Part 8 (2/2)

Deeper and deeper grew the shades, Stars glimmered in the sky, The nightingale along the glades Raised her preluding cry.

What is that momentary flash?

A gleam of silver scales Reveals the _Mahseer_;--then a splash, And calm again prevails.

As darkness settled like a pall The eye would pierce in vain, The fireflies gemmed the bushes all, Like fiery drops of rain.

Pleased with the scene,--and knowing not Which way, alas! to go, The monarch lingered on the spot,-- The lake spread bright below.

He lingered, when--oh hark! oh hark What sound salutes his ear!

A roebuck drinking in the dark, Not hunted, nor in fear.

Straight to the stretch his bow he drew, That bow ne'er missed its aim, Whizzing the deadly arrow flew, Ear-guided, on the game!

Ah me! What means this?--Hark, a cry, A feeble human wail, ”Oh G.o.d!” it said--”I die,--I die, Who'll carry home the pail?”

Startled, the monarch forward ran, And then there met his view A sight to freeze in any man The warm blood coursing true.

A child lay dying on the gra.s.s, A pitcher by his side, Poor Sindhu was the child, alas!

His parents' stay and pride.

His bow and quiver down to fling, And lift the wounded boy, A moment's work was with the king.

Not dead,--that was a joy!

He placed the child's head on his lap, And ranged the blinding hair, The blood welled fearful from the gap On neck and bosom fair.

He dashed cold water on the face, He chafed the hands, with sighs, Till sense revived, and he could trace Expression in the eyes.

Then mingled with his pity, fear-- In all this universe What is so dreadful as to hear A Bramin's dying curse!

So thought the king, and on his brow The beads of anguish spread, And Sindhu, fully conscious now, The anguish plainly read.

”What dost thou fear, O mighty king?

For sure a king thou art!

Why should thy bosom anguish wring?

No crime was in thine heart!

”Unwittingly the deed was done; It is my destiny, O fear not thou, but pity one Whose fate is thus to die.

”No curses, no!--I bear no grudge, Not thou my blood hast spilt, Lo! here before the unseen Judge, Thee I absolve from guilt.

”The iron, red-hot as it burns, Burns those that touch it too, Not such my nature,--for it spurns, Thank G.o.d, the like to do.

”Because I suffer, should I give Thee, king, a needless pain?

Ah, no! I die, but mayst thou live, And cleansed from every stain!”

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