National Epics | Page 9

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 of you, long, long, your lonely lot deplored. Thus ignorantly did I slay your child beloved, O hermit sage! Turn thou on me, whose fated day is come, thy all-consuming rage!' He heard my dreadful tale at length, he stood all lifeless, motionless; Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength, me the meek suppliant did address. 'Kshatriya, 't is well that thou hast turned, thy deed of murder to rehearse, Else over all thy land had burned the fire of my wide-wasting curse. If with premeditated crime the unoffending blood thou 'dst spilt, The Thunderer on his throne sublime had shaken at such tremendous guilt. Against the anchorite's sacred head, hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed, In th' holy Vedas deeply read, thy skull in seven wide rents had burst. But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought that deed of death, thou livest still, O