One day it chanced Saladin rode afield With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks— Lebanon-bred, and mewed as princes lodge— Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist, And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath, Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer, And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks, To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh— "There is a Frank in prison by the sea, Far-seen herein." "Give word that he be brought," Quoth Saladin, "and bid him set a cast: If he hath skill, it shall go well for him."

Thus by the winding path of circumstance One palace held, as prisoner and prince, Torello and his guest: unwitting each, Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge, And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time Some trick of face, the manner of some smile, Some gleam of sunset from the glad day gone, Caught the king's eye, and held it. "Nazarene! What native art thou?" asked he. "Lombard I, A man of Pavia." "And thy name?" "Torel, Messer Torello called in happier times, Now best uncalled." "Come hither, Christian!" The Soldan said, and led the way, by court And hall and fountain, to an inner room Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown, And "Know'st thou this?" he asked. "High lord! I might Elsewhere," quoth Torel, "here 'twere mad to say Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave Who shared our board." "Nay, but that gown is this, And she the giver, and the trader I," Quoth Saladin; "I! twice a king to-day, Owing a royal debt and paying it." Then Torel, sore amazed, "Great lord, I blush, Remembering how the Master of the East Lodged sorrily." "It's Master's Master thou!" Gave answer Saladin, "come in and see What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home; Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend," Therewith into the circle of his lords, With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave; And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him First of the full divan. "Orient lords," So spake he,—"let the one who loves his king Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king; He is my brother:" then the night-black beards Swept the stone floor in ready reverence, Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel: And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand, Shining the bright star of the banqueters.

* * * * *

All which, and the abounding grace and love Shown him by Saladin, a little held The heart of Torel from its Lombard home With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced He sat beside the king in audience, And there came one who said, "Oh, Lord of lords, That galley of the Genovese which sailed With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea." "Gone down!" cried Torel. "Ay! what recks it, friend, To fall thy visage for?" quoth Saladin; "One galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!" "Good my liege!" Torel said, "it bore a scroll Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived; For in a year, a month, and day, not come, I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am, Albeit living, if my lady wed, Perchance constrained." "Certes," spake Saladin, "A noble dame—the like not won, once lost— How many days remain?" "Ten days, my prince, And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me: Alas! how to be passed?" Then Saladin— "Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear To come again if all go well with thee, Or come ill speeding?" "Yea, I swear, my king, Out of true love," quoth Torel, "heartfully." Then Saladin, "Take here my signet-seal; My admiral will loose his swiftest sail Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends A gift, remindful of her courtesies." Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel's name, Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians: For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves, A lovely widow, much too gay for grief, Made peals from half a hundred campaniles To ring a wedding in. The seven bells Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon, Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out; Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound, Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan, Leading his swinked ringers down the stairs, Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys Jingling their little peal about his belt— Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch, A foreign signor, browned with southern suns, Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use, Plucked by the cope. "Friend," quoth he—'twas a tongue Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth— "Why are your belfries busy—is it peace Or victory, that so ye din the ears Of Pavian lieges?" "Truly, no liege thou!" Grunted the sacristan, "who knowest not That Dame Adalieta weds to-night Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she, That died i' the chain?" "To-night!" the stranger said "Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night! And you shall see a goodly Christian feast If so you pass their gates at even-song, For all are asked." No more the questioner, But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood, Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words Had struck him home. "So quite forgot!—so soon!— And this the square wherein I gave the joust, And that the loggia, where I fed the poor; And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!— They robe her for a bridal. Can it be? Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons, The heart that beat on mine as it would break, That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false— Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast, And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie." So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them, A stranger in the walls that called him lord. Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright, And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood, A-glitter from his forehead to his foot, Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly lord, Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet, Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat Upon the dais. Then the feast began, And wine went free as wit, and music died— Outdone by merrier laughter.—only one Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls, Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer, At the bride-feast. But of a truth, Torel Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down, And knew her loyal to her memories. Then to a little page who bore the wine, He spake, "Go tell thy lady thus from me: In mine own land, if any stranger sit A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace, In token that she knows her guest's good-will, In token she repays it, brims a cup, Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink; So is our use." The little page made speed And told the message. Then that lady pale— Ever a gentle and a courteous heart— Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched, Stood the brimmed gold; "Bear this," she said, "and pray He hold a Christian lady apt to learn A kindly lesson." But Sir Torel loosed From off his finger—never loosed before— The ring she gave him on the parting day; And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.— Then she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink, And—something in the Cyprus touching them, Glanced—gazed—the ring!—her ring!—Jove! how she eyes The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure, Under all guise knowing her lord returned, She springs to meet him coming!—telling all In one great cry of joy. O me! the rout, The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife, Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom. All hearts but his were light to see Torel; But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked The bridal-veil away. Something therein— A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine— Clashed out upon the marble. "Wherefore that?" Asked Torel; answered she, "I knew you true; And I could live, so long as I might wait; But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace Ended to-night—and I had ended too, Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come."



THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT.

Upon a day in Ramadan— When sunset brought an end of fast, And in his station every man Prepared to share the glad repast— Sate Mohtasim in royal state, The pillaw smoked upon the gold; The fairest slave of those that wait Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold.

Of crystal carven was the cup, With turquoise set along the brim, A lid of amber closed it up; 'Twas a great king that gave it him. The slave poured sherbet to the brink, Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate, With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink, And bore it where the Caliph sate.

The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone, He swept his beard aside to quaff:— The news-reader beneath the throne, Went droning on with ghain and kaf.— The Caliph drew a mighty breath, Just then the reader read a word— And Mohtasim, as grim as death, Set down the cup and snatched his sword.

"Ann' amratan shureefatee!" "Speak clear!" cries angry Mohtasim; "Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,"— Trembling the newsman read to him How in Ammoria, far from home, An Arab girl of noble race Was captive to a lord of Roum; And how he smote her on the face,

And how she cried, for life afraid, "Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!" And how the Kafir mocked the maid, And laughed, and spake a bitter thing, "Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears Are long as Barak's—if he heed— Your prophet's ass; and when he hears, He'll come upon a spotted steed!"

The Caliph's face was stern and red, He snapped the lid upon the cup; "Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, "Till such time as I drink it up. Wallah! the stream my drink shall be, My hollowed palm my only bowl, Till I have set that lady free, And seen that Roumi dog's head roll."

At dawn the drums of war were beat, Proclaiming, "Thus saith Mohtasim, 'Let all my valiant horsemen meet, And every soldier bring with him A spotted steed,'" So rode they forth, A sight of marvel and of fear; Pied horses prancing fiercely north; The crystal cup borne in the rear!

When to Ammoria he did win, He smote and drove the dogs of Roum, And rode his spotted stallion in, Crying, "Labbayki! I am come!" Then downward from her prison-place Joyful the Arab lady crept; She held her hair before her face, She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept.

She pointed where that lord was laid: They drew him forth, he whined for grace: Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said— "She whom thou smotest on the face Had scorn, because she called her king: Lo! he is come! and dost thou think To live, who didst this bitter thing While Mohtasim at peace did drink?"

Flashed the fierce sword—rolled the lord's head; The wicked blood smoked in the sand. "Now bring my cup!" the Caliph said. Lightly he took it in his hand, As down his throat the sweet drink ran Mohtasim in his saddle laughed, And cried, "Taiba asshrab alan! By God! delicious is this draught!"



HINDOO FUNERAL SONG.

Call on Rama! call to Rama! Oh, my brothers, call on Rama! For this Dead Whom we bring, Call aloud to mighty Rama.

As we bear him, oh, my brothers, Call together, very loudly, That the Bhuts May be scared; That his spirit pass in comfort.

Turn his feet now, calling "Rama," Calling "Rama," who shall take him When the flames Make an end: Ram! Ram!—oh, call to Rama.



SONG OF THE SERPENT-CHARMERS.

Come forth, oh, Snake! come forth, oh, glittering Snake! Oh shining, lovely, deadly Nag! appear, Dance to the music that we make, This serpent-song, so sweet and clear, Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear, So soft and clear.

