And now the little ship in which he sailed

TALES OF IND

_AND OTHER POEMS_

BY

T. RAMAKRISHNA

1896

TO

THE MEMORY OF

MY DEAR DAUGHTER

KAMALA.

The star that rose to cheer our humble life,

And make a little heaven of our home,

Shall rise again--yes, surely rise again

To give us everlasting joy divine.

CONTENTS.

TO MY DAUGHTER

LORD TENNYSON

SEETA AND RAMA--A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE

THE STORY OF PRINCE DÉSING

THE STORY OF RUDRA

THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS

CHANDRA--A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIKÓTA

THE KORATHY'S LULLABY

_LORD TENNYSON._

A poet of my native land has said--

The life the good and virtuous lead on earth

Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East,

Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair.

The eyes may smart and water, but withal

She loves to please them that behold her face.

E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been.

Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine

Have purified, likewise ennobled man.

And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine,

But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep

In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page?

To please and teach the world for two dear ones

You mourned--a friend in youth, a son in age

'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy

To one lone mortal is not lived in vain;

But lives like thine God grants as shining lights

That we in darkness Him aright may see.

Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset

Do shine the more and better teach His ways.

Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one

Obscure--a stranger in a distant land.

Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words

Which do but half express the grief he feels.

_SEETA AND RAMA_.

A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE.

It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:--

A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills

That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold

Communion with the changing skies above;

Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys

And wearied peasants in the midday noon;

A lake that shone in lustre clear and bright

Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst

Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs

Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids

With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear

Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale

Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes

Of future plenty and of future joys.

Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys!

In this enchanted hollow that was scooped--

For so it seemed--by God's own mighty hand,

Where Nature shower'd her richest gifts to make

Another paradise, stood Krishnapore

With her two score and seven huts reared by

The patient labour of her simple men.

In this blest hamlet one there was that owned

Its richest lands: beloved by all its men,

Their friend in times of need, their guide in life,

Partaker of their joys and woes as well,

The arbiter of all their petty strifes.

By him his friend the village master lived

That at his door a group of children taught;

A man he was well versed in ancient lore;

And oft at night, when ended was their toil,

The villagers with souls enraptured heard him

In fiery accents speak of Krishna's deeds

And Rama's warlike skill, and wondered that

He knew so well the deities they adored.

One only daughter this schoolmaster had,

And Seeta was her name, the prettiest maid

In all the village, nursed by the fond cares

Of her indulgent sire, and loved with all

The tender feelings that pure love inspires

By the rich villager's only son, the heir

Of all his father's wealth; the best at school,

The boldest of the village youths at play,

And the delight of all those that saw him;

And these seemed such a fitting pair that oft

The secret whisper round the village ran

That Seeta was to wed the rich man's son.

Thus, in this Eden, its blest inmates lived

And passed their days, the villagers at the fields,

Their busy women at the blazing hearths,

The village master at his cottage door,

And Rama and fair Seeta in true love.

Hither a monster came, that slowly sucked

The vigour, the very life of Krishnapore.

The brilliant lustre of the diamond lake,

The emerald greenness of the waving fields,

The shady groves and pleasant cottage grounds,

And all the beauties of the happy vale

Soon vanished imperceptibly, as if

Some unconsuming furnace underneath

Had baked the earth and rendered it all bare,

Until its inmates wandered desolate,

With hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, and haggard faces,

Like walking skeletons pasted o'er with skin.

No more would blooming girls with pitchers laden

Repair to the clear lake while curling smoke

Rose from their cottage roofs; no more at morn

Would Rama be the first at school to see

His Seeta deck her father's house with flowers;

No more at eve the village master pour

From Hindu lore the mighty deeds of gods

To the delighted ears of simple men;

For these have left their lands and their dear homes.

And Seeta with her father left her cot,

And cast behind, with a deep, heavy sigh,

One ling'ring look upon that vale where she

Was born and fondly nursed,--where glided on

Her days in pleasure and pure innocence,--

Where Rama lived and loved her tenderly.

Her father died of hunger on the way,

And the lone creature wandered in the streets

Of towns from door to door, and vainly begged

For food, till some, deep moved by the sad tales

Of the lone straggler, safely lodged her in

A famine camp, where, heavy laden with

A double sorrow (for her lover too,

She thought, had died), her tedious life she spent.

And days and weeks and months thus rolled away,

Until at last her love for the dead youth

Mysterious waned, and, like a shallow lamp,

Burnt in her breast with nothing to feed it.

