The Dynasty of Raghu

God Shiva and his mountain bride,Like word and meaning unified,The world's great parents, I beseechTo join fit meaning to my speech.

How great is Raghu's solar line!How feebly small are powers of mine!As if upon the ocean's swellI launched a puny cockle-shell.

The fool who seeks a poet's fameMust look for ridicule and blame,Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would tryTo pluck the fruit for giants high.

Yet I may enter through the doorThat mightier poets pierced of yore;A thread may pierce a jewel, butMust follow where the diamond cut.

Of kings who lived as saints from birth,Who ruled to ocean-shore on earth,Who toiled until success was given,Whose chariots stormed the gates of heaven,

Whose pious offerings were blest,Who gave his wish to every guest,Whose punishments were as the crimes,Who woke to guard the world betimes,

Who sought, that they might lavish, pelf,Whose measured speech was truth itself,Who fought victorious wars for fame,Who loved in wives the mother's name,

Who studied all good arts as boys,Who loved, in manhood, manhood's joys,Whose age was free from worldly care,Who breathed their lives away in prayer,

Of these I sing, of Raghu's line,Though weak mine art, and wisdom mine.Forgive these idle stammeringsAnd think: For virtue's sake he sings.

The good who hear me will be gladTo pluck the good from out the bad;When ore is proved by fire, the lossIs not of purest gold, but dross.

He practised virtue, though in health;Won riches, with no greed for wealth;Guarded his life, though not from fear;Prized joys of earth, but not too dear.

His virtuous foes he could esteemLike bitter drugs that healing seem;The friends who sinned he could forsakeLike fingers bitten by a snake.

Until from this dear wife there springsA son as great as former kings,The seven islands of the earthAnd all their gems, are nothing worth.

The final debt, most holy one,Which still I owe to life--a son--Galls me as galls the cutting chainAn elephant housed in dirt and pain.

Great beauty and fresh youth are yours; on earthAs sole, unrivalled emperor you rule;Should you redeem a thing of little worthAt such a price, you would appear a fool.

If pity moves you, think that one mere cowWould be the gainer, should you choose to die;Live rather for the world! Remember howThe father-king can bid all dangers fly.

And if the fiery sage's wrath, aglowAt loss of one sole cow, should make you shudder,Appease his anger; for you can bestowCows by the million, each with pot-like udder.

Save life and youth; for to the dead are givenNo long, unbroken years of joyous mirth;But riches and imperial power are heaven--The gods have nothing that you lack on earth.

The lion spoke and ceased; but echo rolledForth from the caves wherein the sound was pent,As if the hills applauded manifold,Repeating once again the argument.

Third canto. Raghu's consecration.--The queen gives birth to aglorious boy, whom the joyful father names Raghu. There follows adescription of the happy family, of which a few stanzas are givenhere:

The king drank pleasure from him late and soonWith eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;Unselfish joy expanded all his powersAs swells the sea responsive to the moon.

The rooted love that filled each parent's soulFor the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,Was now divided with the boy; and straightThe remaining half proved greater than the whole.

He learned the reverence that befits a boy;Following the nurse's words, began to talk;And clinging to her finger, learned to walk:These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,

Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilledTo feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to winWhich, more for long delay, his being filled.

The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet heRetained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;And down the river of the alphabetHe swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.

Religion's rites, and what good learning suitsA prince, he had from teachers old and wise;Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,For effort spent on good material, fruits.

He manifested royal worthBy even justice toward the earth,Beloved as is the southern breeze,Too cool to burn, too warm to freeze.

The people loved his father, yetFor greater virtues could forget;The beauty of the blossoms fairIs lost when mango-fruits are there.

For when they knew the king was goneAnd power was wielded by his son,The wrath of subject kings awoke,Which had been damped in sullen smoke.

For when they saw God's masterpiece, the maidWho smote their eyes to other objects blind,Their glances, wishes, hearts, in homage paid,Flew forth to her; mere flesh remained behind.

The princes could not but betray their yearningBy sending messengers, their love to bring,In many a quick, involuntary turning,As flowering twigs of trees announce the spring.

Though other kings by thousands numbered be,He seems the one, sole governor of earth;Stars, constellations, planets, fade and fleeWhen to the moon the night has given birth.

The slender maiden glanced at him; she glancedAnd uttered not a word, nor heeded howThe grass-twined blossoms of her garland dancedWhen she dismissed him with a formal bow.

Learning and wealth by nature are at strife,Yet dwell at peace in him; and for the twoYou would be fit companion as his wife,Like wealth enticing, and like learning true.

