This music is the music snakes love best;
Taste the warm white new milk, and play
Standing erect, with fangs at rest,
Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest,
Fierce fangs at rest.
Ah, wise Lord Nâg! thou comest!--Fear thou not!
We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King,
Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot;
Dance, Master! while we softly sing;
Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing,
We play and sing.
Dance, dreadful King! whose kisses strike men dead;
Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here!
[_They seize the Cobra by the neck_.]
Ah, _shabash_! pin his angry head!
Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear;
Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear,
It costs thee dear!
_SONG OF THE FLOUR-MILL._
Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga!
Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
The cakes soonest win:
Good stones, turn!
The fire begins to burn;
Gunga, stay not!
The hearth is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver;
Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
It will feed us anon.
Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone,
It helps the wheel hum;
Blithesome hearts and willing elbows
Make the fine meal come:
Handsful three
For you and for me;
Now it falls white,
Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
Than idleness and none.
_TAZA BA TAZA_
Akbar sate high in the ivory hall,
His chief musician he bade them call;
Sing, said the king, that song of glee.
_Taza ba taza, now ba now._
Sing me that music sweet and free,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_;
Here by the fountain sing it thou,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now._
Bending full low, his minstrel took
The Vina down from its painted nook.
Swept the strings of silver so
_Taza ba taza, now ba now;_
Made the gladsome Vina go
_Taza ba taza, now ba now;_
Sang with light strains and brightsome brow
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_.
"What is the lay for love most fit?
What is the melody echoes it?
Ever in tune and ever meet,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now;_
Ever delightful and ever sweet
_Taza ba taza, now ba now;_
Soft as the murmur of love's first vow,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_."
"What is the bliss that is best on earth?
Lovers' light whispers and tender mirth;
Bright gleams the sun on the Green Sea's isle,
But a brighter light has a woman's smile:
Ever, like sunrise, fresh of hue,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_;
Ever, like sunset, splendid and new,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_."
"Thereunto groweth the graceful vine
To cool the lips of lovers with wine,
Haste thee and bring the amethyst cup,
That happy lovers may drink it up;
And so renew their gentle play,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_;
Ever delicious and new alway,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_."
"Thereunto sigheth the evening gale
To freshen the cheeks which love made pale;
This is why bloometh the scented flower,
To gladden with grace love's secret bower:
Love is the zephyr that always blows,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_;
Love is the rose-bloom that ever glows,
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_."
Akbar, the mighty one, smiled to hear
The musical strain so soft and clear;
Danced the diamonds over his brow
To _taza ba taza, now ba now_:
His lovely ladies rocked in a row
To _taza ba taza, now ba now_;
Livelier sparkled the fountain's flow,
_Boose sittan ba kaum uzo_;
Swifter and sweeter the strings did go,
_Mutrib i khoosh nuwa bejo_;
Never such singing was heard, I trow;
_Taza ba taza, now ba now_.
_THE MUSSULMAN PARADISE_.
(_From the Arabic of the Fifty-sixth Súrat of the Koran, entitled "The
Inevitable._")
When the Day of Wrath and Mercy cometh, none shall doubt it come;
Unto hell some it shall lower, and exalt to heaven some.
When the Earth with great shocks shaketh, and the mountains crumble
flat,
Quick and Dead shall be divided fourfold:--on this side and that.
The "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah! how joyful they will be!)
The "Companions of the Left Hand" (oh! what misery to see!)
Such, moreover, as of old times loved the truth, and taught it well,
First in faith, they shall be foremost in reward. The rest to hell.
But those souls attaining Allah, oh! the Gardens of good cheer
Kept to bless them! Yea, besides the "faithful," many shall be there.
Lightly lying on soft couches, beautiful with 'broidered gold,
Friends with friends, they shall be served by youths immortal, who
shall hold.
"_Akwâb, abareek_"--cups and goblets, brimming with celestial wine,
Wine that hurts not head or stomach: this and fruits of heav'n which
shine.
Bright, desirable; and rich flesh of what birds they relish best.
Yea! and--feasted--there shall soothe them damsels fairest, stateliest;
Damsels, having eyes of wonder, large black eyes, like hidden pearls,
"_Lulu-l-maknûn_": Allah grants them for sweet love those matchless
girls.
Never in that Garden hear they speech of folly, sin, or dread,
Only PEACE; "_SALAMUN_" only; that one word for ever said.