Oh, dread Lord Snake! come forth and spread thy hood, And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show Thy tongue; and own the tune is good: Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow! Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow; See how we blow!

Great Uncle Snake! creep forth and dance to-day! 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 Nag! 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 Surat 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.

"Akwab, 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-maknun": 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 Huris. 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 Pul; 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 Mahabharata and Ramayana—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 Mahabharata destroys all sin and produces virtue; so much so, that the pronunciation of a single shloka is sufficient to wipe away much guilt. This Mahabharata contains the history of the gods, of the Rishis in heaven and those on earth, of the Gandharvas and the Rakshasas. 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 Mahabharata 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 Bharat" 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 Bharat'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 Bharat, 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, Bhima, 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 Draupadi, whose Swayamvara, or "choice of a suitor," is about to be celebrated at Kampilya. 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 Draupadi 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 Raj, excepting only the lands which had been granted to the Brahmans."

After this tremendous run of ill-luck, he madly stakes Draupadi 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 Bhima 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 Draupadi, 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, Draupadi unbinding her long black hair, and vowing never to fasten it back again till the hands of Bhima, 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 Virata's city. Here the vicissitudes of Draupadi as a handmaid of the queen, of Bhima 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 Draupadi, assailed by a prince of the State, is terribly defended by the giant Bhima; and when the Kauravas, suspecting the presence in the place of their cousins, attack Virata, 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 Virata 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 Draupadi 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-Gita 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 Bhima, the giant, at last meets in arms Duhsasana, the Kaurava prince who had dragged Draupadi 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 Bhima. The duel proves of a tremendous nature, and is decided by an act of treachery; for Arjuna, standing by, reminds Bhima, by a gesture, of his oath to break the thigh of Duryodhana, because he had bidden Draupadi 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.

The great poem soon softens its martial music into a pathetic strain. The dead have to be burned, and the living reconciled to their new lords; while afterwards King Yudhishthira is installed in high state with "chamaras, golden umbrellas, elephants, and singing." He is enthroned facing towards the east, and touches rice, flowers, earth, gold, silver, and jewels, in token of owning all the products of his realm. Being thus firmly seated on his throne, with his cousins round him, the Rajah prepares to celebrate the most magnificent of ancient Hindu rites,—the Aswamedha, or Sacrifice of the Horse. It is difficult to raise the thoughts of a modern and Western public to the solemnity, majesty, and marvel of this antique Oriental rite, as viewed by Hindus. The monarch who was powerful enough to perform it chose a horse of pure white colour, "like the moon," with a saffron tail, and a black right ear; or the animal might be all black, without a speck of colour. This steed, wearing a gold plate on its forehead, with the royal name inscribed, was turned loose, and during a whole year the king's army was bound to follow its wanderings. Whithersoever it went, the ruler of the invaded territory must either pay homage to the king, and join him with his warriors, or accept battle; but whether conquered or peacefully submitting, all these princes must follow the horse, and at the end of the year assist at the sacrifice of the consecrated animal. Moreover, during the whole year the king must restrain all passion, live a perfectly purified life, and sleep on the bare ground. The white horse could not be loosened until the night of the full moon in Chaitra, which answers to the latter half of March and the first half of April,—in fact, at Easter-time; and it may be observed here that this is not the only strange coincidence in the sacrifice. It was thus an adventure of romantic conquest, mingled with deep religion and arrogant ostentation; and the entire description of the Aswamedha would prove most interesting. The horse is found, is adorned with the golden plate, and turned loose, wandering into distant regions; where the army of Arjuna—for it was he who led Yudhishthira's forces—goes through twelve amazing adventures. They come, for instance, to a land of Amazons, all of wonderful beauty, wearing armour of pearls and gold, and equally fatal either to love or to fight with. These dazzling enemies, however, finally submit, as also the Rajah of the rich city of Babhruvahan, which possessed high walls of solid silver, and was lighted with precious jewels for lamps. The serpent people, in the same way, who live beneath the earth in the city of Vasuki, yield, after combat, to Arjuna. A thousand million semi-human snakemen dwelt there, with wives of consummate loveliness, possessing in their realm gems which would restore dead people to life, as well as a fountain of perpetual youth. Finally, Arjuna's host marches back in great glory, and with a vast train of vanquished monarchs, to the city of Hastinapura, where all the subject kings have audience of Yudhishthira, and the immense preparations begin for the sacrifice of the snow-white horse.

After all these stately celebrations, it might be expected that the great poem would conclude with the established glories of the ancient dynasty. But if the martial part of the colossal epic is "Kshatriyan," and the religious episodes "Brahmanic," the conclusion breathes the spirit of Buddhism. Yudhishthira sits grandly on the throne; but earthly greatness does not content the soul of man, nor can riches render weary hearts happy. A wonderful scene, which reads like a rebuke from the dead addressed to the living upon the madness of all war, occurs in this part of the poem. The Pandavas and the old King Dhritarashtra being together by the banks of the Ganges, the great saint Vyasa undertakes to bring back to them all the departed, slain in their fratricidal conflict. The spectacle is at once terrible and tender.

But this revealing of the invisible world deepens the discontent of the princes, and when the sage Vyasa tells them that their prosperity is near its end, they determine to leave their kingdom to younger princes, and to set out with their faces towards Mount Meru, where is Indra's heaven. If, haply, they may reach it, there will be an end of this world's joys and sorrows, and "union with the Infinite" will be obtained. My translations from the Sanskrit of the two concluding parvas of the poem (of which the above is a swift summary) describe the "Last Journey" of the princes and their "Entry into Heaven;" and herein occurs one of the noblest religious apologues not only of this great Epic but of any creed,—a beautiful fable of faithful love which may be contrasted, to the advantage of the Hindu teaching, with any Scriptural representations of Death, and of Love, "which stronger is than Death." There is always something selfish in the anxiety of Orthodox people to save their own souls, and our best religious language is not free from that taint of pious egotism. The Parvas of the Mahabharata which contain Yudhishthira's approach to Indra's paradise teach, on the contrary, that deeper and better lesson nobly enjoined by an American poet—

"The gate of heaven opens to none alone, Save thou one soul, and it shall save thine own."

These prefatory remarks seemed necessary to introduce the subjoined close paraphrase of the "Book of the Great Journey,"—and the "Book of the Entry into Heaven;" being the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Parvas of the noble but, as yet, almost unknown Mahabharata.



THE MAHAPRASTHANIKA PARVA OF THE MAHABHARATA.

"THE GREAT JOURNEY."

To Narayen, Lord of lords, be glory given, To sweet Saraswati, the Queen in Heaven, To great Vyasa, eke, pay reverence due, So shall this story its high course pursue.

Then Janmejaya prayed: "Thou Singer, say, What wrought the princes of the Pandavas On tidings of the battle so ensued, And Krishna, gone on high?"

Answered the Sage: "On tidings of the wreck of Vrishni's race, King Yudhishthira of the Pandavas Was minded to be done with earthly things, And to Arjuna spake: 'O noble Prince, Time endeth all; we linger, noose on neck, Till the last day tightens the line, and kills. Let us go forth to die, being yet alive,' And Kunti's son, the great Arjuna, said: 'Let us go forth to die!—Time slayeth all; We will find Death, who seeketh other men.' And Bhimasena, hearing, answered: 'Yea! We will find Death!' and Sahadev cried: 'Yea!' And his twin brother Nakula: whereat The princes set their faces for the Mount.

"But Yudhishthira—ere he left his realm, To seek high ending—summoned Yuyutsu, Surnamed of fights, and set him over all, Regent, to rule in Parikshita's name Nearest the throne; and Parikshita king He crowned, and unto old Subhadra said: 'This, thy son's son, shall wear the Kuru crown, And Yadu's offspring, Vajra, shall be first In Yadu's house. Bring up the little prince Here in our Hastinapur, but Vajra keep At Indraprasth; and let it be thy last Of virtuous works to guard the lads, and guide.'

