WATER-FETCHING goes the noble
Brahmin's wife, so pure and lovely;
He is honour'd, void of blemish.
And of justice rigid, stern.
Daily from the
sacred river
Brings she back refreshments precious;--
But where is the pail and pitcher?
She of neither stands in need.
For with pure heart, hands unsullied,
She the water lifts, and rolls it
To a
wondrous ball of crystal
This she bears with gladsome bosom,
Modestly, with
graceful motion,
To her husband in the house.
She to-day at dawn of morning
Praying comes to Ganges' waters,
Bends her o'er the
glassy surface--
Sudden, in the waves reflected,
Flying
swiftly far above her,
From the highest heavens descending,
She discerns the
beauteous form
Of a youth
divine, created
By the God's primeval wisdom
In his own
eternal breast.
When she sees him,
straightway feels she
Wondrous, new, confused sensations
In her inmost, deepest being;
Fain she'd
linger o'er the vision,
Then repels it,--it returneth,--
And, perplex'd, she bends her flood-wards
With
uncertain hands to draw it;
But, alas, she draws no more!
For the water's
sacred billows
Seem to fly, to
hasten from her;
She but sees the
fearful chasm
Of a whirlpool black disclosed.
Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,
Can this be the
pathway homewards?
Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
Can she think, when thought and
counsel,
When
assistance all are lost?
So before her
spouse appears she--
On her looks he--look is judgment--
Proudly on the sword he seizes,
To the hill of death he drags her,
Where delinquents' blood pays forfeit.
What
resistance could she offer?
What excuses could she proffer,
Guilty,
knowing not her guilt?
And with
bloody sword returns he,
Musing, to his silent dwelling,
When his son before him stands:
"Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!"
"The delinquent woman's!"--"Never!
For upon the sword it dries not,
Like the blood of the delinquent;
Fresh it flows, as from the wound.
Mother! mother!
hitherhasten!
Unjust never was my father,
Tell me what he now hath done."--
"Silence! silence! hers the blood is!"
"Whose, my father?"--"Silence! Silence!"
"What! oh what! my mother's blood!
What her crime? What did she? Answer!
Now, the sword! the sword now hold I;
Thou thy wife
perchance might'st slaughter,
But my mother might'st not slay!
Through the flames the wife is able
Her
belovedspouse to follow,
And his dear and only mother
Through the sword her
faithful son."
"Stay! oh stay!" exclaim'd the father:
"Yet 'tis time, so
hasten,
hasten!
Join the head upon the body,
With the sword then touch the figure,
And, alive she'll follow thee."
Hastening, he, with
breathless wonder,
Sees the bodies of two women
Lying crosswise, and their heads too;
Oh, what
horror! which to choose!
Then his mother's head he seizes,--
Does not kiss it,
deadly pale 'tis,--
On the nearest headless body
Puts it quickly, and then blesses
With the sword the pious work.
Then the giant form uprises,--
From the dear lips of his mother,
Lips all god-like--changeless--blissful,
Sound these words with
horror fraught:
"Son, oh son! what overhast'ning!
Yonder is thy mother's body,
Near it lies the
impious head
Of the woman who hath fallen
Victim to the judgment-sword!
To her body I am grafted
By thy hand for endless ages;
Wise in
counsel, wild in action,
I shall be
amongst the gods.
E'en the heav'nly boy's own image,
Though in eye and brow so lovely,
Sinking
downwards to the bosom
Mad and raging lust will stir.
"'Twill return again for ever,
Ever rising, ever sinking,
Now obscured, and now transfigur'd,--
So great Brama hath
ordain'd.
He 'twas sent the
beauteous pinions,
Radiant face and
slender members
Of the only God-begotten,
That I might be proved and tempted;
For from high descends temptation,
When the gods
ordain it so.
And so I, the Brahmin woman,
With my head in Heaven reclining,
Must experience, as a Pariah,
The debasing power of earth.
Son, I send thee to thy father!
Comfort him! Let no sad penance,
Weak delay, or thought of merit,
Hold thee in the desert fast
Wander on through ev'ry nation,
Roam
abroad throughout all ages,
And
proclaim to e'en the meanest,
That great Brama hears his cry!
"None is in his eyes the meanest--
He whose limbs are lame and palsied,
He whose soul is wildly riven,
Worn with sorrow,
hopeless, helpless,
Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,
If tow'rd heaven he turns his gaze,
Will
perceive, will learn to know it:
Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,
Thousand ears are
calmly list'ning,
From which
nought below is hid.
"If I to his
throne soar upward,
If he sees my
fearful figure
By his might transform'd to
horror,
He for ever will
lament it,--
May it to your good be found!
And I now will kindly warn him,
And I now will madly tell him
Whatsoe'er my mind conceiveth,
What within my bosom heaveth.
But my thoughts, my inmost feelings--
Those a secret shall remain."
1821.
-----
III. THE PARIAH'S THANKS.
MIGHTY Brama, now I'll bless thee!
'Tis from thee that worlds proceed!
As my ruler I
confess thee,
For of all thou takest heed.
All thy thousand ears thou keepest
Open to each child of earth;
We, 'mongst mortals sunk the deepest,
Have from thee received new birth.
Bear in mind the woman's story,
Who, through grief,
divine became;
Now I'll wait to view His glory,
Who omnipotence can claim.
1821.
-----
DEATH-LAMENT OF THE NOBLE WIFE OF ASAN AGA.
[From the Morlack.)
WHAT is yonder white thing in the forest?
Is it snow, or can it swans
perchance be?
Were it snow, ere this it had been melted,
Were it swans, they all away had
hastend.
Snow, in truth, it is not, swans it is not,
'Tis the shining tents of Asan Aga.
He within is lying,
sorely wounded;
To him come his mother and his sister;
Bashfully his wife delays to come there.
When the
torment of his wounds had lessen'd,
To his
faithful wife he sent this message:
"At my court no longer dare to tarry,
At my court, or e'en
amongst my people."
When the woman heard this cruel message,
Mute and full of sorrow stood that true one.
At the doors she hears the feet of horses,
And bethinks that Asan comes--her husband,
To the tower she springs, to leap
thence headlong,
Her two
darling daughters follow sadly,
And
whilstweeping bitter tears, exclaim they:
These are not our father Asan's horses;
'Tis thy brother Pintorowich coming!"
So the wife of Asan turns to meet him,
Clasps her arms in
anguish round her brother:
"See thy sister's sad
disgrace, oh brother!
How I'm banish'd--mother of five children!"
Silently her brother from his wallet,
Wrapp'd in deep red-silk, and ready written,
Draweth forth the letter of divorcement,
To return home to her mother's dwelling,
Free to be another's wife
thenceforward.
When the woman saw that
mournful letter,
Fervently she kiss'd her two sons' foreheads,
And her two girls' cheeks with fervour kiss'd she,
But she from the suckling in the cradle
Could not tear herself, so deep her sorrow!
So she's torn
thence by her fiery brother,