# Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan/Savitri

ANCIENT BALLADS OF HINDUSTAN.
I.
Savitri.
Savitri was the only child Of Madra's wise and mighty king; Stern warriors, when they saw her, smiled, As mountains smile to see the spring. Fair as a lotus when the moon Kisses its opening petals red, After sweet showers in sultry June! With happier heart, and lighter tread, Chance strangers, having met her, past, And often would they turn the head A lingering second look to cast, And bless the vision ere it fled. ​What was her own peculiar charm? The soft black eyes, the raven hair, The curving neck, the rounded arm, All these are common everywhere. Her charm was this—upon her face Childlike and innocent and fair, No man with thought impure or base Could ever look;—the glory there, The sweet simplicity and grace, Abashed the boldest; but the good God's purity there loved to trace, Mirrored in dawning womanhood.
In those far-off primeval days Fair India's daughters were not pent In closed zenanas. On her ways Savitri at her pleasure went Whither she chose,—and hour by hour With young companions of her age. She roamed the woods for fruit or flower. Or loitered in some hermitage. For to the Munis gray and old Her presence was as sunshine glad, They taught her wonders manifold And gave her of the best they had. ​Her father let her have her way In all things, whether high or low; He feared no harm; he knew no ill Could touch a nature pure as snow. Long childless, as a priceless boon He had obtained this child at last By prayers, made morning, night, and noon With many a vigil, many a fast; Would Shiva his own gift recall, Or mar its perfect beauty ever?— No, he had faith,—he gave her all She wished, and feared and doubted never.
And so she wandered where she pleased In boyish freedom. Happy time! No small vexations ever teased, Nor crushing sorrows dimmed her prime. One care alone, her father felt — Where should he find a fitting mate For one so pure?—His thoughts long dwelt On this as with his queen he sate. "Ah, whom, dear wife, should we select?" "Leave it to God," she answering cried, "Savitri, may herself elect Some day, her future lord and guide." ​Months passed, and lo, one summer morn As to the hermitage she went Through smiling fields of waving corn, She saw some youths on sport intent, Sons of the hermits, and their peers, And one among them tall and lithe, Royal in port,—on whom the years Consenting, shed a grace so blithe, So frank and noble, that the eye Was loth to quit that sun-browned face; She looked and looked,—then gave a sigh, And slackened suddenly her pace.
What was the meaning—was it love? Love at first sight, as poets sing, Is then no fiction? Heaven above Is witness, that the heart its king Finds often like a lightning flash; We play,—we jest,—we have no care,— When hark a step,—there comes no crash,— But life, or silent slow despair. Their eyes just met,—Savitri past Into the friendly Muni's hut. Her heart-rose opened had at last— Opened no flower can ever shut. ​In converse with the gray-haired sage She learnt the story of the youth, His name and place and parentage— Of royal race he was in truth. Satyavan was he hight,—his sire Dyoumatsen had been Salva's king, But old and blind, opponents dire Had gathered round him in a ring And snatched the sceptre from his hand; Now,—with his queen and only son He lived a hermit in the land, And gentler hermit was there none.
With many tears was said and heard The story,—and with praise sincere Of Prince Satyavan; every word Sent up a flush on cheek and ear, Unnoticed. Hark! The bells remind 'Tis time to go,—she went away, Leaving her virgin heart behind, And richer for the loss. A ray Shot down from heaven, appeared to tinge All objects with supernal light, The thatches had a rainbow fringe,
Savitri's first care was to tell Her mother all her feelings new; The queen her own fears to dispel To the king's private chamber flew. "Now what is it, my gentle queen, That makes thee hurry in this wise?" She told him, smiles and tears between All she had heard; the king with sighs Sadly replied:—"I fear me much! Whence is his race and what his creed? Not knowing aught, can we in such A matter delicate, proceed?"