"So ordering ere he went, the righteous king Made offering of white water, heedfully, To Vasudev, to Rama, and the rest,— All funeral rites performing; next he spread A funeral feast, whereat there sate as guests Narada, Dwaipayana, Bharadwaj, And Markandeya, rich in saintly years, And Tajnavalkya, Hari, and the priests. Those holy ones he fed with dainty meats In kingliest wise, naming the name of Him Who bears the bow: and—that it should be well For him and his—gave to the Brahmanas Jewels of gold and silver, lakhs on lakhs. Fair broidered cloths, gardens and villages, Chariots and steeds and slaves.

"Which being done,— O Best of Bharat's line!—he bowed him low Before his Guru's feet,—at Kripa's feet, That sage all honoured,—saying, 'Take my prince; Teach Parikshita as thou taughtest me; For hearken, ministers and men of war! Fixed is my mind to quit all earthly state.' Full sore of heart were they, and sore the folk To hear such speech, and bitter spread the word Through town and country, that the king would go; And all the people cried, 'Stay with us, Lord!' But Yudhishthira knew the time was come, Knew that life passes and that virtue lasts, And put aside their love.

"So—with farewells Tenderly took of lieges and of lords— Girt he for travel, with his princely kin, Great Yudhishthira, Dharma's royal son. Crest-gem and belt and ornaments he stripped From off his body, and, for broidered robe A rough dress donned, woven of jungle-bark; And what he did—O Lord of men!—so did Arjuna, Bhima, and the twin-born pair, Nakula with Sahadev, and she—in grace The peerless—Draupadi. Lastly these six, Thou son of Bharata! in solemn form Made the high sacrifice of Naishtiki, Quenching their flames in water at the close; And so set forth, 'midst wailing of all folk And tears of women, weeping most to see The Princess Draupadi—that lovely prize Of the great gaming, Draupadi the Bright— Journeying afoot; but she and all the Five Rejoiced, because their way lay heavenwards.

"Seven were they, setting forth,—princess and king, The king's four brothers, and a faithful dog. Those left Hastinapur; but many a man, And all the palace household, followed them The first sad stage; and, ofttimes prayed to part, Put parting off for love and pity, still Sighing 'A little farther!'—till day waned; Then one by one they turned, and Kripa said, 'Let all turn back, Yuyutsu! These must go.' So came they homewards, but the Snake-King's child, Ulupi, leapt in Ganges, losing them; And Chitranagad with her people went Mournful to Munipoor, whilst the three queens Brought Parikshita in.

"Thus wended they, Pandu's five sons and loveliest Draupadi, Tasting no meat, and journeying due east; On righteousness their high hearts bent, to heaven Their souls assigned; and steadfast trode their feet, By faith upborne, past nullah, ran, and wood, River and jheel and plain. King Yudhishthir Walked foremost, Bhima followed, after him Arjuna, and the twin-born brethren next, Nakula with Sahadev; in whose still steps— O Best of Bharat's offspring!—Draupadi, That gem of women, paced; with soft, dark face,— Beautiful, wonderful!—and lustrous eyes, Clear-lined like lotus-petals; last the dog, Following the Pandavas.

"At length they reach The far Lauchityan Sea, which foameth white Under Udayachala's ridge.—Know ye That all this while Nakula had not ceased Bearing the holy bow, named Gandiva, And jewelled quiver, ever filled with shafts Though one should shoot a thousand thousand times. Here—broad across their path—the heroes see Agni, the god. As though a mighty hill Took form of front and breast and limb, he spake. Seven streams of shining splendour rayed his brow, While the dread voice said: 'I am Agni, chiefs! O sons of Pandu, I am Agni! Hail! O long-armed Yudhishthira, blameless king,— O warlike Bhima,—O Arjuna, wise,— O brothers twin-born from a womb divine,— Hear! I am Agni, who consumed the wood By will of Narayan for Arjuna's sake. Let this your brother give Gandiva back— The matchless bow: the use for it is o'er. That gem-ringed battle-discus which he whirled Cometh again to Krishna in his hand For avatars to be; and need is none Henceforth of this most excellent bright bow, Gandiva, which I brought for Partha's aid From high Varuna. Let it be returned. Cast it herein!'

"And all the princes said, 'Cast it, dear brother!' So Arjuna threw Into that sea the quiver ever-filled, And glittering bow. Then led by Agni's light, Unto the south they turned, and so south-west, And afterwards right west, until they saw Dwaraka, washed and bounded by a main Loud-thundering on its shores; and here—O Best!— Vanished the God; while yet those heroes walked, Now to the north-west bending, where long coasts Shut in the sea of salt, now to the north, Accomplishing all quarters, journeyed they; The earth their altar of high sacrifice, Which these most patient feet did pace around Till Meru rose.

"At last it rose! These Six, Their senses subjugate, their spirits pure, Wending alone, came into sight—far off In the eastern sky—of awful Himavan; And, midway in the peaks of Himavan, Meru, the Mountain of all mountains, rose, Whose head is Heaven; and under Himavan Glared a wide waste of sand, dreadful as death.

"Then, as they hastened o'er the deadly waste, Aiming for Meru, having thoughts at soul Infinite, eager,—lo! Draupadi reeled, With faltering heart and feet; and Bhima turned Gazing upon her; and that hero spake To Yudhishthira: 'Master, Brother, King Why doth she fail? For never all her life Wrought our sweet lady one thing wrong, I think. Thou knowest, make us know, why hath she failed?'

"Then Yudhishthira answered: 'Yea, one thing. She loved our brother better than all else,— Better than heaven: that was her tender sin, Fault of a faultless soul; she pays for that' 'So spake the monarch, turning not his eyes, Though Draupadi lay dead—striding straight on For Meru, heart-full of the things of heaven, Perfect and firm. But yet a little space, And Sahadev fell down, which Bhima seeing, Cried once again: 'O King, great Madri's son Stumbles and sinks. Why hath he sunk?—so true, So brave and steadfast, and so free from pride!'

"'He was not free,' with countenance still fixed, Quoth Yudhishthira; 'he was true and fast And wise, yet wisdom made him proud; he hid One little hurt of soul, but now it kills.'

"So saying, he strode on—Kunti's strong son— And Bhima, and Arjuna followed him, And Nakula, and the hound; leaving behind Sahadev in the sands. But Nakula, Weakened and grieved to see Sahadev fall— His loved twin-brother—lagged and stayed; and next Prone on his face he fell, that noble face Which had no match for beauty in the land,— Glorious and godlike Nakula! Then sighed Bhima anew: 'Brother and Lord! the man Who never erred from virtue, never broke Our fellowship, and never in the world Was matched for goodly perfectness of form Or gracious feature,—Nakula has fallen!'

"But Yudhishthira, holding fixed his eyes,— That changeless, faithful, all-wise king,—replied: 'Yea, but he erred. The godlike form he wore Beguiled him to believe none like to him, And he alone desirable, and things Unlovely to be slighted. Self-love slays Our noble brother. Bhima, follow! Each Pays what his debt was.'

"Which Arjuna heard, Weeping to see them fall; and that stout son Of Pandu, that destroyer of his foes, That prince, who drove through crimson waves of war, In old days, with his chariot-steeds of milk, He, the arch-hero, sank! Beholding this,— The yielding of that soul unconquerable, Fearless, divine, from Sakra's self derived, Arjuna's,—Bhima cried aloud: 'O king! This man was surely perfect. Never once, Not even in slumber when the lips are loosed, Spake he one word that was not true as truth. Ah, heart of gold, why art thou broke? O King! Whence falleth he?'

"And Yudhishthira said, Not pausing: 'Once he lied, a lordly lie! He bragged—our brother—that a single day Should see him utterly consume, alone, All those his enemies,—which could not be. Yet from a great heart sprang the unmeasured speech. Howbeit, a finished hero should not shame Himself in such wise, nor his enemy, If he will faultless fight and blameless die: This was Arjuna's sin. Follow thou me!'

"So the king still went on. But Bhima next Fainted, and stayed upon the way, and sank; Yet, sinking cried, behind the steadfast prince: 'Ah, brother, see! I die! Look upon me, Thy well-beloved! Wherefore falter I, Who strove to stand?'