One day the news went through the famine shed

That a lean youth, plucked from the very arms

Of cruel death, was tenderly nursed there;

And all its inmates hurried to the scene.

Poor Seeta saw the youth, and that sad sight

She ne'er forgot; the youth was in her mind

Too firmly rooted to be rooted out,

Who ev'ry day in strength and beauty grew, till he

Appeared the fairest youth in all the camp.

First pity for the youth, then love for him

Mysterious came to her, until at last

The flick'ring flame shone sudden in her breast.

"This stranger I must wed, for him I love,

I know not how; that pleasant face is like

The face of him I dearly loved; I see

Appearing ev'ry day upon that face,

As if by magic wrought, those beauties that

Were seated on dead Rama's face." Thus mused

This maiden of the camp, and the fair youth

Thus kindled in her breast the hidden flame

Of love and fed it ever with new strength,

Which shone again in all its purity.

As the moon whose effulgence hidden lies

When dimmed by clouds, suddenly blazes forth

And in her wonted beauty shines again

What time she darts into the cloudless vault,

So shone again in lovely Seeta's breast

The lamp of love by clouds of sorrow dimmed.

The smothered passion suddenly blazed forth

In brighter lustre, and to her returned

With double force, as when the flaming fire

Is smothered when more fuel is on it thrown,

And straightway flames and gives a brighter light.

At last the monster left the land, the camp

Was broke, its inmates left it for their homes.

England, would that one of thy sons were there

To hear what words, what blessings now burst from

Their inward hearts for nursing them when they

From all estranged had poured into thine arms!

Poor Seeta hastened to the youth she loved,

And to him with a gladdened heart thus spake:--

Her rosy lips, just oped to speak, were like

A half-blown rosebud blossoming all at once;

Such magic was wrought on her ere she spake:

"Kind stranger, whither goest thou? I am

A lonely maiden, and friends I have none;

And thee alone I trust as my safe guide

To Krishnapore."

"Dear maid! thy sorrows cease;

My way now lies through Krishnapore: fear not,

I shall restore thee to thy home and friends;

Trust me as your safe guide and dearest friend."

She, overjoyed, recounted to the youth

Her tale--how she, her father's only hope

And pride, reluctant left their native vale

And cottage home; how he died on the way,

And she, a lonely creature, wandered in

The streets from door to door and begged for food;

How she was taken to the famine camp;

How he, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes,

Was brought one day and there nursed tenderly;

And how in beauty ev'ry day he grew

Until like her dead Rama he appeared.

The village youth, unable any more

Now to suppress him, suddenly exclaimed,

"Look here, whose name is on this arm tattooed?"

"O Rama, Krishna, Govinda, and all

Ye Gods that I adore, ye have blest me;

This is the happiest moment in my life,

And this the happiest spot in all the earth,

For now my long-lost Rama I have found."

So saying, she intently gazed on him.

As a rich mine pours forth its hidden wealth

To the delight of those that day and night

Court eagerly its treasures them t' enrich;

So from this lovely pair's deep mine of feelings,

What honeyed words escaped now through their lips

To their intense joy, better far than all

The treasures any ample mine bestows!

With sweet talk they beguiled their tedious way;

The verdant hills sublime rose to the view;

The broad lake glittered diamond-like again;

And wreathing smoke curled from the cottage roofs;

The lovely vale became the lovely vale

Again, and all the long forgotten scenes

In quick succession flowed before them both;

And never was a happier marriage seen

In all that happy vale of Krishnapore.

_THE STORY OF PRINCE DÉSING_.

It was the month of May, and glorious rose

The sun on Jinji, bathing in his light

Her lofty hills, her ancient walls and towers,

Her battlements, and all the glittering scene

That bade the stranger tell--"here lives a prince;"

And greeting late, as if too long he slept

Upon his ocean bed, the eager crowd

That in their best attire at early dawn

Fast gathered from their hamlets far and wide,

And like a hive swarmed on the castled hills.

Perhaps some village poet waited there,

Who day and night toiled hard in metres rare

To sing the deeds and virtues of his prince

And trace them on the leaves of that lone palm

Which stood close by his humble cottage home.

Perhaps with faces that bespoke deep grief

A troop of farmers there had come to tell

To their sport-loving prince the havoc wrought

Upon their toiling cattle by wild beasts

That nightly from their hill abodes came down

To feast on them. And in that motley crowd

Were servants of the state and many more

Who long had waited merely for a glimpse

Of their just ruler Désing holding court.