As if the king's doubts to allay, Came Narad Muni to the place A few days after. Old and gray, All loved to see the gossip's face, Great Brahma's son,—adored of men, Long absent, doubly welcome he Unto the monarch, hoping then By his assistance, clear to see. No god in heaven, nor king on earth, But Narad knew his history,— The sun's, the moon's, the planets' birth Was not to him a mystery.
"Now welcome, welcome, dear old friend. All hail, and welcome once again!" The greeting had not reached its end, When glided like a music-strain Savitri's presence through the room.— "And who is this bright creature, say, Whose radiance lights the chamber's gloom— Is she an Apsara or fay?" "No son thy servant hath, alas! This is my one,—my only child;"— "And married?"—"No."—"The seasons pass, Make haste, O king,"—he said, and smiled.
"That is the very theme, O sage, In which thy wisdom ripe I need; Seen hath she at the hermitage A youth to whom in very deed Her heart inclines."—"And who is he?" "My daughter, tell his name and race, Speak as to men who best love thee." She turned to them her modest face, And answered quietly and clear.— "Ah, no! ah, no!—It cannot be— Choose out another husband, dear,"— The Muni cried,—"or woe is me!"
"And why should I? When I have given My heart away, though but in thought, Can I take back? Forbid it, Heaven! It were a deadly sin, I wot. And why should I? I know no crime In him or his."—"Believe me, child, My reasons shall be clear in time, I speak not like a madman wild; Trust me in this."—"I cannot break A plighted faith,—I cannot bear A wounded conscience."—"Oh, forsake This fancy, hence may spring despair."—
"It may not be."—The father heard By turns the speakers, and in doubt Thus interposed a gentle word,— "Friend should to friend his mind speak out, Is he not worthy? tell us."—"Nay, All worthiness is in Satyavan, And no one can my praise gainsay: Of solar race—more god than man! Great Soorasen, his ancestor. And Dyoumatsen his father blind Are known to fame: I can aver No kings have been so good and kind."
"Then where, O Muni, is the bar? If wealth be gone, and kingdom lost, His merit still remains a star, Nor melts his lineage like the frost. For riches, worldly power, or rank I care not,—I would have my son Pure, wise, and brave,—the Fates I thank I see no hindrance, no, not one." "Since thou insistest, King, to hear The fatal truth,—I tell you,—I, Upon this day as rounds the year The young prince Satyavan shall die."
This was enough. The monarch knew The future was no sealed book To Brahma's son. A clammy dew Spread on his brow,—he gently took Savitri's palm in his, and said: "No child can give away her hand, A pledge is nought unsanctionèd; And here, if right I understand, There was no pledge at all,—a thought, A shadow,—barely crossed the mind— Unblamed, it may be clean forgot, Before the gods it cannot bind.
And think upon the dreadful curse Of widowhood; the vigils, fasts, And penances; no life is worse Than hopeless life,—the while it lasts. Day follows day in one long round, Monotonous and blank and drear; Less painful were it to be bound On some bleak rock, for aye to hear— Without one chance of getting free— The ocean's melancholy voice! Mine be the sin,—if sin there be, But thou must make a different choice."
In the meek grace of virginhood Unblanched her cheek, undimmed her eye, Savitri, like a statue, stood, Somewhat austere was her reply. "Once, and once only, all submit To Destiny,—'tis God's command; Once, and once only, so 'tis writ, Shall woman pledge her faith and hand; Once, and once only, can a sire Unto his well-loved daughter say In presence of the witness, Fire, I give thee to this man away.
Once, and once only, have I given My heart and faith—'tis past recall; With conscience none have ever striven, And none may strive, without a fall. Not the less solemn was my vow Because unheard, and oh! the sin Will not be less, if I should now Deny the feeling felt within. Unwedded to my dying day I must, my father dear, remain; 'Tis well, if so thou will'st, but say Can man balk Fate, or break its chain?