PEACE! PEACE! PEACE!--and the "Companions of the Right Hand" (ah!
those bowers!)
They shall lodge 'mid thornless lote-groves; under mawz-trees thick
with flowers;
Shaded, fed, by flowing waters; near to fruits that never cloy,
Hanging ever ripe for plucking; and at hand the tender joy,
Of those Maids of Heaven--the Hûris. Lo! to these we gave a birth
Specially creating. Lo! they are not as the wives of earth.
Ever virginal and stainless, howsooften they embrace,
Always young, and loved, and loving, these are. Neither is there grace,
Like the grace and bliss the Black-eyed keep for you in Paradise;
Oh, "Companions of the Right Hand"! oh! ye others who were wise!
_DEDICATION OF A POEM FROM THE SANSKRIT_.
Sweet, on the daisies of your English grave
I lay this little wreath of Indian flowers,
Fragrant for me because the scent they have
Breathes of the memory of our wedded hours;
For others scentless; and for you, in heaven,
Too pale and faded, dear dead wife! to wear,
Save that they mean--what makes all fault forgiven--
That he who brings them lays his heart, too, there.
_April_ 9, 1865.
_THE RAJAH'S RIDE_.
A PUNJAB SONG.
Now is the Devil-horse come to Sindh!
Wah! wah! gooroo!--that is true!
His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind,
But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!
It's forty koss from Lahore to the ford,
Forty and more to far Jummoo;
Fast may go the Feringhee lord,
But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!
Runjeet Dehu was King of the Hill,
Lord and eagle of every crest;
Now the swords and the spears are still,
God will have it--and God knows best!
Rajah Runjeet sate in the sky,
Watching the loaded Kafilas in;
Affghan, Kashmeree, passing by,
Paid him pushm to save their skin,
Once he caracoled into the plain,
Wah! the sparkle of steel on steel!
And up the pass came singing again
With a lakh of silver borne at his heel.
Once he trusted the Mussulman's word,
Wah! wah! trust a liar to lie!
Down from his eyrie they tempted my Bird,
And clipped his wings that he could not fly.
Fettered him fast in far Lahore,
Fast by the gate at the Runchenee Pûl;
Sad was the soul of Chunda Kour,
Glad the merchants of rich Kurnool.
Ten months Runjeet lay in Lahore--
Wah! a hero's heart is brass!
Ten months never did Chunda Kour
Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.
There came a steed from Toorkistan,
Wah! God made him to match the hawk!
Fast beside him the four grooms ran,
To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.
Black as the bear on Iskardoo;
Savage at heart as a tiger chained;
Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,
Never a Muslim could ride him reined.
"Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold"--
Wah! ten months had rusted his chain!
"Ride this Sheitan's liver cold"--
Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane.
Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back,
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.
Three times round the Maidan he rode,
Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall,
Struck the spurs till they spirted blood,
Leapt the rampart before them all!
Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee,
Forty horsemen mounting behind,
Forty bridle-chains flung free,--
Wah! wah! better chase the wind!
Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:--
Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?
"Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu--
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!
"Forty koss he has come, my life!
Forty koss back he must carry me;
Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,
He steals no steed like an Afreedee.
"They bade me teach them how to ride--
Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!"
Chunda Kour sank low at his side!
Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.
When he came back to far Lahore--
Long or ever the night began--
Spake he, "Take your horse once more,
He carries well--when he bears a man."
Then they gave him a khillut and gold,
All for his honour and grace and truth;
Sent him back to his mountain-hold--
Muslim manners have touch of ruth;
Sent him back, with dances and drum--
Wah! my Rajah Runjeet Dehu!
To Chunda Kour and his Jummoo home--
Wah! wah! futteh!--wah, gooroo!
_TWO BOOKS FROM THE ILIAD OF INDIA._
_TWO BOOKS FROM THE ILIAD OF INDIA._
(_Now for the first time translated_.)