And if this youthful prince your fancy pleases,Bewitching maiden, you and he may playIn those unmeasured gardens that the breezesFrom Sipra's billows ruffle, cool with spray.

The inducement is insufficient, and a new candidate is presented, theKing of Anupa,

A prince whose fathers' glories cannot fade,By whom the love of learned men is wooed,Who proves that Fortune is no fickle jadeWhen he she chooses is not fickly good.

She saw that he was brave to look upon,Yet could not feel his love would make her gay;Full moons of autumn nights, when clouds are gone,Tempt not the lotus-flowers that bloom by day.

His palace overlooks the ocean darkWith windows gazing on the unresting deep,Whose gentle thunders drown the drums that markThe hours of night, and wake him from his sleep.

And every prince rejected while she soughtA husband, darkly frowned, as turrets, brightOne moment with the flame from torches caught,Frown gloomily again and sink in night.

High lineage is his, fresh beauty, youth,And virtue shaped in kingly breeding's mould;Choose him, for he is worth your love; in truth,A gem is ever fitly set in gold.

If flowers that hardly touch the body, slay it,The simplest instruments of fate may bringDestruction, and we have no power to stay it;Then must we live in fear of everything?

No! Death was right. He spared the sterner anguish;Through gentle flowers your gentle life was lostAs I have seen the lotus fade and languishWhen smitten by the slow and silent frost.

Yet God is hard. With unforgiving rigourHe forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine;He left the sturdy tree its living vigour,But stripped away and slew the clinging vine.

Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me,Though I offended. Can you go awaySudden, without a word? I know you love me,And I have not offended you to-day.

You surely thought me faithless, to be banishedAs light-of-love and gambler, from your life,Because without a farewell word, you vanishedAnd never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

The warmth and blush that followed after kissesIs still upon her face, to madden me;For life is gone, 'tis only life she misses.A curse upon such life's uncertainty!

I never wronged you with a thought unspoken,Still less with actions. Whither are you flown?Though king in name, I am a man heartbroken,For power and love took root in you alone.

Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping,Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well,Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping,Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

Awake, my love! Let only life be given,And choking griefs that stifle now, will fleeAs darkness from the mountain-cave is drivenBy magic herbs that glitter brilliantly.

The silent face, round which the curls are keepingTheir scattered watch, is sad to look uponAs in the night some lonely lily, sleepingWhen musically humming bees are gone.

The girdle that from girlhood has befriendedYou, in love-secrets wise, discreet, and true,No longer tinkles, now your dance is ended,Faithful in life, in dying faithful too.

Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given;Your idly graceful movement to the swans;Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven;Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns:

You left your charms on earth, that I, remindedBy them, might be consoled though you depart;But vainly! Far from you, by sorrow blinded,I find no prop of comfort for my heart.

Remember how you planned to make a wedding,Giving the vine-bride to her mango-tree;Before that happy day, dear, you are treadingThe path with no return. It should not be.

And this ashoka-tree that you have tendedWith eager longing for the blossoms red--How can I twine the flowers that should have blendedWith living curls, in garlands for the dead?

The tree remembers how the anklets, tinklingOn graceful feet, delighted other years;Sad now he droops, your form with sorrow sprinkling,And sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears.

Joy's sun is down, all love is fallen and perished,The song of life is sung, the spring is dead,Gone is the use of gems that once you cherished,And empty, ever empty, is my bed.

You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure,You were my bosom's friend, in all things true,My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure:Stern death took all I had in taking you.

Still am I king, and rich in kingly fashion,Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;I cannot now be won to any passion,For all my passions centred, dear, in you.

He left his soldiers far behind one dayIn the wood, and following where deer-tracks lay,Came with his weary horse adrip with foamTo river-banks where hermits made their home.

And in the stream he heard the water fillA jar; he heard it ripple clear and shrill,And shot an arrow, thinking he had foundA trumpeting elephant, toward the gurgling sound.

Such actions are forbidden to a king,Yet Dasharatha sinned and did this thing;For even the wise and learned man is mindedTo go astray, by selfish passion blinded.

He heard the startling cry, "My father!" riseAmong the reeds; rode up; before his eyesHe saw the jar, the wounded hermit boy:Remorse transfixed his heart and killed his joy.

He left his horse, this monarch famous far,Asked him who drooped upon the water-jarHis name, and from the stumbling accents knewA hermit youth, of lowly birth but true.