If Fate so rules, that I should feel The miseries of a widow's life, Can man's device the doom repeal? Unequal seems to be a strife, Between Humanity and Fate; None have on earth what they desire; Death comes to all or soon or late; And peace is but a wandering fire; Expediency leads wild astray; The Right must be our guiding star; Duty our watchword, come what may; Judge for me, friends,—as wiser far."
She said, and meekly looked to both. The father, though he patient heard, To give the sanction still seemed loth, But Narad Muni took the word. "Bless thee, my child! 'Tis not for us To question the Almighty will, Though cloud on cloud loom ominous, In gentle rain they may distil." At this, the monarch—"Be it so! I sanction what my friend approves; All praise to Him, whom praise we owe; My child shall wed the youth she loves."
Great joy in Madra. Blow the shell The marriage over to declare! And now to forest-shades where dwell The hermits, wend the wedded pair. The doors of every house are hung With gay festoons of leaves and flowers; And blazing banners brood are flung, And trumpets blown from castle towers! Slow the procession makes its ground Along the crowded city street: And blessings in a storm of sound At every step the couple greet.
Past all the houses, past the wall, Past gardens gay, and hedgerows trim, Past fields, where sinuous brooklets small With molten silver to the brim Glance in the sun's expiring light, Past frowning hills, past pastures wild, At last arises on the sight, Foliage on foliage densely piled,
The woods primeval, where reside The holy hermits;—henceforth here Must live the fair and gentle bride: But this thought brought with it no fear.
Fear! With her husband by her still? Or weariness! Where all was new? Hark! What a welcome from the hill! There gathered are a hermits few. Screaming the peacocks upward soar; Wondering the timid wild deer gaze; And from Briarean fig-trees hoar Look down the monkeys in amaze As the procession moves along; And now behold, the bridegroom's sire With joy comes forth amid the throng;— What reverence his looks inspire!
Blind! With his partner by his side! For them it was a hallowed time! Warmly they greet the modest bride With her dark eyes and front sublime! One only grief they feel.—Shall she Who dwelt in palace halls before, Dwell in their huts beneath the tree? Would not their hard life press her sore;—
The manual labour, and the want Of comforts that her rank became, Valkala robes, meals poor and scant, All undermine the fragile frame?
To see the bride, the hermit's wives And daughters gathered to the huts, Women of pure and saintly lives! And there beneath the betel-nuts Tall trees like pillars, they admire Her beauty, and congratulate The parents, that their hearts' desire Had thus accorded been by Fate, And Satyavan their son had found In exile lone, a fitting mate: And gossips add,—good signs abound; Prosperity shall on her wait.
Good signs in features, limbs, and eyes, That old experience can discern, Good signs on earth and in the skies, That it could read at every turn. And now with rice and gold, all bless The bride and bridegroom,—and they go Happy in others' happiness, Each to her home, beneath the glow
Of the late risen moon that lines With silver, all the ghost-like trees, Sals, tamarisks, and South-Sea pines, And palms whose plumes wave in the breeze.
False was the fear, the parents felt, Savitri liked her new life much; Though in a lowly home she dwelt Her conduct as a wife was such As to illumine all the place; She sickened not, nor sighed, nor pined; But with simplicity and grace Discharged each household duty kind. Strong in all manual work,—and strong To comfort, cherish, help, and pray, The hours past peacefully along And rippling bright, day followed day.
At morn Satyavan to the wood Early repaired and gathered flowers And fruits, in its wild solitude, And fuel,—till advancing hours Apprised him that his frugal meal Awaited him. Ah, happy time! Savitri, who with fervid zeal Had said her orisons sublime,
And fed the Bramins and the birds, Now ministered. Arcadian love, With tender smiles and honeyed words, All bliss of earth thou art above!
And yet there was a spectre grim, A skeleton in Savitri's heart, Looming in shadow, somewhat dim, But which would never thence depart. It was that fatal, fatal speech Of Narad Muni. As the days Slipt smoothly past, each after each, In private she more fervent prays. But there is none to share her fears, For how could she communicate The sad cause of her hidden tears? The doom approached, the fatal date.