There exist certain colossal, unparalleled, epic poems in the sacred
language of India, which were not known to Europe, even by name, till Sir
William Jones announced their existence; and which, since his time, have
been made public only by fragments--by mere specimens--bearing to those
vast treasures of Sanskrit literature such small proportion as cabinet
samples of ore have to the riches of a mine. Yet these twain mighty poems
contain all the history of ancient India, so far as it can be recovered,
together with such inexhaustible details of its political, social, and
religious life that the antique Hindu world really stands epitomised in
them. The Old Testament is not more interwoven with the Jewish race, nor
the New Testament with the civilisation of Christendom, nor the Koran with
the records and destinies of Islam, than are these two Sanskrit poems--the
Mahábhárata and Rámáyana--with that unchanging and teeming population which
Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, rules as Empress of Hindustan. The stories,
songs, and ballads, the histories and genealogies, the nursery tales and
religious discourses, the art, the learning, the philosophy, the creeds,
the moralities, the modes of thought; the very phrases, sayings, turns of
expression, and daily ideas of the Hindu people, are taken from these
poems. Their children and their wives are named out of them; so are their
cities, temples, streets, and cattle. They have constituted the library,
the newspaper, and the Bible--generation after generation--to all the
succeeding and countless millions of Indian people; and it replaces
patriotism with that race and stands in stead of nationality to possess
these two precious and inexhaustible books, and to drink from them as from
mighty and overflowing rivers. The value ascribed in Hindustan to these yet
little-known epics has transcended all literary standards established in
the West. They are personified, worshipped, and cited from as something
divine. To read or even listen to them is thought by the devout Hindu
sufficiently meritorious to bring prosperity to his household here and
happiness in the next world; they are held also to give wealth to the poor,
health to the sick, wisdom to the ignorant; and the recitation of certain
_parvas_ and _shlokas_ in them can fill the household of the barren, it is
believed, with children. A concluding passage of the great poem says:--
"The reading of this Mahábhárata destroys all sin and
produces virtue; so much so, that the pronunciation of a
single shloka is sufficient to wipe away much guilt. This
Mahábhárata contains the history of the gods, of the Rishis
in heaven and those on earth, of the Gandharvas and the
Rákshasas. It also contains the life and actions of the one
God, holy, immutable, and true,--who is Krishna, who is the
creator and the ruler of this universe; who is seeking the
welfare of his creation by means of his incomparable and
indestructible power; whose actions are celebrated by all
sages; who has bound human beings in a chain, of which one
end is life and the other death; on whom the Rishis
meditate, and a knowledge of whom imparts unalloyed
happiness to their hearts, and for whose gratification and
favour all the daily devotions are performed by all
worshippers. If a man reads the Mahábhárata and has faith in
its doctrines, he is free from all sin, and ascends to
heaven after his death."
In order to explain the portion of this Indian epic, here for the
first time published in English verse, I reprint a brief summary of
its plot:--
The "great war of Bhârat" has its first scenes in Hastinapur, an
ancient and vanished city, formerly situated about sixty miles
north-east of the modern Delhi. The Ganges has washed away even the
ruins of this the metropolis of King Bhârat's dominions. The poem
opens with a "sacrifice of snakes," but this is a prelude, connected
merely by a curious legend with the real beginning. That beginning is
reached when the five sons of "King Pandu the Pale" and the five sons
of "King Dhritarashtra the Blind," both of them descendants of Bhârat,
are being brought up together in the palace. The first were called
Pandavas, the last Kauravas, and their lifelong feud is the main
subject of the epic. Yudhishthira, Bhíma, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva
are the Pandava princes. Duryodhana is chief of the Kauravas. They
are instructed by one master, Drona, a Brahman, in the arts of war and
peace, and learn to manage and brand cattle, hunt wild animals, and
tame horses. There is in the early portion a striking picture of an
Aryan tournament, wherein the young cousins display their skill,
"highly arrayed, amid vast crowds," and Arjuna especially
distinguishes himself. Clad in golden mail, he shows amazing feats
with sword and bow. He shoots twenty-one arrows into the hollow of a
buffalo-horn while his chariot whirls along; he throws the "chakra,"
or sharp quoit, without once missing his victim; and, after winning
the prizes, kneels respectfully at the feet of his instructor to
receive his crown. The cousins, after this, march out to fight with a