"And Yudhishthira said: 'More than was well the goodly things of earth Pleased thee, my pleasant brother! Light the offence, And large thy virtue; but the o'er-fed flesh Plumed itself over spirit. Pritha's son, For this thou failest, who so near didst gain.'

"Thenceforth alone the long-armed monarch strode, Not looking back,—nay! not for Bhima's sake,— But walking with his face set for the Mount: And the hound followed him,—only the hound.

"After the deathly sands, the Mount! and lo! Sakra shone forth,—the God, filling the earth And heavens with thunder of his chariot-wheels. 'Ascend,' he said, 'with me, Pritha's great son!' But Yudhishthira answered, sore at heart For those his kinsfolk, fallen on the way: 'O Thousand-eyed, O Lord of all the Gods, Give that my brothers come with me, who fell! Not without them is Swarga sweet to me. She too, the dear and kind and queenly,—she Whose perfect virtue Paradise must crown,— Grant her to come with us! Dost thou grant this?'

"The God replied: 'In heaven thou shalt see Thy kinsmen and the queen—these will attain— With Krishna. Grieve no longer for thy dead, Thou chief of men! their mortal covering stripped, They have their places; but to thee the gods Allot an unknown grace: thou shalt go up Living and in thy form to the immortal homes.'

"But the king answered: 'O thou Wisest One, Who know'st what was, and is, and is to be, Still one more grace! This hound hath ate with me, Followed me, loved me: must I leave him now?'

"'Monarch,' spake Indra, 'thou art now as We,— Deathless, divine; thou art become a god; Glory and power and gifts celestial, And all the joys of heaven are thine for aye: What hath a beast with these? Leave here thy hound.'

"Yet Yudhishthira answered: 'O Most High, O Thousand-eyed and Wisest! can it be That one exalted should seem pitiless? Nay, let me lose such glory: for its sake I would not leave one living thing I loved.'

"Then sternly Indra spake: 'He is unclean, And into Swarga such shall enter not. The Krodhavasha's hand destroys the fruits Of sacrifice, if dogs defile the fire. Bethink thee, Dharmaraj, quit now this beast! That which is seemly is not hard of heart.'

"Still he replied: ''Tis written that to spurn A suppliant equals in offence to slay A twice-born; wherefore, not for Swarga's bliss Quit I, Mahendra, this poor clinging dog,— So without any hope or friend save me, So wistful, fawning for my faithfulness, So agonized to die, unless I help Who among men was called steadfast and just.'

"Quoth Indra: 'Nay! the altar-flame is foul Where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep The ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits Of offering, and the merit of the prayer Of him whom a hound toucheth. Leave it here! He that will enter heaven must enter pure. Why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way, Quit Krishna, quit the dear-loved Draupadi, Attaining, firm and glorious, to this Mount Through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute? Hath Yudhishthira vanquished self, to melt With one poor passion at the door of bliss? Stay'st thou for this, who didst not stay for them,— Draupadi, Bhima?'

"But the king yet spake: ''Tis known that none can hurt or help the dead. They, the delightful ones, who sank and died, Following my footsteps, could not live again Though I had turned,—therefore I did not turn; But could help profit, I had turned to help. There be four sins, O Sakra, grievous sins: The first is making suppliants despair, The second is to slay a nursing wife, The third is spoiling Brahmans' goods by force, The fourth is injuring an ancient friend. These four I deem not direr than the sin, If one, in coming forth from woe to weal, Abandon any meanest comrade then.'

"Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled; Vanished the hound;—and in its stead stood there The Lord of Death and Justice, Dharma's self! Sweet were the words which fell from those dread lips, Precious the lovely praise: 'O thou true king, Thou that dost bring to harvest the good seed Of Pandu's righteousness; thou that hast ruth As he before, on all which lives!—O Son, I tried thee in the Dwaita wood, what time The Yaksha smote them, bringing water; then Thou prayedst for Nakula's life—tender and just— Not Bhima's nor Arjuna's, true to both, To Madri as to Kunti, to both queens. Hear thou my word! Because thou didst not mount This car divine, lest the poor hound be shent Who looked to thee, lo! there is none in heaven Shall sit above thee, King!—Bharata's son, Enter thou now to the eternal joys, Living and in thy form. Justice and Love Welcome thee, Monarch! thou shalt throne with us!'

"Thereat those mightiest Gods, in glorious train, Mahendra, Dharma,—with bright retinue Of Maruts, Saints, Aswin-Kumaras, Nats, Spirits and Angels,—bore the king aloft, The thundering chariot first, and after it Those airy-moving Presences. Serene, Clad in great glory, potent, wonderful, They glide at will,—at will they know and see, At wish their wills are wrought; for these are pure, Passionless, hallowed, perfect, free of earth, In such celestial midst the Pandu king Soared upward; and a sweet light filled the sky And fell on earth, cast by his face and form, Transfigured as he rose; and there was heard The voice of Narad,—it is he who sings, Sitting in heaven, the deeds that good men do In all the quarters,—Narad, chief of bards, Narad the wise, who laudeth purity,— So cried he: 'Thou art risen, unmatched king, Whose greatness is above all royal saints. Hail, son of Pandu! like to thee is none Now or before among the sons of men, Whose fame hath filled the three wide worlds, who com'st Bearing thy mortal body, which doth shine With radiance as a god's.'

"The glad king heard Narad's loud praise; he saw the immortal gods,— Dharma, Mahendra; and dead chiefs and saints, Known upon earth, in blessed heaven he saw; But only those. 'I do desire,' he said, 'That region, be it of the Blest as this, Or of the Sorrowful some otherwhere, Where my dear brothers are, and Draupadi. I cannot stay elsewhere! I see them not!'

"Then answer made Purandara, the God: 'O thou compassionate and noblest One, Rest in the pleasures which thy deeds have gained. How, being as are the Gods, canst thou live bound By mortal chains? Thou art become of Us, Who live above hatred and love, in bliss Pinnacled, safe, supreme. Sun of thy race. Thy brothers cannot reach where thou hast climbed: Most glorious lord of men, let not thy peace Be touched by stir of earth! Look! this is Heaven. See where the saints sit, and the happy souls, Siddhas and angels, and the gods who live For ever and for ever.'

"'King of gods,' Spake Yudhishthira, 'but I will not live A little space without those souls I loved. O Slayer of the demons! let me go Where Bhima and my brothers are, and she, My Draupadi, the princess with the face Softer and darker than the Vrihat-leaf, And soul as sweet as are its odours. Lo! Where they have gone, there will I surely go,'"



THE ILIAD OF INDIA.

THE SWARGAROHANA PARVA OF THE MAHABHARATA; OR, "THE ENTRY INTO HEAVEN."

To Narayen, Lord of lords, be glory given, To Queen Saraswati be praise in heaven; Unto Vyasa pay the reverence due,— So may this story its high course pursue.

Then Janmejaya said: "I am fain to learn How it befell with my great forefathers, The Pandu chiefs and Dhritarashtra's sons, Being to heaven ascended. If thou know'st,— And thou know'st all, whom wise Vyasa taught— Tell me, how fared it with those mighty souls?"

Answered the Sage: "Hear of thy forefathers— Great Yudhishthira and the Pandu lords— How it befell. When thus the blameless king Was entered into heaven, there he beheld Duryodhana, his foe, throned as a god Amid the gods; splendidly sate that prince, Peaceful and proud, the radiance of his brows Far-shining like the sun's; and round him thronged Spirits of light, with Sadhyas,—companies Goodly to see. But when the king beheld Duryodhana in bliss, and not his own,— Not Draupadi, nor Bhima, nor the rest,— With quick-averted face and angry eyes The monarch spake: 'Keep heaven for such as these If these come here! I do not wish to dwell Where he is, whom I hated rightfully, Being a covetous and witless prince, Whose deed it was that in wild fields of war Brothers and friends by mutual slaughter fell, While our swords smote, sharpened so wrathfully By all those wrongs borne wandering in the woods: But Draupadi's the deepest wrong, for he— He who sits there—haled her before the court, Seizing that sweet and virtuous lady—he!— With grievous hand wound in her tresses. Gods, I cannot look upon him! Sith 'tis so, Where are my brothers? Thither will I go!'