But soon there echoed through the lofty hills

The sound of th' Indian bugle and the drum

Proclaiming the arrival of the prince;

And often, as the new flood rushing down

With the still waters of a sleeping stream,

Leaves nought behind, and all is vacancy,

Or as the dim light of a shallow lamp

Suddenly blazes forth and soon is quenched,

So louder rose the clamour of the crowd

At the sound of the bugle and the drum,

Then straightway in deep silence died away,

And perfect stillness reigned everywhere.

Upon his gorgeous throne sat Jinji's prince

With servants fanning him on either side;

And in a place of honour sate in that

Capacious hall his holy Brahmin priest,

The master of his well-trained army there,

The chief and trusted min'ster of the state,

The aged poet that his praises sang,

The sage that, versed in all the starry lore,

His royal master's fortunes daily told;

The painter that adorned those ancient walls,

And countless other servants of the prince

There gathered each in his accustomed seat.

Then from the gate approached a trusty page,

And said with folded hands and trembling lips--

"O royal master, at the gate there waits

A man of noble mien from the far north

Requesting audience on affairs of state."

"Conduct him to our presence," said the prince.

The stranger came,--upon the floor he knelt

And said--"Thou mighty prince of these fair lands,

I come from Arcot, and the Nabob sent

His humble servant to demand of thee

Thy dues which these five years thou hast not paid.

Know, then, if these are not now duly paid,

From thee he will these broad dominions wrest,

And give them those who will his rule obey."

The angry prince made answer--"Go and tell

Your master that his vain threats move us not,

Say we will gladly meet him on the field."

So saying, from his royal seat he rose,

And to his palace instantly withdrew.

As when a stone dropped in the middle of

A placid pool its slumb'ring waters wakes,

And the calm surface is all ruffled seen,

Or at the merest touch of ruthless man

Bent on the honeyed treasures of the hive

Those myriad ones leave murm'ring to the foe

Their hoarded wealth to which they fondly clung,

So scattered to their distant native homes

The bustling crowd that met on Jinji's hills,

When he of Arcot came to mar their joys.

And days and months rolled on until one day

To Désing came his loyal spy and said--

"My noble ruler, on the other side

Of the fair stream that runs through yonder plain,

There waits our foe of Arcot with his men:

Prepare to go and meet him on the field."

'Twas even time--the warrior prince soon wrote

To Mamood Khan, the master of his troops,

To hasten to his country's duty first.

What though it was that soldier's bridal hour,

When he received his royal master's call!

"My country's welfare first, then my fair spouse,"

He said, and leapt upon his faithful steed

And stood, ere morn had streaked the eastern sky,

Before his lord his bidding to obey.

The prince rose early on that fated day

And to the temple of his God repaired,

There to invoke His blessing on the field.

Then to the palace hastened he to meet,

Ere he went forth to fight, his youthful wife,

Who day by day in beauty grew amidst

A score of maidens, like the waxing moon;

And, with a screen of silk between, they met.

As one lured by the fragrance of the rose

Stoops down gently to lift the truant stalk

That to the other side of the thick hedge

Shoots out alone from its own parent stem,

So fondly down stooped Jinji's noble prince

To kiss the jewelled arm of his fair spouse

Which through the screen she offered to her lord.

Prince Désing was the first who silence broke.

"My dear wife! on the day when we were wed

These eyes of mine had not e'en this arm seen,

Although on the same bridal seat we sat.

The screen which by the custom of our race

Was drawn by cruel hands hid thee from view.

So wondrous fair this arm looks that methinks

Rare beauties must be seated on thy face.

My foe hath come; fear not; I go to fight,

And come with honours loaded from the field,

A victor to rejoice with thee to-night

At the propitious hour which, by the aid

Of all his starry lore, our Brahmin sage

Hath for our nuptials named,--to gaze and scan

In silent joy what charms, what beauties rare

The hand divine has showered upon thy face,

And to recount to thee, when with thine own

My arm in friendship plays, what blood it shed,

What havoc in the Moslem camp it wrought.

So let me now depart." To which the Queen:

"I was the only daughter of my sire,

And cradled in his sinewy arms I grew;

And when upon his warrior breast I laid

My head to sleep, my mother by his side

Lulled me with songs of how in days gone by

The martial women of our noble race

Went with their husbands by their side to fight;

And one so nursed fears not the Moslem foe.