neighbouring king, and the Pandavas, who are always the favoured
family in the poem, win most of the credit, so that Yudhishthira is
elected from among them _Yuvaraj_, or heir apparent. This incenses
Duryodhana, who, by appealing to his father, Dhritarashtra, procures a
division of the kingdom, the Pandavas being sent to Vacanavat, now
Allahabad. All this part of the story refers obviously to the advances
gradually made by the Aryan conquerors of India into the jungles
peopled by aborigines. Forced to quit their new city, the Pandavas
hear of the marvellous beauty of Draupadí, whose _Swayamvara_, or
"choice of a suitor," is about to be celebrated at Kâmpilya. This
again furnishes a strange and glittering picture of the old times;
vast masses of holiday people, with rajahs, elephants, troops,
jugglers, dancing-women, and showmen, are gathered in a gay encampment
round the pavilion of the King Draupada, whose lovely daughter is to
take for her husband (on the well-understood condition that she
approves of him) the fortunate archer who can strike the eye of a
golden fish, whirling round upon the top of a tall pole, with an arrow
shot from an enormously strong bow. The princess, adorned with radiant
gems, holds a garland of flowers in her hand for the victorious
suitor; but none of the rajahs can bend the bow. Arjuna, disguised as
a Brahman, performs the feat with ease, and his youth and grace win
the heart of Draupadí more completely than his skill. The princess
henceforth follows the fortunes of the brothers, and, by a strange
ancient custom, lives with them in common. The Pandavas, now allied to
the King Draupada and become strong, are so much dreaded by the
Kauravas that they are invited back again, for safety's sake, to
Hastinapura, and settle near it in the city of Indraprastha, now
Delhi. The reign of Yudhishthira and his brothers is very prosperous
there; "every subject was pious; there were no liars, thieves, or
cheats; no droughts, floods, or locusts; no conflagrations nor
invaders, nor parrots to eat up the grain."
The Pandava king, having subdued all enemies, now performs the
_Rajasuya_, or ceremony of supremacy,--and here again occur
wonderfully interesting pictures. Duryodhana comes thither, and his
jealousy is inflamed by the magnificence of the rite. Among other
curious incidents is one which seems to show that glass was already
known. A pavilion is paved with "black crystal," which the Kaurava
prince mistakes for water, and "draws up his garments lest he should
be wetted." But now approaches a turning-point in the epic. Furious at
the wealth and fortune of his cousins, Duryodhana invites them to
Hastinapura to join in a great gambling festival. The passion for play
was as strong apparently with these antique Hindus as that for
fighting or for love: "No true Kshatriya must ever decline a challenge
to combat or to dice." The brothers go to the entertainment, which is
to ruin their prosperity; for Sakuni, the most skilful and lucky
gambler, has loaded the "coupun," so as to win every throw. Mr.
Wheeler's excellent summary again says:--
"Then Yudhishthira and Sakuni sat down to play, and whatever
Yudhishthira laid as stakes Duryodhana laid something of
equal value; but Yudhishthira lost every game. He first lost
a very beautiful pearl; next a thousand bags each containing
a thousand pieces of gold; next a great piece of gold so
pure that it was as soft as wax; next a chariot set with
jewels and hung all round with golden bells; next a thousand
war-elephants with golden howdahs set with diamonds; next a
lakh of slaves all dressed in rich garments; next a lakh of
beautiful slave-girls, adorned from head to foot with golden
ornaments; next all the remainder of his goods; next all his
cattle; and then the whole of his Râj, excepting only the
lands which had been granted to the Brahmans."
After this tremendous run of ill-luck, he madly stakes Draupadí the
Beautiful, and loses her. The princess is dragged away by the hair,
and Duryodhana mockingly bids her come and sit upon his knee, for
which Bhíma the Pandava swears that he will some day break his
thigh-bone,--a vow which is duly kept. But the blind old king rebukes
this fierce elation of the winner, restores Draupadí, and declares
that they must throw another main to decide who shall leave
Hastinapura. The cheating Sakuni cogs the dice again, and the Pandavas
must now go away into the forest, and let no man know them by name for
thirteen years. They depart, Draupadí unbinding her long black hair,
and vowing never to fasten it back again till the hands of Bhíma, the
strong man among the Pandavas, are red with the punishment of the
Kauravas. "Then he shall tie my tresses up again, when his fingers are
dripping with Duhsasana's blood."
There follow long episodes of their adventures in the jungle till the
time when the Pandavas emerge, and, still disguised, take up their
residence in King Viráta's city. Here the vicissitudes of Draupadí as
a handmaid of the queen, of Bhíma as the palace wrestler, of Arjuna
disguised as a eunuch, and of Nakula, Sahadeva, and Yudhishthira,
acting as herdsmen and attendants, are most absorbing and dramatic.