"Smiling, bright Narada, the Sage, replied: 'Speak thou not rashly! Say not this, O King! Those who come here lay enmities aside. O Yudhishthira, long-armed monarch, hear! Duryodhana is cleansed of sin; he sits Worshipful as the saints, worshipped by saints And kings who lived and died in virtue's path, Attaining to the joys which heroes gain Who yield their breath in battle. Even so He that did wrong thee, knowing not thy worth, Hath won before thee hither, raised to bliss For lordliness, and valour free of fear. Ah, well-beloved Prince! ponder thou not The memory of that gaming, nor the griefs Of Draupadi, nor any vanished hurt Wrought in the passing shows of life by craft Or wasteful war. Throne happy at the side Of this thy happy foeman,—wiser now; For here is Paradise, thou chief of men! And in its holy air hatreds are dead.'

"Thus by such lips addressed the Pandu king Answered uncomforted: 'Duryodhana, If he attains, attains; yet not the less Evil he lived and ill he died,—a heart Impious and harmful, bringing woes to all, To friends and foes. His was the crime which cost Our land its warriors, horses, elephants; His the black sin that set us in the field, Burning for rightful vengeance. Ye are gods, And just; and ye have granted heaven to him. Show me the regions, therefore, where they dwell, My brothers, those, the noble-souled, the loyal, Who kept the sacred laws, who swerved no step From virtue's path, who spake the truth, and lived Foremost of warriors. Where is Kunti's son, The hero-hearted Karna? Where are gone Satyaki, Dhrishtadyumna, with their sons? And where those famous chiefs who fought for me. Dying a splendid death? I see them not. O Narada, I see them not! No King Draupada! no Virata! no glad face Of Dhrisktaketu! no Shikandina, Prince of Panchala, nor his princely boys! Nor Abhimanyu the unconquerable! President Gods of heaven! I see not here Radha's bright son, nor Yudhamanyu, Nor Uttamanjaso, his brother dear! Where are those noble Maharashtra lords, Rajahs and rajpoots, slain for love of me? Dwell they in glory elsewhere, not yet seen? If they be here, high Gods! and those with them For whose sweet sakes I lived, here will I live, Meek-hearted; but if such be not adjudged Worthy, I am not worthy, nor my soul Willing to rest without them. Ah, I burn, Now in glad heaven, with grief, bethinking me Of those my mother's words, what time I poured Death-water for my dead at Kurkshetra,— "Pour for Prince Karna, Son!" but I wist not His feet were as my mother's feet, his blood Her blood, my blood. O Gods! I did not know,— Albeit Sakra's self had failed to break Our battle, where he stood. I crave to see Surya's child, that glorious chief who fell By Saryasachi's hand, unknown of me; And Bhima! ah, my Bhima! dearer far Than life to me; Arjuna, like a god, Nakla and Sahadev, twin lords of war, With tenderest Draupadi! Show me those souls! I cannot tarry where I have them not. Bliss is not blissful, just and mighty Ones! Save if I rest beside them. Heaven is there Where Love and Faith make heaven. Let me go!'

"And answer made the hearkening heavenly Ones: 'Go, if it seemeth good to thee, dear Son! The King of gods commands we do thy will.'"

So saying [the Bard went on] Dharma's own voice Gave ordinance, and from the shining bands A golden Deva glided, taking hest To guide the king there where his kinsmen were. So wended these, the holy angel first, And in his steps the king, close following. Together passed they through the gates of pearl, Together heard them close; then to the left Descending, by a path evil and dark, Hard to be traversed, rugged, entered they The 'SINNERS' ROAD.' The tread of sinful feet Matted the thick thorns carpeting its slope; The smell of sin hung foul on them; the mire About their roots was trampled filth of flesh Horrid with rottenness, and splashed with gore Curdling in crimson puddles; where there buzzed And sucked and settled creatures of the swamp, Hideous in wing and sting, gnat-clouds and flies, With moths, toads, newts, and snakes red-gulleted, And livid, loathsome worms, writhing in slime Forth from skull-holes and scalps and tumbled bones. A burning forest shut the roadside in On either hand, and 'mid its crackling boughs Perched ghastly birds, or flapped amongst the flames,— Vultures and kites and crows,—with brazen plumes And beaks of iron; and these grisly fowl Screamed to the shrieks of Prets, lean, famished ghosts, Featureless, eyeless, having pin-point mouths, Hungering, but hard to fill,—all swooping down To gorge upon the meat of wicked ones; Whereof the limbs disparted, trunks and heads, Offal and marrow, littered all the way. By such a path the king passed, sore afeared If he had known of fear, for the air stank With carrion stench, sickly to breathe; and lo! Presently 'thwart the pathway foamed a flood Of boiling waves, rolling down corpses. This They crossed, and then the Asipatra wood Spread black in sight, whereof the undergrowth Was sword-blades, spitting, every blade, some wretch; All around poison trees; and next to this, Strewn deep with fiery sands, an awful waste, Wherethrough the wicked toiled with blistering feet, 'Midst rocks of brass, red hot, which scorched, and pools Of bubbling pitch that gulfed them. Last the gorge Of Kutashala Mali,—frightful gate Of utmost Hell, with utmost horrors filled. Deadly and nameless were the plagues seen there; Which when the monarch reached, nigh overborne By terrors and the reek of tortured flesh, Unto the angel spake he: 'Whither goes This hateful road, and where be they I seek, Yet find not?' Answer made the heavenly One: 'Hither, great King, it was commanded me To bring thy steps. If thou be'st overborne, It is commanded that I lead thee back To where the Gods wait. Wilt thou turn and mount?'

"Then (O thou Son of Bharat!) Yudhishthir Turned heavenward his face, so was he moved With horror and the hanging stench, and spent By toil of that black travel. But his feet Scarce one stride measured, when about the place Pitiful accents rang: 'Alas, sweet King!— Ah, saintly Lord!—Ah, Thou that hast attained Place with the Blessed, Pandu's offspring!—pause A little while, for love of us who cry! Nought can harm thee in all this baneful place; But at thy coming there 'gan blow a breeze Balmy and soothing, bringing us relief. O Pritha's son, mightiest of men! we breathe Glad breath again to see thee; we have peace One moment in our agonies. Stay here One moment more, Bharata's child! Go not, Thou Victor of the Kurus! Being here, Hell softens and our bitter pains relax.'

"These pleadings, wailing all around the place, Heard the King Yudhishthira,—words of woe Humble and eager; and compassion seized His lordly mind. 'Poor souls unknown!' he sighed, And hellwards turned anew; for what those were. Whence such beseeching voices, and of whom, That son of Pandu wist not,—only wist That all the noxious murk was filled with forms, Shadowy, in anguish, crying grace of him. Wherefore he called aloud,'Who speaks with me? What do ye here, and what things suffer ye?' Then from the black depth piteously there came Answers of whispered suffering: 'Karna I, O King!' and yet another,'O my Liege, Thy Bhima speaks!' and then a voice again, 'I am Arjuna, Brother!' and again, 'Nakla is here and Sahadev!' and last A moan of music from the darkness sighed, 'Draupadi cries to thee!' Thereat broke forth The monarch's spirit,—knowing so the sound Of each familiar voice,—'What doom is this? What have my well-beloved wrought to earn Death with the damned, or life loathlier than death In Narak's midst? Hath Karna erred so deep, Bhima, Arjuna, or the glorious twins, Or she, the slender-waisted, sweetest, best, My princess,—that Duryodhana should sit Peaceful in Paradise with all his crew, Throned by Mahendra and the shining gods? How should these fail of bliss, and he attain? What were their sins to his, their splendid faults? For if they slipped, it was in virtue's way Serving good laws, performing holy rites, Boundless in gifts and faithful to the death. These be their well-known voices! Are ye here, Souls I loved best? Dream I, belike, asleep, Or rave I, maddened with accursed sights And death-reeks of this hellish air?'

