scarlet reached low down, His waist, a golden girdle dight. His skin was dark as bronze; his face Irradiate, and yet severe; His eyes had much of love and grace, But glowed so bright, they filled with fear.
A string was in the stranger's hand Noosed at its end. Her terrors now Savitri scarcely could command. Upon the sod beneath a bough, She gently laid her husband's head, And in obeisance bent her brow. "No mortal form is thine,"--she said, "Beseech thee say what