But now, alas! some evil it forebodes

That thou shouldst on this day go forth to fight."

And as she spoke tears trickled down his eyes,

And one, a pearly drop, stole to her palm.

She felt it: instantly her hand withdrew,

And then began to speak in words like these:

"It is not meet that Jinji's valiant prince

Should like a child at this last hour shed tears

And fear to meet his foe; fear not, my lord,

To meet him like a soldier on the field.

If thou a victor comest from the fight,

We shall in joy spend our first nuptial night,

But if thou comest routed from the field,

I never more will see thy timid face

Or think that thou art born of Kshatriya race.

And if thou fallest bravely fighting, then

Remember, Prince, thou hast in me a wife

Who will not let thee pass from earth alone.

Go forth and like a warrior meet the foe.

But fear not; Runga will be on our side,

So ere thou goest kiss this hand of mine

Which from thine eyes that precious tear has sought."

So saying, this brave Rajput girl once more

To Désing offered through the screen her hand.

He lifted it and reverently kissed,

Then sallied forth resolved to win or die.

Fierce raged the battle, but the hapless prince

Was weak to meet his foeman's myriad host;

And Mamood Khan fell bravely lighting there,

And with him many of his valiant men.

The faithful steed that through all perils bore

The prince was slain, and soon he fought on foot.

But ere the foe could capture him alive,

He hurled his heavy dagger, bared his breast,

And instantly a lifeless corpse he fell.

A few brave soldiers bore him from the field.

They hastened to the castle and before

The widowed Queen their precious burden laid.

She, nothing daunted, orders gave at once

That her attendants should prepare the pyre;

And then to her assembled men thus spake:

"My faithful men and my brave soldiers! you

Who with my lord fought nobly on the field,

I see you all weep at our hapless fate.

'Tis God has willed we thus should end our lives.

But a worse fate shall surely soon befall

Our cruel foe--howe'er exulting now.

Weep not--there soon shall dawn another day

When from the farthest end of this vast globe

A race for valour and for virtue famed

Shall wrest his kingdom from his ruthless hands,

And everywhere your sons and your sons' sons

Shall lasting peace and happiness enjoy.

Be witness to the curse pronounced by me,

A widowed maiden at the hour of death,

Thou setting Sun and thou, O rising Moon!"

Then as a bride in all her glory decked

Approaches with a gladdened heart t' embrace

Th' expectant bridegroom on the nuptial bed,

E'en so ascended this fair Queen the pyre,

And there embracing lay by her dear lord.

The fire was lighted and the pyre was closed,

And speedily to ashes were reduced

The lifeless husband and the living wife.

The Moslem came--heard of the death she died

Amid the flames, repented of his deed,

And, it is said, he built a lordly town[1]

In honour of the Queen, who counted it,

A sin her noble husband to survive,

And in a moment flung her life away.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Ranipett.]

_THE STORY OF RUDRA_.

A deep calm sea; on the blue waters toiled,

From morn till eve, the simple fishermen;

And, on the beach, there stood a group of huts

Before whose gates old men sat mending nets

And eyed with secret joy the little boys

That gaily gambolled on the sandy beach

Regardless of their parents' daily toils.

And all the busy women left their homes

And their young ones with baskets on their heads

Filled with the finny treasures of the deep.

A thousand yards to landward rose a town

With its broad streets, high roofs, and busy marts.

An ancient temple in the centre stood,

Where to his servant Nandi once appeared

Great Siva, it is said, in human frame.

E'en learned saints sang of the holy shrine;

And to this sacred spot from far-off lands

For adoration countless pilgrims came

And men to buy all rarest things that poured

Into her busy marts from foreign parts.

Here in this ancient port of Nundipore

In royal splendour lived a merchant youth,

Who scarce had reached his one-and-twentieth year.

His aged father had but lately died

And left him the sole heir of all his wealth.

And Rudra--for that was the brave youth's name--

Had heard from infant days full many tales

Of how his grandsire and his sire had braved

The perils of the deep in search of gold,

And in his bosom fondly nurtured hopes

To travel likewise on the dang'rous sea.

And oft would he to Rati, his fair wife,

Exulting tell how wisely he would trade

In foreign shores and with rare gems return;

How even princes, by those gems allured,

To court his friendship come from distant lands,

And he dictate his own high terms to them,

And thus add glory to his glorious house.