No help from man. Well, be it so! No sympathy,—it matters not! God can avert the heavy blow! He answers worship. Thus she thought. And so, her prayers, by day and night, Like incense rose unto the throne; Nor did she vow neglect or rite The Veds enjoin or helpful own.
Upon the fourteenth of the moon, As nearer came the time of dread, In Joystee, that is May or June, She vowed her vows and Bramins fed.
And now she counted e'en the hours, As to Eternity they past; O'er head the dark cloud darker lowers, The year is rounding full at last. To-day,—to-day,—with doleful sound The word seem'd in her ear to ring! O breaking heart,—thy pain profound Thy husband knows not, nor the king, Exiled and blind, nor yet the queen; But One knows in His place above. To-day,—to-day,—it will be seen Which shall be victor, Death or Love!
Incessant in her prayers from morn, The noon is safely tided,—then A gleam of faint, faint hope is born, But the heart fluttered like a wren That sees the shadow of the hawk Sail on,—and trembles in affright, Lest a downrushing swoop should mock Its fortune, and o'erwhelm it quite.
The afternoon has come and gone And brought no change;—should she rejoice? The gentle evening's shades come on, When hark!—She hears her husband's voice!
"The twilight is most beautiful! Mother, to gather fruit I go, And fuel,—for the air is cool Expect me in an hour or so." "The night, my child, draws on apace," The mother's voice was heard to say, "The forest paths are hard to trace In darkness,—till the morrow stay." "Not hard for me, who can discern The forest-paths in any hour, Blindfold I could with ease return, And day has not yet lost its power."
"He goes then," thought Savitri, "thus With unseen bands Fate draws us on Unto the place appointed us; We feel no outward force,—anon We go to marriage or to death At a determined time and place; We are her playthings; with her breath She blows us where she lists in space.
What is my duty? It is clear, My husband I must follow; so, While he collects his forest gear Let me permission get to go."
His sire she seeks,—the blind old king, And asks from him permission straight. "My daughter, night with ebon wing Hovers above; the hour is late. My son is active, brave, and strong, Conversant with the woods, he knows Each path; methinks it would be wrong For thee to venture where he goes, Weak and defenceless as thou art, At such a time. If thou wert near Thou might'st embarrass him, dear heart, Alone, he would not have a fear."
So spake the hermit-monarch blind, His wife too, entering in, exprest The self-same thoughts in words as kind, And begged Savitri hard, to rest. "Thy recent fasts and vigils, child, Make thee unfit to undertake This journey to the forest wild." But nothing could her purpose shake.
She urged the nature of her vows, Required her now the rites were done To follow where her loving spouse Might e'en a chance of danger run.
"Go then, my child,—we give thee leave, But with thy husband quick return, Before the flickering shades of eve Deepen to night, and planets burn, And forest-paths become obscure, Lit only by their doubtful rays. The gods, who guard all women pure, Bless thee and kept thee in thy ways. And safely bring thee and thy lord!" On this she left, and swiftly ran Where with his saw in lieu of sword, And basket, plodded Satyavan.
Oh, lovely are the woods at dawn, And lovely in the sultry noon, But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn The twilight and a crescent moon Change all asperities of shape, And tone all colours softly down, With a blue veil of silvered crape! Lo! By that hill which palm-trees crown,
Down the deep glade with perfume rife From buds that to the dews expand, The husband and the faithful wife Pass to dense jungle,—hand in hand.
Satyavan bears beside his saw A forkèd stick to pluck the fruit, His wife, the basket lined with straw; He talks, but she is almost mute, And very pale. The minutes pass; The basket has no further space, Now on the fruits they flowers amass That with their red flush all the place While twilight lingers; then for wood He saws the branches of the trees, The noise, heard in the solitude. Grates on its soft, low harmonies.