"Thereat For pity and for pain the king waxed wroth. That soul fear could not shake, nor trials tire, Burned terrible with tenderness, the while His eyes searched all the gloom, his planted feet Stood fast in the mid horrors. Well-nigh, then, He cursed the gods; well-nigh that steadfast mind Broke from its faith in virtue. But he stayed Th' indignant passion, softly speaking this Unto the angel: 'Go to those thou serv'st; Tell them I come not thither. Say I stand Here in the throat of hell, and here will bide— Nay, if I perish—while my well-belov'd Win ease and peace by any pains of mine.'

"Whereupon, nought replied the shining One, But straight repaired unto the upper light, Where Sakra sate above the gods, and spake Before the gods the message of the king."

* * * * *

"Afterward what befell?" the prince inquired.

"Afterward, Princely One!" replied the Sage, "At hearing and at knowing that high deed (Great Yudhishthira braving hell for love), The Presences of Paradise uprose, Each Splendour in his place,—god Sakra chief; Together rose they, and together stepped Down from their thrones, treading the nether road Where Yudhishthira tarried. Sakra led The shining van, and Dharma, Lord of laws, Paced glorious next. O Son of Bharata, While that celestial company came down— Pure as the white stars sweeping through the sky, And brighter than their brilliance—look! Hell's shades Melted before them; warm gleams drowned the gloom; Soft, lovely scenes rolled over the ill sights; Peace calmed the cries of torment; in its bed The boiling river shrank, quiet and clear; The Asipatra Vana—awful wood— Blossomed with colours; all those cruel blades, And dreadful rocks, and piteous scattered wreck Of writhing bodies, where the king had passed, Vanished as dreams fade. Cool and fragrant went A wind before their faces, as these Gods Drew radiant to the presence of the king,— Maruts; and Vasus eight, who shine and serve Round Indra; Rudras; Aswins; and those Six Immortal Lords of light beyond our light, Th' Adityas; Saddhyas; Siddhas,—those were there, With angels, saints, and habitants of heaven, Smiling resplendent round the steadfast prince.

"Then spake the God of gods these gracious words To Yudhishthira, standing in that place:— "'King Yudhishthira! O thou long-armed Lord, This is enough! All heaven is glad of thee. It is enough! Come, thou most blessed one. Unto thy peace, well-gained. Lay now aside Thy loving wrath, and hear the speech of Heaven. It is appointed that all kings see hell. The reckonings for the life of men are twain: Of each man's righteous deeds a tally true, A tally true of each man's evil deeds. Who hath wrought little right, to him is paid A little bliss in Swarga, then the woe Which purges; who much right hath wrought, from him The little ill by lighter pains is cleansed, And then the joys. Sweet is peace after pain, And bitter pain which follows peace; yet they, Who sorely sin, taste of the heaven they miss, And they that suffer quit their debt at last. Lo! We have loved thee, laying hard on thee Grievous assaults of soul, and this black road. Bethink thee: by a semblance once, dear Son! Drona thou didst beguile; and once, dear Son! Semblance of hell hath so thy sin assoiled, "Which passeth with these shadows. Even thus Thy Bhima came a little space t' account, Draupadi, Krishna,—all whom thou didst love, Never again to lose! Come, First of Men! These be delivered and their quittance made. Also the princes, son of Bharata! Who fell beside thee fighting, have attained. Come thou to see! Karna, whom thou didst mourn,— That mightiest archer, master in all wars,— He hath attained, shining as doth the sun; Come thou and see! Grieve no more, King of Men! Whose love helped them and thee, and hath its meed. Rajas and maharajahs, warriors, aids,— All thine are thine for ever. Krishna waits To greet thee coming, 'companied by gods, Seated in heaven, from toils and conflicts saved. Son! there is golden fruit of noble deeds, Of prayer, alms, sacrifice. The most just Gods Keep thee thy place above the highest saints, Where thou shalt sit, divine, compassed about With royal souls in bliss, as Hari sits; Seeing Mandhata crowned, and Bhagirath, Daushyanti, Bharata, with all thy line. Now therefore wash thee in this holy stream, Gunga's pure fount, whereof the bright waves bless All the Three Worlds. It will so change thy flesh To likeness of th' immortal, thou shalt leave Passions and aches and tears behind thee there.'

"And when the awful Sakra thus had said, Lo! Dharma spake,—th' embodied Lord of Right:

"'Bho! bho! I am well pleased! Hail to thee, Chief! Worthy, and wise, and firm. Thy faith is full, Thy virtue, and thy patience, and thy truth, And thy self-mastery. Thrice I put thee, King! Unto the trial. In the Dwaita wood, The day of sacrifice,—then thou stood'st fast; Next, on thy brethren's death and Draupadi's, When, as a dog, I followed thee, and found Thy spirit constant to the meanest friend. Here was the third and sorest touchstone, Son! That thou shouldst hear thy brothers cry in hell, And yet abide to help them. Pritha's child, We love thee! Thou art fortunate and pure, Past trials now. Thou art approved, and they Thou lov'st have tasted hell only a space, Not meriting to suffer more than when An evil dream doth come, and Indra's beam Ends it with radiance—as this vision ends. It is appointed that all flesh see death, And therefore thou hast borne the passing pangs, Briefest for thee, and brief for those of thine,— Bhima the faithful, and the valiant twins Nakla and Sahadev, and those great hearts Karna, Arjuna, with thy princess dear, Draupadi. Come, thou best-beloved Son, Blessed of all thy line! Bathe in this stream,— It is great Gunga, flowing through Three Worlds.'

"Thus high-accosted, the rejoicing king (Thy ancestor, O Liege!) proceeded straight Unto that river's brink, which floweth pure Through the Three Worlds, mighty, and sweet, and praised. There, being bathed, the body of the king Put off its mortal, coming up arrayed In grace celestial, washed from soils of sin, From passion, pain, and change. So, hand in hand With brother-gods, glorious went Yudhishthir, Lauded by softest minstrelsy, and songs Of unknown music, where those heroes stood— The princes of the Pandavas, his kin— And lotus-eyed and lovliest Draupadi, Waiting to greet him, gladdening and glad."



FROM THE "SAUPTIKA PARVA" OF THE MAHABHARATA,

OR

"NIGHT OF SLAUGHTER."

To Narayen, Best of Lords, be glory given, To great Saraswati, the Queen in Heaven; Unto Vyasa, too, be paid his meed, So shall this story worthily proceed.

"Those vanquished warriors then," Sanjaya said, "Fled southwards; and, near sunset, past the tents, Unyoked; abiding close in fear and rage. There was a wood beyond the camp,—untrod, Quiet,—and in its leafy harbour lay The Princes, some among them bleeding still From spear and arrow-gashes; all sore-spent, Fetching faint breath, and fighting o'er again In thought that battle. But there came the noise Of Pandavas pursuing,—fierce and loud Outcries of victory—whereat those chiefs Sullenly rose, and yoked their steeds again, Driving due east; and eastward still they drave Under the night, till drouth and desperate toil Stayed horse and man; then took they lair again, The panting horses, and the Warriors, wroth With chilled wounds, and the death-stroke of their King.

"Now were they come, my Prince," Sanjaya said, "Unto a jungle thick with stems, whereon The tangled creepers coiled; here entered they— Watering their horses at a stream—and pushed Deep in the thicket. Many a beast and bird Sprang startled at their feet; the long grass stirred With serpents creeping off; the woodland flowers Shook where the pea-fowl hid, and, where frogs plunged, The swamp rocked all its reeds and lotus-buds. A banian-tree, with countless dropping boughs Earth-rooted, spied they, and beneath its aisles A pool; hereby they stayed, tethering their steeds, And dipping water, made the evening prayer.