And often would she vainly plead in turn

Her desolate position and her youth.

And her dear lord implore upon her knees

For ever to dismiss his cherished thoughts

And turn to her and to their lordly wealth

Which God had given them, to live in peace.

Thus wrangled for some months the timid wife

And he whom woman's charms could not subdue

Until at last arrived th' appointed day.

The little ship was waiting in the port,

And Rudra to his youthful wife repaired

His purpose to disclose; and as at times

Clouds hover over us and darken all

The sky for days, and still no rain descends--

But suddenly when least expected comes--

So she to whom her husband's parting lay

In words saw it burst in reality.

He said, "Dear Rati! well thou knowest how

I fondly wish to trade in distant realms.

The time has come for me to part from thee.

This morn a little ship was sighted here,

And she is riding yonder on the sea.

And ere the setting sun sinks down to rest

Into the western waves the little bark

Now destined to take me will leave the port;

And I have therefore one, but one short hour.

'Tis willed by Him above that I should soon

Bid farewell to the place where I was born,

Where all my thoughts for ever centred lie,--

Soon part from all that to my heart is dear,

But soon come richer, greater to my home,

To spend my days in joy and happiness.

Dear wife! allow me therefore to depart."

To which the wife--"Dear husband, sad it is

To me to think that thou shouldst part from me;

But sadder still the thought that thou shouldst go

On seas to roam in lands unknown and strange,

And canst not tell when to this spot return.

There is our lordly mansion here; there is

Our wealth, and here I am thy youthful wife.

Why go away and risk thy precious life

While we enjoy our days like king and queen?

Why leave me here to pine away in grief

And loneliness? Without my lord it is

Half death to me, and I would rather die

Than see him part; hence banish from thy mind

All thoughts of going and stay here with me."

"My wife!" he said, "why cherish idle fears?

The holy Brahmin whom thou knowest well,

So deeply versed in all the starry lore,

Tells me that I am fated to return.

It is an evil omen that thou shouldst,

Lamenting, hinder me at this last hour

And tell me not to go. Send me away

With thy good wishes, I will soon return.

By Him above that rules man's destinies,

By mother earth, by yonder setting sun,

The moon that shines up in the starry heav'ns,

By all that to his heart is sacred deemed,

And lastly by his sire whose picture hangs

On the wall there, thy husband Rudra swears

That after he returns he'll stay with thee,

And nevermore e'en think of leaving thee,

And let him therefore go in peace of mind."

"If it is true," replied the crying maid,

"That Sita followed Rama to the woods,

And that she of the Pandus also shared

With them their toils--if ever woman's charms

Had power to move the adamantine heart

Of man, then let thy Rati go with thee

To share with thee thy joys and woes as well.

If thou shouldst go alone, remember then,

Dear lord, the sin rests solely on thy head

That a young maiden has been left alone

To mourn for ever for her husband on

The seas--and all for gold and for a name."

"A _name_ thou sayest--never, never would

Thy Rudra die unhonoured and unknown

And bear the evil name and the reproach

For ever with his sons and his sons' sons,

That of his old illustrious family

He was the only one that feared to go

Upon the sea. The sun is going down,

And cruel darkness is invading fast

On us; and soon the ship will leave the port.

Within a year thou shalt see me again.

But if 'tis ruled by God that I should not

Return, to one thing listen ere I go.

To soothe thy spirits in a few short months

An infant will be lying on thy lap,

And if a daughter she should be, let her

Be married to one worthy of our race.

But if a son is born tend him with care;

When he grows old, let it be said of him

That he is his lost father's worthy son."

And when the few last awful words were spoke

The frighted wife that stood supported by

Her lord at once grew pale and motionless.

As one that watched with anxious care the growth

Of a young tendril slowly fixes it

Upon a new and stronger prop, e'en so

Brave Rudra extricated himself from

Her grasp and gently placed her on the couch;

Then gazed on her for a few moments with

His hands upon her throbbing temples, kissed

Her brow, and straightway vanished from the room.

And now the little ship in which he sailed

Safe bore the crew along the wat'ry waste,

And after twenty days' fast sailing she

Encountered on the way a storm, was wrecked,

And all save Rudra perished in the waves.