And all the while one dreadful thought Haunted Savitri's anxious mind, Which would have fain its stress forgot; It came as chainless as the wind, Oft and again: thus on the spot Marked with his heart-blood oft comes back The murdered man, to see the clot! Death's final blow,—the fatal wrack
Of every hope, whence will it fall? For fall, by Narad's words, it must; Persistent rising to appall This thought its horrid presence thrust.
Sudden the noise is hushed,—a pause! Satyavan lets the weapon drop— Too well Savitri knows the cause, He feels not well, the work must stop. A pain is in his head,—a pain As if he felt the cobra's fangs, He tries to look around,—in vain, A mist before his vision hangs; The trees whirl dizzily around In a fantastic fashion wild; His throat and chest seem iron-bound, He staggers, like a sleepy child.
"My head, my head!—Savitri, dear, This pain is frightful. Let me lie Here on the turf." Her voice was clear And very calm was her reply, As if her heart had banished fear: "Lean, love, thy head upon my breast," And as she helped him, added—"here, So shalt thou better breathe and rest."
"Ah me, this pain,—'tis getting dark, I see no more,—can this be death? What means this, gods?—Savitri, mark, My hands wax cold, and fails my breath."
"It may be but a swoon." "Ah! no— Arrows are piercing through my heart,— Farewell my love! for I must go, This, this is death." He gave one start And then lay quiet on her lap, Insensible to sight and sound, Breathing his last. . . . The branches flap And fireflies glimmer all around; His head upon her breast; his frame Part on her lap, part on the ground, Thus lies he. Hours pass. Still the same, The pair look statues, magic-bound.
Death in his palace holds his court, His messengers move to and fro, Each of his mission makes report, And takes the royal orders,—Lo, Some slow before his throne appear And humbly in the Presence kneel: "Why hath the Prince not been brought here? The hour is past; nor is appeal Allowed against foregone decree; There is the mandate with the seal! How comes it ye return to me Without him? Shame upon your zeal!"
"O King, whom all men fear,—he lies Deep in the dark Medhya wood, We fled from thence in wild surprise, And left him in that solitude. We dared not touch him, for there sits, Beside him, lighting all the place, A woman fair, whose brow permits In its austerity of grace
And purity,—no creatures foul As we seemed, by her loveliness, Or soul of evil, ghost or ghoul, To venture close, and far, far less
To stretch a hand, and bear the dead; We left her leaning on her hand, Thoughtful; no tear-drop had she shed, But looked the goddess of the land, With her meek air of mild command."— "Then on this errand I must go Myself, and bear my dreaded brand, This duty unto Fate I owe; I know the merits of the prince, But merit saves not from the doom Common to man; his death long since Was destined in his beauty's bloom."
As still Savitri sat beside Her husband dying,—dying fast, She saw a stranger slowly glide Beneath the boughs that shrunk aghast. Upon his head he wore a crown That shimmered in the doubtful light; His vestment scarlet reached low down, His waist, a golden girdle dight. His skin was dark as bronze; his face Irradiate, and yet severe; His eyes had much of love and grace, But glowed so bright, they filled with fear.
A string was in the stranger's hand Noosed at its end. Her terrors now Savitri scarcely could command. Upon the sod beneath a bough, She gently laid her husband's head, And in obeisance bent her brow. "No mortal form is thine,"—she said, "Beseech thee say what god art thou?
And what can be thine errand here?" "Savitri, for thy prayers, thy faith, Thy frequent vows, thy fasts severe, I answer,—list,—my name is Death.
And I am come myself to take Thy husband from this earth away, And he shall cross the doleful lake In my own charge, and let me say To few such honours I accord, But his pure life and thine require No less from me." The dreadful sword Like lightning glanced one moment dire; And then the inner man was tied, The soul no bigger than the thumb, To be borne onwards by his side:— Savitri all the while stood dumb.