"But when the 'Day-maker' sank in the west And Night descended—gentle, soothing Night, Who comforts all, with silver splendour decked Of stars and constellations, and soft folds Of velvet darkness drawn—then those wild things Which roam in darkness woke, wandering afoot Under the gloom. Horrid the forest grew With roar, and yelp, and yell, around that place Where Kripa, Kritavarman, and the son Of Drona lay, beneath the banian-tree; Full many a piteous passage instancing In their lost battle-day of dreadful blood; Till sleep fell heavy on the wearied lids Of Bhoja's child and Kripa. Then these Lords— To princely life and silken couches used— Sought on the bare earth slumber, spent and sad, As houseless outcasts lodge.

"But, Oh, my King! There came no sleep to Drona's angry son, Great Aswatthaman. As a snake lies coiled And hisses, breathing, so his panting breath Hissed rage and hatred round him, while he lay, Chin uppermost, arm-pillowed, with fierce eyes Roving the wood, and seeing sightlessly. Thus chanced it that his wandering glances turned Into the fig-tree's shadows, where there perched A thousand crows, thick-roosting, on its limbs; Some nested, some on branchlets, deep asleep, Heads under wings—all fearless; nor, O Prince! Had Aswatthaman more than marked the birds, When, lo! there fell out of the velvet night, Silent and terrible, an eagle-owl, With wide, soft, deadly, dusky wings, and eyes Flame-coloured, and long claws, and dreadful beak; Like a winged sprite, or great Garood himself; Offspring of Bharata! it lighted there Upon the banian's bough; hooted, but low, The fury smothering in its throat;—then fell With murderous beak and claws upon those crows, Rending the wings from this, the legs from that, From some the heads, of some ripping the crops; Till, tens and scores, the fowl rained down to earth Bloody and plucked, and all the ground waxed black With piled crow-carcases; whilst the great owl Hooted for joy of vengeance, and again Spread the wide, deadly, dusky wings.

"Up sprang The son of Drona: 'Lo! this owl,' quoth he, 'Teacheth me wisdom; lo! one slayeth so Insolent foes asleep. The Pandu Lords Are all too strong in arms by day to kill; They triumph, being many. Yet I swore Before the King, my Father, I would "kill" And "kill"—even as a foolish fly should swear To quench a flame. It scorched, and I shall die If I dare open battle; but by art Men vanquish fortune and the mightiest odds. If there be two ways to a wise man's wish, Yet only one way sure, he taketh this; And if it be an evil way, condemned For Brahmans, yet the Kshattriya may do What vengeance bids against his foes. Our foes, The Pandavas, are furious, treacherous, base, Halting at nothing; and how say the wise In holy Shastras?—"Wounded, wearied, fed, Or fasting; sleeping, waking, setting forth, Or new arriving; slay thine enemies;" And so again, "At midnight when they sleep, Dawn when they watch not; noon if leaders fall; Eve, should they scatter; all the times and hours Are times and hours fitted for killing foes."'

"So did the son of Drona steel his soul To break upon the sleeping Pandu chiefs And slay them in the darkness. Being set On this unlordly deed, and clear in scheme, He from their slumbers roused the warriors twain, Kripa and Kritavarman."



THE MORNING PRAYER.

Our Lord the Prophet (peace to him!) doth write— Surah the Seventeenth, intituled "Night"— "Pray at the noon; pray at the sinking sun; In night-time pray; but most when night is done; For daybreak's prayer is surely borne on high By angels, changing guard within the sky;" And in another place:—"Dawn's prayer is more Than the wide world, with all its treasured store."

Therefore the Faithful, when the growing light Gives to discern a black hair from a white, Haste to the mosque, and, bending Mecca-way, Recite Al-Fatihah while 'tis scarce yet day: "Praise be to Allah—Lord of all that live: Merciful King and Judge! To Thee we give Worship and honour! Succour us, and guide Where those have walked who rest Thy throne beside: The way of Peace; the way of truthful speech; The way of Righteousness. So we beseech." He that saith this, before the East is red, A hundred prayers of Azan hath he said.

Hear now a story of it—told, I ween, For your souls' comfort by Jelal-ud-din, In the great pages of the Mesnevi; For therein, plain and certain, shall ye see How precious is the prayer at break of day In Allah's ears, and in his sight alway How sweet are reverence and gentleness Shown to his creatures. Ali (whom I bless!) The son of Abu Talib—he surnamed "Lion of God," in many battles famed, The cousin of our Lord the Prophet (grace Be his!)—uprose betimes one morn, to pace— As he was wont—unto the mosque, wherein Our Lord (bliss live with him!) watched to begin Al-Fatihah. Darkling was the sky, and strait The lane between the city and mosque-gate, By rough stones broken and deep pools of rain; And there through toilfully, with steps of pain, Leaning upon his staff an old Jew went To synagogue, on pious errand bent: For those be "People of the Book,"—and some Are chosen of Allah's will, who have not come Unto full light of wisdom. Therefore he Ali—the Caliph of proud days to be— Knowing this good old man, and why he stirred Thus early, e'er the morning mills were heard, Out of his nobleness and grace of soul Would not thrust past, though the Jew blocked the whole Breadth of the lane, slow-hobbling. So they went, That ancient first; and in soft discontent, After him Ali—noting how the sun Flared nigh, and fearing prayer might be begun; Yet no command upraising, no harsh cry To stand aside;—because the dignity Of silver hairs is much, and morning praise Was precious to the Jew, too. Thus their ways Wended the pair; Great Ali, sad and slow, Following the greybeard, while the East, a-glow, Blazed with bright spears of gold athwart the blue, And the Muezzin's call came "Illahu! Allah-il-Allah!"

In the mosque, our Lord (On whom be peace!) stood by the Mehrab-board In act to bow, and Fatihah forth to say. But as his lips moved, some strong hand did lay Over his mouth a palm invisible, So that no voice on the Assembly fell. "Ya! Rabbi 'lalamina" thrice he tried To read, and thrice the sound of reading died, Stayed by this unseen touch. Thereat amazed Our Lord Muhammed turned, arose, and gazed; And saw—alone of those within the shrine— A splendid Presence, with large eyes divine Beaming, and golden pinions folded down, Their speed still tokened by the fluttered gown. GABRIEL he knew, the spirit who doth stand Chief of the Sons of Heav'n, at God's right hand: "Gabriel! why stayest thou me?" the Prophet said, "Since at this hour the Fatihah should be read."

But the bright Presence, smiling, pointed where Ali towards the outer gate drew near, Upon the threshold shaking off his shoes And giving "alms of entry," as men use. "Yea!" spake th' Archangel, "sacred is the sound Of morning-praise, and worth the world's wide round, Though earth were pearl and silver; therefore I Stayed thee, Muhammed, in the act to cry, Lest Ali, tarrying in the lane, should miss, For his good deed, its blessing and its bliss."

Thereat th' Archangel vanished:—and our Lord Read Fatihah forth beneath the Mehrab-board.



PROVERBIAL WISDOM

FROM THE

SHLOKAS OF THE HITOPADESA.

DEDICATION

(TO FIRST EDITION)

To you, dear Wife—to whom beside so well?— True Counsellor and tried, at every shift, I bring my "Book of Counsels:" let it tell Largeness of love by littleness of gift;

And take this growth of foreign skies from me, (A scholar's thanks for gentle help in toil,) Whose leaf, "though dark," like Milton's Hoemony, "Bears a bright golden flower, if not in this soil."

April 9, 1861.

PREFACE

TO THE "BOOK OF GOOD COUNSELS."

