National Epics | Page 9

their offspring dead. Ah, deed most
profitless as worst, a deed of wanton useless guilt: As though a pupil's
hand accurs'd his holy master's blood had spilt. 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 fallen the stream beside, The
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, And these the words, O queen, he spoke, as to consume me in
his ire: 'What wrong, O Kshatriya, have I done, to be thy deathful
arrow's aim, The forest's solitary son, to draw the limpid stream I came.
Both wretched and both blind they lie, in the wildwood 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, 't were bootless all, No tree can save

another tree by the sharp hatchet marked to fall. But to my father's
dwelling haste, O Raghu's son, lest in his ire Thy head with burning
curse he blast, as the dry forest tree the fire. Thee to my father's lone
retreat will quickly lead yon onward path, Oh, haste his pardon to
entreat, or ere he curse thee in his wrath. Yet first that gently I may die,
draw forth the barbed steel from hence, Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I,
not thine of Brahmin blood the offence. My sire, a Brahmin hermit he,
my mother was of Sudra race.' So spake the wounded boy, on me while
turned his unreproaching face. As from his palpitating breast I gently
drew the mortal dart, He saw me trembling stand, and blest that boy's
pure spirit seemed to part. As died that holy hermit's son, from me my
glory seemed to go, With troubled mind I stood, cast down t' inevitable
endless woe. That shaft that seemed his life to burn like serpent venom,
thus drawn out, I, taking up his fallen urn, t' his father's dwelling took
my route. There miserable, blind, and old, of their sole helpmate thus
forlorn, His parents did these eyes behold, like two sad birds with
pinions shorn. Of him in fond discourse they sate, lone, thinking only
of their son, For his return so long, so late, impatient, oh by me undone.
My footsteps' sound he seemed to know, and thus the aged hermit said,
'O Yajnadatta, why so slow?--haste, let the cooling draught be shed.
Long on the river's cooling brink hast thou been sporting in thy joy.
Thy mother's fainting spirits sink in fear for thee; but thou, my boy, If
aught to grieve thy gentle heart thy mother or thy sire do wrong, Bear
with us, nor, when next we part, on the slow way thus linger long, The
feet of those that cannot move, of those that cannot see the eye, Our
spirits live but in thy love,--oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?'
"My throat thick swollen with bursting tears, my power of speech that
seemed to choke, With hands above my head, my fears breaking my
quivering voice, I spoke: The Kshatriya Dasaratha I, O hermit sage, 't is
not thy son! Most holy ones, unknowingly a deed of awful guilt I've
done. With bow in hand I took my way along Sarayu's pleasant brink,
The savage buffalo to slay, or elephant come down to drink.
"A sound came murmuring to my ear,--'twas of the urn that slowly
filled, I deemed some savage wild-beast near,--my erring shaft thy son
had killed. A feeble groan I heard, his breast was pierced by that dire
arrow keen: All trembling to the spot I pressed, lo there thy hermit boy
was seen. Flew to the sound my arrow, meant the wandering elephant

to slay, Toward the river brink it went,--and there thy son expiring lay.
The fatal shaft when forth I drew, to heaven his parting spirit soared,
Dying he only thought