But when the god moved slowly on To gain his own dominions dim, Leaving the body there—anon Savitri meekly followed him, Hoping against all hope; he turned And looked surprised. "Go back, my child!" Pale, pale the stars above them burned, More weird the scene had grown and wild;
"It is not for the living—hear! To follow where the dead must go, Thy duty lies before thee clear, What thou shouldst do, the Shasters show.
The funeral rites that they ordain And sacrifices must take up Thy first sad moments; not in vain Is held to thee this bitter cup; Its lessons thou shalt learn in time! All that thou canst do, thou hast done For thy dear lord. Thy love sublime My deepest sympathy hath won. Return, for thou hast come as far As living creature may. Adieu! Let duty be thy guiding star, As ever. To thyself be true!"
"Where'er my husband dear is led, Or journeys of his own free will, I too must go, though darkness spread Across my path, portending ill, 'Tis thus my duty I have read! If I am wrong, oh! with me bear; But do not bid me backward tread My way forlorn,—for I can dare
All things but that; ah! pity me, A woman frail, too sorely tried! And let me, let me follow thee, O gracious god,—whate'er betide.
By all things sacred, I entreat, By Penitence that purifies, By prompt Obedience, full, complete, To spiritual masters, in the eyes Of gods so precious, by the love I bear my husband, by the faith That looks from earth to heaven above, And by thy own great name O Death, And all thy kindness, bid me not To leave thee, and to go my way, But let me follow as I ought Thy steps and his, as best I may.
I know that in this transient world All is delusion,—nothing true; I know its shows are mists unfurled To please and vanish. To renew Its bubble joys, be magic bound In Maya's network frail and fair, Is not my aim! The gladsome sound Of husband, brother, friend, is air
To such as know that all most die, And that at last the time must come, When eye shall speak no more to eye And Love cry,—Lo, this is my sum.
I know in such a world as this No one can gain his heart's desire, Or pass the years in perfect bliss; Like gold we must be tried by fire; And each shall suffer as he acts And thinks,—his own sad burden bear; No friends can help,—his sins are facts That nothing can annul or square, And he must bear their consequence. Can I my husband save by rites? Ah, no,—that were a vain pretence, Justice eternal strict requites.
He for his deeds shall get his due As I for mine: thus here each soul Is its own friend if it pursue The right, and run straight for the goal; But its own worst and direst foe If it choose evil, and in tracks Forbidden, for its pleasure go. Who knows not this, true wisdom lacks,
Virtue should be the aim and end Of every life, all else is vain, Duty should be its dearest friend If higher life, it would attain."
"So sweet thy words ring on mine ear, Gentle Savitri, that I fain Would give some sign to make it clear Thou hast not prayed to me in vain. Satyavan's life I may not grant, Nor take before its term thy life, But I am not all adamant, I feel for thee, thou faithful wife! Ask thou aught else, and let it be Some good thing for thyself or thine, And I shall give it, child, to thee, If any power on earth be mine."
"Well be it so. My husband's sire, Hath lost his sight and fair domain, Give to his eyes their former fire, And place him on his throne again." "It shall be done. Go back, my child, The hour wears late, the wind feels cold, The path becomes more weird and wild, Thy feet are torn, there's blood, behold!
Thou feelest faint from weariness, Oh try to follow me no more; Go home, and with thy presence bless Those who thine absence there deplore."
"No weariness, O Death, I feel, And how should I, when by the side Of Satyavan? In woe and weal To be a helpmate swears the bride. This is my place; by solemn oath Wherever thou conductest him I too must go, to keep my troth; And if the eye at times should brim, 'Tis human weakness, give me strength My work appointed to fulfil, That I may gain the crown at length The gods give those who do their will.
The power of goodness is so great We pray to feel its influence For ever on us. It is late, And the strange landscape awes my sense; But I would fain with thee go on, And hear thy voice so true and kind; The false lights that on objects shone Have vanished, and no longer blind,
Thanks to thy simple presence. Now I feel a fresher air around, And see the glory of that brow With flashing rubies fitly crowned.