The shipwrecked merchant lost all that he had,

And wandered through a distant country with

No friends, no money but his hands to earn

For him his daily bread: the lonely youth

Thus dragged for years his miserable life

With nothing to make it worth living save

The hope, the only hope, to see his wife;

Till at the end of twenty years a ship

Was sighted that was bound for Nundipore.

In it he sailed and safely landed in

His native port. It was the midday noon;

He saw the selfsame fishing village that

Stood years ago upon the sandy beach,

And with a joyful heart he hastened to

His house which all deserted seemed; inside

With falt'ring steps he went, and on the walls

Of the big hall were hanging pictures of

His sire, of Krishna playing on the flute,

Of Rama, Siva, and the other gods

Whom in his childhood days his house adored,

And seemed as they were drawn but yesterday;

A thousand other old familiar scenes

In quick succession passed before his eyes,

Then quickly passed into a room, where lo!

There slept a youth and she for whom for years

Life's toils he patient bore. As one born blind

Had after years of pray'r the gift of sight

Vouchsafed to him by God, his Maker, to

Behold the beauties of the universe,

His wife, his children, and those dear to him,

But straightway feels the precious gift withdrawn;

Or as a lonely bird that unawares

Has wandered far into the deep blue sea

Finds nothing but a wat'ry waste all round,

And knows not where to rest its wearied limbs,

But at a distance kens at last a ship

To which with doubled speed it flies and flies,

And there discerns a seaman with his bow

Preventing it from sitting on the mast--

So Rudra felt. "Is this my wife?" he thought.

"Yes, by the mole upon her cheek she is;

And beauty, spite of age, still lingers on

Her face, and this fair youth, attracted by

Her charms, came here. Why hast Thou brought me home,

O God! why was I not drowned in the sea?

Why did I leave that distant country where

These twenty years I toiled for bread and lived?

And why was I not spared this ghastly sight?

No, Rati! never would thy husband bear

To see thee lying with another man.

First he will kill you both, then die himself."

So saying, from a sheath a blade he drew,

When lo! there fell the piece of a palm leaf

Whereon were writ--_think well before you do_.

"This is," he said, "my father's dying gift;

By the advice here giv'n I will abide,"

Then woke his wife, and in firm tones thus asked,

"Who is this youth that has defiled my bed?

Speak ere I strike you both." The wond'ring wife

The dagger and the stranger saw and cried--

"Kill me alone, but spare my only son."

"Thy only son!" he said; "now wake him up,

And let us all adore our Maker first,

Who saved us from my frenzy, which in one

Short moment would have shattered all our bliss."

_THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS_.

It was a land of plenty and of wealth;

There God's indulgent hand made for a race

Supremely blest a paradise on earth.

A land of virtue, truth, and charity,

Where nature's choicest treasures man enjoyed

With little toil, where youth respected age,

Where each his neighbour's wife his sister deemed,

Where side by side the tiger and the lamb

The water drank, and sported oft in mirth.

A land where each man deemed him highly blest

When he relieved the miseries of the poor,

When to his roof the wearied traveller came

To share his proffered bounty with good cheer.

Such was the far-famed land of Panchala.

Here reigned a king who walked in virtue's path,

Who ruled his country only for his God.

His people's good he deemed his only care,

Their sorrows were his sorrows, and their joys

He counted as his own; such was the king

Whose daily prayers went up to Him on high

For wisdom and for strength to rule his men

Aright, and guard the land from foreign foes.

Such was the far-famed king of Panchala.

An only son he had--a noble prince,

The terror of his foes, the poor man's friend.

He mastered all the arts of peace and war,

And was a worthy father's worthy son.

What gifts and graces men as beauties deem

These Nature freely lavished on the youth,

And people loved in wonder to behold

The face that kindled pleasure in their minds.

The courage of a warrior in the field,

A woman's tender pity to the weak--

All these were centred in the royal youth.

His arrows killed full many a beast that wrought

Dread havoc on the cattle of the poor.

Such was the famous prince of Panchala.

The people, they were all true men and good,

Their ruler they adored, for by their God

He was ordained to rule their native land.

They freely to their king made known their wants,

And he as freely satisfied their needs,

And e'en the meanest of the land deemed it

The basest act to sin against his king.

Such were the people of the ancient land

Of Panchala, who stood one day with tears

Before their king to pour their plaintive tales

Of ruin wrought upon their cattle by

The tiger of the forest, that all day

Was safe in his impenetrable lair,

But every night his dreaded figure showed

And feasted on the flesh of toiling beasts.