The virtue of Draupadí, assailed by a prince of the State, is terribly
defended by the giant Bhíma; and when the Kauravas, suspecting the
presence in the place of their cousins, attack Viráta, Arjuna drives
the chariot of the heir apparent, and victoriously repulses them with
his awful bow Gandiva.
After all these evidences of prowess and the help afforded in the
battle, the King of Viráta discovers the princely rank of the
Pandavas, and gives his daughter in marriage to the son of Arjuna. A
great council is then held to consider the question of declaring war
on the Kauravas, at which the speeches are quite Homeric, the god
Krishna taking part. The decision is to prepare for war, but to send
an embassy first. Meantime Duryodhana and Arjuna engage in a singular
contest to obtain the aid of Krishna, whom both of them seek out. This
celestial hero is asleep when they arrive, and the proud Kaurava, as
Lord of Indraprastha, sits down at his head; Arjuna, more reverently,
takes a place at his feet. Krishna, awaking, offers to give his vast
army to one of them, and himself as counsellor to the other; and
Arjuna gladly allows Duryodhana to take the army, which turns out much
the worse bargain. The embassy, meantime, is badly received; but it is
determined to reply by a counter-message, while warlike preparations
continue. There is a great deal of useless negotiation, against which
Draupadí protests, like another Constance, saying, "War, war! no
peace! Peace is to me a war!" Krishna consoles her with the words,
"Weep not! the time has nearly come when the Kauravas will be slain,
both great and small, and their wives will mourn as you have been
mourning." The ferocity of the chief of the Kauravas prevails over the
wise counsels of the blind old king and the warnings of Krishna, so
that the fatal conflict must now begin upon the plain of Kurukshetra.
All is henceforth martial and stormy in the "parvas" that ensue. The
two enormous hosts march to the field, generalissimos are selected,
and defiances of the most violent and abusive sort exchanged. Yet
there are traces of a singular civilisation in the rules which the
leaders draw up to be observed in the war. Thus, no stratagems are to
be used; the fighting men are to fraternise, if they will, after each
combat; none may slay the flier, the unarmed, the charioteer, or the
beater of the drum; horsemen are not to attack footmen, and nobody is
to fling a spear till the preliminary challenges are finished; nor may
any third man interfere when two combatants are engaged. These curious
regulations--which would certainly much embarrass Von Moltke--are,
sooth to say, not very strictly observed, and, no doubt, were inserted
at a later age in the body of the poem by its Brahman editors. Those
same interpolaters have overloaded the account of the eighteen days of
terrific battle which follow with many episodes and interruptions,
some very eloquent and philosophic; indeed, the whole _Bhagavad-Gîta_
comes in hereabouts as a religious interlude. Essays on laws, morals,
and the sciences are grafted, with lavish indifference to the
continuous flow of the narrative, upon its most important portions;
but there is enough of solid and tremendous fighting, notwithstanding,
to pale the crimson pages of the Greek Iliad itself. The field
glitters, indeed, with kings and princes in panoply of gold and
jewels, who engage in mighty and varied combats, till the earth swims
in blood, and the heavens themselves are obscured with dust and flying
weapons. One by one the Kaurava chiefs are slain, and Bhíma, the
giant, at last meets in arms Duhsasana, the Kaurava prince who had
dragged Draupadí by the hair. He strikes him down with the terrible
mace of iron, after which he cuts off his head, and drinks of his
blood, saying, "Never have I tasted a draught so delicious as this."
So furious now becomes the war that even the just and mild Arjuna
commits two breaches of Aryan chivalry,--killing an enemy while
engaged with a third man, and shooting Karna dead while he is
extricating his chariot-wheel and without a weapon. At last none are
left of the chief Kauravas except Duryodhana, who retires from the
field and hides in an island of the lake. The Pandavas find him out,
and heap such reproaches on him that the surly warrior comes forth at
length, and agrees to fight with Bhíma. The duel proves of a
tremendous nature, and is decided by an act of treachery; for Arjuna,
standing by, reminds Bhíma, by a gesture, of his oath to break the
thigh of Duryodhana, because he had bidden Draupadí sit on his knee.
The giant takes the hint, and strikes a foul blow, which cripples the
Kaurava hero, and he falls helpless to earth. After this the Pandava
princes are declared victorious, and Yudhishthira is proclaimed king.