Men call thee Yama—conqueror, Because it is against their will They follow thee,—and they abhor The Truth which thou wouldst aye instil. If they thy nature knew aright, O god, all other gods above! And that thou conquerest in the fight By patience, kindness, mercy, love, And not by devastating wrath, They would not shrink in childlike fright To see thy shadow on their path, But hail thee as sick souls the light."
"Thy words, Savitri, greet mine ear As sweet as founts that murmur low To one who in the deserts drear With parchèd tongue moves faint and slow, Because thy talk is heart-sincere, Without hypocrisy or guile; Demand another boon, my dear, But not of those forbad erewhile,
And I shall grant it, ere we part: Lo, the stars pale,—the way is long, Receive thy boon, and homewards start, For ah, poor child, thou art not strong."
"Another boon! My sire the king Beside myself hath children none, Oh grant that from his stock may spring A hundred boughs." "It shall be done. He shall be blest with many a son Who his old palace shall rejoice." "Each heart-wish from thy goodness won, If I am still allowed a choice, I fain thy voice would ever hear, Reluctant am I still to part, The way seems short when thou art near And Satyavan, my heart's dear heart.
Of all the pleasures given on earth The company of the good is best, For weariness has never birth In such a commerce sweet and blest; The sun runs on its wonted course, The earth its plenteous treasure yields, All for their sake, and by the force Their prayer united ever wields.
Oh let me, let me ever dwell Amidst the good, where'er it be, Whether in lowly hermit-cell Or in some spot beyond the sea.
The favours man accords to men Are never fruitless, from them rise A thousand acts beyond our ken That float like incense to the skies; For benefits can ne'er efface, They multiply and widely spread, And honour follows on their trace. Sharp penances, and vigils dread, Austerities, and wasting fasts, Create an empire, and the blest Long as this spiritual empire lasts Become the saviours of the rest."
"O thou endowed with every grace And every virtue,—thou whose soul Appears upon thy lovely face, May the great gods who all control Send thee their peace. I too would give One favour more before I go; Ask something for thyself, and live Happy, and dear to all below,
Till summoned to the bliss above. Savitri ask, and ask unblamed."— She took the clue, felt Death was Love, For no exceptions now he named,
And boldly said,—"Thou knowest, Lord, The inmost hearts and thoughts of all! There is no need to utter word, Upon thy mercy sole, I call. If speech be needful to obtain Thy grace,—oh hear a wife forlorn, Let my Satyavan live again And children unto us be born, Wise, brave, and valiant." "From thy stock A hundred families shall spring As lasting as the solid rock, Each son of thine shall be a king."
As thus he spoke, he loosed the knot The soul of Satyavan that bound, And promised further that their lot In pleasant places should be found Thenceforth, and that they both should live Four centuries, to which the name Of fair Savitri, men would give,— And then he vanished in a flame.
"Adieu, great god!" She took the soul, No bigger than the human thumb, And running swift, soon reached her goal, Where lay the body stark and dumb.
She lifted it with eager hands And as before, when he expired, She placed the head upon the bands That bound her breast which hope new fired, And which alternate rose and fell; Then placed his soul upon his heart Whence like a bee it found its cell, And lo, he woke with sudden start! His breath came low at first, then deep, With an unquiet look he gazed, As one awaking from a sleep Wholly bewildered and amazed.
As consciousness came slowly back He recognised his loving wife— "Who was it, Love, through regions black Where hardly seemed a sign of life Carried me bound? Methinks I view The dark face yet—a noble face, He had a robe of scarlet hue, And ruby crown; far, far through space He bore me, on and on, but now,"— "Thou hast been sleeping, but the man With glory on his kingly brow, Is gone, thou seest, Satyavan!
O my belovèd,—thou art free! Sleep which had bound thee fast, hath left Thine eyelids. Try thyself to be! For late of every sense bereft Thou seemedst in a rigid trance; And if thou canst my love, arise, Regard the night, the dark expanse Spread out before us, and the skies."