The king gave ear to their sad tales of woe,

And straightway called his only son, and said--

"Dear son! my people's good I value more

Than thine own life. Go therefore to the woods

With all thine arrows and thy trusty bow,

And drag the dreaded tiger from his den,

And to their homes their wonted peace restore.

His spotted skin and murderous claws must soon

Be added to the trophies of the past,

Now hanging on our ancient palace walls."

The prince obeyed, and to the forest went:

Three days and nights he wandered in the woods,

But still found not the object of his search.

He missed his faithful men and lost his way,

Till worn and weary underneath a tree,

Whose shady boughs extended far and wide,

The lonely straggler stretched his limbs and slept,

And for a time forgot his dire distress.

He woke, and thus addressed himself with tears:

"Here I am left deserted and alone,

Perchance my faithful people at this hour

Are vainly searching for their hapless prince,

While I die here of hunger and of thirst.

And gladly would I welcome now the brute

That has attracted me to this strange spot,

To plunge his claws into my body, tear

My flesh, and break my bones, and feast on me

By gnawing them between his horrid jaws,

And so spare me from this slow lingering death."

So thought the royal youth of his sad doom,

When lo! a spotless figure, with a bow,

A pouch with arrows dangling on her back,

A hatchet in her hand for cutting wood,

And with a pitcher on her head, appeared.

Here every day she came to gather wood,

And, dressed in male attire, her heavy load

Took to the nearest town, sold it, then reached,

At close of day to cook the ev'ning meal,

Her cottage on the outskirts of the wood,

Where, with her sire, bent down with years, she lived,

And dragged her daily miserable life.

Such was the maid that was upon that day,

As if by instinct, drawn to the fair youth,

And such the huntress Radha he beheld.

A fairer woman never breathed the air--

No, not in all the land of Panchala.

The maid in pity saw his wretched plight,

Then from the pitcher took her midday meal,

And soon relieved his hunger and his thirst.

The grateful prince, delighted, told his tale,

And she, well pleased, thus spake: "Fair youth! grieve not,

Behold the brook that yonder steals along,

To this the tiger comes at noon to quench

His thirst. Then, safely perched upon a tree,

We can for ever check his deadly course,"

Both went, and saw at the expected hour

The monarch of the forest near the brook.

In quick succession, lightning-like from them

The arrows flew, and in a moment fell

His massive body lifeless on the ground.

Then vowing oft to meet his valiant friend,

The prince returned, and with the happy news

Appeared before the king, who blest his son

And said: "My son! well hast thou done the deed;

Thy life thou hast endangered for my men;

Ask anything and I will give it thee."

"I want not wealth nor power," the prince replied,

"But, noble father I one request I make.

I chanced to meet a huntress in the wood,

And Radha is her name; she saved my life.

I but for her had died a lingering death,

Her valour and her beauty I admire,

And therefore grant me leave to marry her."

The king spake not, but forthwith gave command

To banish from his home the reckless youth,

Who brought disgrace upon his royal house,

And who, he wished, should wed one worthy of

The noble race of ancient Panchala.

Poor youth! he left his country and his home,

He that was dreaded by his foes was gone.

Vain lust of power impelled the neighbouring king,

The traitor who usurped his sovereign's throne,

To march on Panchala with all his men.

He went, and to the helpless king proclaimed--

"Thou knowest well my armies are the best

On earth, and folly it will be in thee

To stand 'gainst them and shed thy people's blood.

Send forth thy greatest archer, and with him

My prowess I will try: this will decide

If you or I should sit upon the throne,

And whether Panchala is thine or mine."

The king, bewildered, knew not what to do,

But soon two maidens, strangers to the land,

Met him, and, of the two, the younger said--

"O righteous king! we left our distant homes

To visit shrines and bathe in holy streams.

We have been wandering in many climes,

And yesternight this place we reached, and heard

Your loyal people speak of your sad plight.

In early youth I learned to use the bow--

I pray thee, therefore, send me forth against

The wretch that dares to wrest this land from thee."

And ere the treacherous wretch could string his bow,

A pointed arrow carrying death with it,

Like lightning flew from forth the maiden's hands,

Pierced deep into his head, that plans devised

To kill his royal master and once more

Thought ill of Panchala and her good king.

His body lifeless lay upon the field.

Then spake the maiden to the grateful king:--

"Thou, noble ruler of this ancient land!