The Hitopadesa is a work of high antiquity and extended popularity. The prose is doubtless as old as our own era; but the intercalated verses and proverbs compose a selection from writings of an age extremely remote. The Mahabharata and the textual Veds are of those quoted; to the first of which Professor M. Williams (in his admirable edition of the Nala, 1860) assigns the modest date of 350 B.C., while he claims for the Rig-Veda an antiquity as high as 1300 B.C. The Hitopadesa may thus be fairly styled "The Father of all Fables;" for from its numerous translations have probably come Esop and Pilpay, and in latter days Reineke Fuchs. Originally compiled in Sanskrit, it was rendered, by order of Nushirvan, in the sixth century A.D., into Persic. From the Persic it passed, A.D. 850, into the Arabic, and thence into Hebrew and Greek. In its own land it obtained as wide a circulation. The Emperor Akbar, impressed with the wisdom of its maxims and the ingenuity of its apologues, commended the work of translating it to his own Vizier, Abdul Fazel. That Minister accordingly put the book into a familiar style, and published it with explanations, under the title of the Criterion of Wisdom. The Emperor had also suggested the abridgment of the long series of shlokes which here and there interrupt the narrative, and the Vizier found this advice sound, and followed it, like the present Translator. To this day, in India, the Hitopadesa, under its own or other names (as the Anvari Suhaili), retains the delighted attention of young and old, and has some representative in all the Indian vernaculars. A selection from the metrical Sanskrit proverbs and maxims is here given.

PROVERBIAL WISDOM

FROM THE

SHLOKAS OF THE HITOPADESA.

This Book of Counsel read, and you shall see, Fair speech and Sanskrit lore, and Policy.

"Wise men, holding wisdom highest, scorn delights, more false than fair; Daily live as if Death's fingers twined already in thy hair!

"Truly, richer than all riches, better than the best of gain, Wisdom is; unbought, secure—once won, none loseth her again.

"Bringing dark things into daylight, solving doubts that vex the mind, Like an open eye is Wisdom—he that hath her not is blind."

* * * * *

"Childless art thou? dead thy children? leaving thee to want and doole? Less thy misery than his is, who lives father to a fool."

"One wise son makes glad his father, forty fools avail him not: One moon silvers all that darkness which the silly stars did dot."

"Ease and health, obeisant children, wisdom, and a fair-voiced wife— Thus, great King! are counted up the five felicities of life."

"For the son the sire is honoured; though the bow-cane bendeth true, Let the strained string crack in using, and what service shall it do?"

"That which will not be, will not be—and what is to be, will be: Why not drink this easy physic, antidote of misery?"

"Nay! but faint not, idly sighing, 'Destiny is mightiest,' Sesamum holds oil in plenty, but it yieldeth none unpressed."

"Ah! it is the Coward's babble, 'Fortune taketh, Fortune gave;' Fortune! rate her like a master, and she serves thee like a slave."

"Two-fold is the life we live in—Fate and Will together run: Two wheels bear life's chariot onward—Will it move on only one?"

"Look! the clay dries into iron, but the potter moulds the clay: Destiny to-day is master—Man was master yesterday."

"Worthy ends come not by wishing. Wouldst thou? Up, and win it, then! While the hungry lion slumbers, not a deer comes to his den."

* * * * *

"Silly glass, in splendid settings, something of the gold may gain; And in company of wise ones, fools to wisdom may attain."

"Labours spent on the unworthy, of reward the labourer balk; Like the parrot, teach the heron twenty words, he will not talk."

* * * * *

"Ah! a thousand thoughts of sorrow, and a hundred things of dread, By the fools unheeded, enter day by day the wise man's head."

"Of the day's impending dangers, Sickness, Death, and Misery, One will be; the wise man, waking, ponders which that one will be."

"Good things come not out of bad things; wisely leave a longed-for ill. Nectar being mixed with poison serves no purpose but to kill."

* * * * *

"Give to poor men, son of Kunti—on the wealthy waste not wealth; Good are simples for the sick man, good for nought to him in health."

* * * * *

"Be his Scripture-learning wondrous, yet the cheat will be a cheat; Be her pasture ne'er so bitter, yet the cow's milk will taste sweet."

"Trust not water, trust not weapons; trust not clawed nor horned things; Neither give thy soul to women, nor thy life to Sons of Kings."

* * * * *

"Look! the Moon, the silver roamer, from whose splendour darkness flies, With his starry cohorts marching, like a crowned king, through the skies: All his grandeur, all his glory, vanish in the Dragon's jaw; What is written on the forehead, that will be, and nothing more."

* * * * *

"Counsel in danger; of it Unwarned, be nothing begun; But nobody asks a Prophet, Shall the risk of a dinner be run?"

* * * * *

"Avarice begetteth anger; blind desires from her begin; A right fruitful mother is she of a countless spawn of sin."

* * * * *

"Be second and not first!—the share's the same If all go well. If not, the Head's to blame."

* * * * *

"Passion will be Slave or Mistress: follow her, she brings to woe; Lead her, 'tis the way to Fortune. Choose the path that thou wilt go."

"When the time of trouble cometh, friends may ofttimes irk us most: For the calf at milking-hour the mother's leg is tying-post."

* * * * *

"In good-fortune not elated, in ill-fortune not dismayed, Ever eloquent in council, never in the fight affrayed, Proudly emulous of honour, steadfastly on wisdom set; These six virtues in the nature of a noble soul are met. Whoso hath them, gem and glory of the three wide worlds is he; Happy mother she that bore him, she who nursed him on her knee."

* * * * *

"Small things wax exceeding mighty, being cunningly combined; Furious elephants are fastened with a rope of grass-blades twined."

"Let the household hold together, though the house be ne'er so small; Strip the rice-husk from the rice-grain, and it groweth not at all."

"Sickness, anguish, bonds, and woe Spring from wrongs wrought long ago."

* * * * *

"Keep wealth for want, but spend it for thy wife, And wife, and wealth, and all, to guard thy life."

* * * * *

"Death, that must come, comes nobly when we give Our wealth, and life, and all, to make men live."

* * * * *

"Floating on his fearless pinions, lost amid the noonday skies, Even thence the Eagle's vision kens the carcass where it lies; But the hour that comes to all things comes unto the Lord of Air, And he rushes, madly blinded, to die helpless in the snare."

* * * * *

Bar thy door not to the stranger, be he friend or be he foe, For the tree will shade the woodman while his axe doth lay it low.

Greeting fair, and room to rest in; fire, and water from the well— Simple gifts—are given freely in the house where good men dwell;—

Young, or bent with many winters; rich, or poor whate'er thy guest, Honour him for thine own honour—better is he than the best.

"Pity them that crave thy pity: who art thou to stint thy hoard, When the holy moon shines equal on the leper and the lord?"

When thy gate is roughly fastened, and the asker turns away, Thence he bears thy good deeds with him, and his sins on thee doth lay.

In the house the husband ruleth; men the Brahman "master" call; Agni is the Twice-born's Master—but the guest is lord of all.

"He who does and thinks no wrong— He who suffers, being strong— He whose harmlessness men know— Unto Swarga such doth go."

* * * * *

"In the land where no wise men are, men of little wit are lords; And the castor-oil's a tree, where no tree else its shade affords."

* * * * *

"Foe is friend, and friend is foe, As our actions make them so."

* * * * *

"That friend only is the true friend who abides when trouble comes; That man only is the brave man who can bear the battle-drums; Words are wind; deed proveth promise: he who helps at need is kin; And the leal wife is loving though the husband lose or win."

"Friend and kinsman—more their meaning than the idle-hearted mind; Many a friend can prove unfriendly, many a kinsman less than kind: He who shares his comrade's portion, be he beggar, be he lord, Comes as truly, comes as duly, to the battle as the board— Stands before the king to succour, follows to the pile to sigh— He is friend, and he is kinsman; less would make the name a lie."

* * * * *

"Stars gleam, lamps flicker, friends foretell of fate; The fated sees, knows, hears them—all too late."

* * * * *

"Absent, flatterers' tongues are daggers—present, softer than the silk; Shun them! 'tis a draught of poison hidden under harmless milk; Shun them when they promise little! Shun them when they promise much! For enkindled, charcoal burneth—cold, it doth defile the touch."

* * * * *

"In years, or moons, or half-moons three, Or in three days—suddenly, Knaves are shent—true men go free."

* * * * *

"Anger comes to noble natures, but leaves there no strife or storm: Plunge a lighted torch beneath it, and the ocean grows not warm."

"Noble hearts are golden vases—close the bond true metals make; Easily the smith may weld them, harder far it is to break. Evil hearts are earthen vessels—at a touch they crack a-twain, And what craftsman's ready cunning can unite the shards again?"