Supported by her, looked he long Upon the landscape dim outspread, And like some old remembered song The past came back,—a tangled thread.
"I had a pain, as if an asp Gnawed in my brain, and there I lay Silent, for oh! I could but gasp, Till some one came that bore away My spirit into lands unknown: Thou, dear, who watchedst beside me,—say Was it a dream from elfland blown, Or very truth,—my doubts to stay." "O Love, look round,—how strange and dread The shadows of the high trees fall, Homeward our path now let us tread, To-morrow I shall tell thee all.
Arise! Be strong! Gird up thy loins! Think of our parents, dearest friend! The solemn darkness haste enjoins, Not likely is it soon to end. Hark! Jackals still at distance howl, The day, long, long will not appear, Lo, wild fierce eyes through bushes scowl, Summon thy courage, lest I fear.
Was that the tiger's sullen growl? What means this rush of many feet? Can creatures wild so near us prowl? Rise up, and hasten homewards, sweet!"
He rose, but could not find the track, And then, too well, Savitri knew His wonted force had not come back. She made a fire, and from the dew Essayed to shelter him. At last He nearly was himself again,— Then vividly rose all the past And with the past, new fear and pain. "What anguish must my parents feel Who wait for me the livelong hours! Their sore wound let us haste to heal Before it festers, past our powers:
For broken-hearted, they may die! Oh hasten dear,—now I am strong, No more I suffer, let us fly, Ah me! each minute seems so long. They told me once, they could not live Without me, in their feeble age, Their food and water I must give And help them in the last sad stage
Of earthly life, and that Beyond In which a son can help by rites. Oh what a love is theirs—how fond! Whom now Despair, perhaps, benights.
Infirm herself, my mother dear Now guides, methinks, the tottering feet Of my blind father, for they hear And hasten eagerly to meet Our fancied steps. O faithful wife Let us on wings fly back again, Upon their safety hangs my life!" He tried his feelings to restrain, But like some river swelling high They swept their barriers weak and vain, Sudden there burst a fearful cry, Then followed tears,—like autumn rain.
Hush! Hark, a sweet voice rises clear! A voice of earnestness intense, "If I have worshipped Thee in fear And duly paid with reverence The solemn sacrifices,—hear! Send consolation, and thy peace Eternal, to our parents dear, That their anxieties may cease.
Oh, ever hath I loved Thy truth Therefore on Thee I dare to call, Help us, this night, and them, for sooth Without thy help, we perish all."
She took in hers Satyavan's hand, She gently wiped his falling tears, "This weakness, Love, I understand! Courage!" She smiled away his fears. "Now we shall go, for thou art strong." She helped him rise up by her side And led him like a child along, He, wistfully the basket eyed Laden with fruit and flowers. "Not now, To-morrow we shall fetch it hence." And so, she hung it on a bough, I'll bear thy saw for our defence."
In one fair hand the saw she took, The other with a charming grace She twined around him, and her look She turnèd upwards to his face. Thus aiding him she felt anew His bosom beat against her own— More firm his step, more clear his view, More self-possessed his words and tone
Became, as swift the minutes past, And now the pathway he discerns, And 'neath the trees, they hurry fast, For Hope's fair light before them burns.
Under the faint beams of the stars How beautiful appeared the flowers Light scarlet, flecked with golden bars Of the palâsas, in the bowers That Nature there herself had made Without the aid of man. At times Trees on their path cast densest shade, And nightingales sang mystic rhymes Their fears and sorrows to assuage. Where two paths met, the north they chose, As leading to the hermitage, And soon before them, dim it rose.
Here let us end. For all may guess The blind old king received his sight, And ruled again with gentleness The country that was his by right; And that Savitri's royal sire Was blest with many sons,—a race
Whom poets praised for martial fire, And every peaceful gift and grace. As for Savitri, to this day Her name is named, when couples wed, And to the bride the parents say, Be thou like her, in heart and head.