Before thy sacred presence and before

All these assembled in thy royal court,

I will reveal my story, sad but true.

I am the only child of him that ruled

The neighbouring state, whose kings for centuries

In peace and friendship lived with Panchala.

Alas! the villain, whom my arrow gave

To crows and to the eagles of the air,

Usurped my father's throne, and sad to tell,

He instant orders gave to murder us.

The menials sent to do the cruel deed

Felt pity for the fallen king and me,

His only daughter, in the woods left us

And went away, reporting they had done

The deed; and there, in that deserted place,

Unknown we lived a wretched life for years.

And glad I am that death ignoble, which

The wretch deserved, has now befallen him.

"This person standing here--I now remove

The veil, and, by the mole upon his breast,

Behold in him thine own begotten son--

Was by thy orders banished from the land.

Grant that I now may plead for him, because

A woman's words can sooner soothe the heart.

I crave your Majesty to pardon him

For loving me, and take him back unto

His father's home; grant also, gracious king,

That I, a princess, may be worthy deemed

Of being wedded to thine only son."

_CHANDRA_.

A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIKÓTA, A.D. 1565.

At length the four great Mahometan governments, A'dil Sháh, Nízám Sháh,

Baríd, and Kútb Sháh, formed a league against Rám Rája, then ruling at

Bijáyanagar. A great battle took place on the Kishna, near Tálicót,

which, for the numbers engaged, the fierceness of the conflict, and the

importance of the stake, resembled those of the early Mahometan

invaders. The barbarous spirit of those days seemed also to be renewed

in it; for, on the defeat of the Hindus, their old and brave rája, being

taken prisoner, was put to death in cold blood, and his head was kept

till lately at Bijapúr as a trophy.

This battle destroyed the monarchy of Bijáyanagar, which at that time

comprehended almost all the South of India. But it added little to the

territories of the victors; their mutual jealousies prevented each from

much extending his frontier; and the country fell into the hands of

petty princes, or of those insurgent officers of the old government,

since so well known as zemíndárs or poligars.

The brother of the late rája removed his residence further east, and

finally settled at Chandragiri, about seventy miles north-west of

Madras, at which last place his descendant first granted a settlement to

the English.--_Elphinstone_.

The setting sun sank slowly in the west,

The village labourer from the threshing-floor

Hied home full laden with the gathered corn,

When soon there came, as from a cage just freed,

Two lovely doves intent to peck the grain

That scattered lay upon the vacant field.

Between these birds, by instinct closely linked,

Attachment fond had grown. It seemed, indeed,

That God for speech denied to them had given

Sense exquisite to know each other's ways.

Not all the speech of favoured man in truth

Could meaning make more clear or deeply felt

Than one soft motion of the slender frame,

One gentle murmur from the tiny throat.

The wife more bold, yet pausing oft to scan

Her lord, adventurous strayed with timid steps,

Unconscious all of aught to mar their joys.

Just then with steady poise on outstretched wing

A hungry falcon hovered over her,

Resolved with one fell swoop to seize his prey,

His talons bury in her tender flesh,

Lift her away to some sequestered spot,

There drink her blood in leisure undisturbed,

And break her bones and her torn flesh devour.

At early morn upon that selfsame day

A huntsman sallied forth in search of food,

And, wandering luckless all day long, at last

Did chance upon this bird. Behind a bush

He quickly crept, and straightway strung his bow.

A gladsome vision suddenly appeared--

He saw his wife and children in their home

Enjoy the dove's well spiced and roasted flesh.

But lo! a gentle flutter of the leaves

By eagerness unconscious caused, to her

Revealed the huntsman take his deadly aim.

With head uplifted and with wings outstretched

She flight essayed, but saw the falcon near.

Thus scared and terror-struck she lay resigned

To fall by deadly arrow pierced, and give

Her lifeless form to feed the hungry bird.

The keen-eyed huntsman saw that lifted head

And open wings meant flight and sure escape.

He therefore quickly aimed his arrow high,

Which flying pierced the falcon nearing down.

That selfsame moment when the arrow flew,

When all his thoughts were centred on the bird,

The huntsman pressed his foot upon a snake

That in the bush lay coiled. Writhing with pain,

The snake poured deadly poison from its fangs.

The huntsman and the falcon both fell dead

Before the helpless dove; and foes that came

To work her woe had worked each other woe.

The loving pair together flew away,

Their life of joy and freedom to renew.