The arrow still undrawn, the monarch boreHim to his parents who, afflicted soreWith blindness, could not see their only sonDying, and told them what his hand had done.

The murderer then obeyed their sad behestAnd drew the fixèd arrow from his breast;The boy lay dead; the father cursed the king,With tear-stained hands, to equal suffering.

"In sorrow for your son you too shall die,An old, old man," he said, "as sad as I."Poor, trodden snake! He used his venomous sting,Then heard the answer of the guilty king:

"Your curse is half a blessing if I seeThe longed-for son who shall be born to me:The scorching fire that sweeps the well-ploughed field,May burn indeed, but stimulates the yield.

The deed is done; what kindly act can IPerform who, pitiless, deserve to die?""Bring wood," he begged, "and build a funeral pyre,That we may seek our son through death by fire."

The king fulfilled their wish; and while they burned,In mute, sin-stricken sorrow he returned,Hiding death's seed within him, as the seaHides magic fire that burns eternally.

O thou who didst create this All,Who dost preserve it, lest it fall,Who wilt destroy it and its ways--To thee, O triune Lord, be praise.

As into heaven's water runThe tastes of earth--yet it is one,So thou art all the things that rangeThe universe, yet dost not change.

Far, far removed, yet ever near;Untouched by passion, yet austere;Sinless, yet pitiful of heart;Ancient, yet free from age--Thou art.

Though uncreate, thou seekest birth;Dreaming, thou watchest heaven and earth;Passionless, smitest low thy foes;Who knows thy nature, Lord? Who knows?

Though many different paths, O Lord,May lead us to some great reward,They gather and are merged in theeLike floods of Ganges in the sea.

The saints who give thee every thought,Whose every act for thee is wrought,Yearn for thine everlasting peace,For bliss with thee, that cannot cease.

Like pearls that grow in ocean's night,Like sunbeams radiantly bright,Thy strange and wonder-working waysDefeat extravagance of praise.

If songs that to thy glory tendShould weary grow or take an end,Our impotence must bear the blame,And not thine unexhausted name.

The king beheld the boy, with beauty blestAnd famous lineage; he sadly thoughtHow hard it was to bend the bow, distressedBecause his child must be so dearly bought.

He said: "O holy one, a mighty deedThat full-grown elephants with greatest painCould hardly be successful in, we needNot ask of elephant-cubs. It would be vain.

For many splendid kings of valorous name,Bearing the scars of many a hard-fought day,Have tried and failed; then, covered with their shame,Have shrugged their shoulders, cursed, and strode away."

In Sita's very presence toldHer birth--love made her overbold:For mighty passion, as a rule,Will change a woman to a fool.

Laugh on! Your laughter's fruit shall beCommended to you. Gaze on me!I am a tigress, you shall know,Insulted by a feeble doe.

The form of ocean, infinitely changing,Clasping the world and all its gorgeous state,Unfathomed by the intellect's wide ranging,Is awful like the form of God, and great.

He gives his billowy lips to many a riverThat into his embrace with passion slips,Lover of many wives, a generous giverOf kisses, yet demanding eager lips.

Look back, my darling, with your fawn-like glancesUpon the path that from your prison leads;See how the sight of land again entrances,How fair the forest, as the sea recedes.

There is the spot where, sorrowfully searching,I found an anklet on the ground one day;It could not tinkle, for it was not perchingOn your dear foot, but sad and silent lay.

I learned where you were carried by the giantFrom vines that showed themselves compassionate;They could not utter words, yet with their pliantBranches they pointed where you passed of late.

The deer were kind; for while the juicy grassesFell quite unheeded from each careless mouth,They turned wide eyes that said, "'Tis there she passesThe hours as weary captive" toward the south.

There is the mountain where the peacocks' screaming,And branches smitten fragrant by the rain,And madder-flowers that woke at last from dreaming,Made unendurable my lonely pain;

And mountain-caves where I could scarce dissembleThe woe I felt when thunder crashed anew,For I remembered how you used to trembleAt thunder, seeking arms that longed for you.

Take reverent greeting to the queens, my mothers,And say to each with honour due her worth:"My child is your son's child, and not another's;Oh, pray for him, before he comes to birth."

And tell the king from me: "You saw the matter,How I was guiltless proved in fire divine;Will you desert me for mere idle chatter?Are such things done in Raghu's royal line?

Ah no! I cannot think you fickle-minded,For you were always very kind to me;Fate's thunderclap by which my eyes are blindedRewards my old, forgotten sins, I see.

Oh, I could curse my life and quickly end it,For it is useless, lived from you apart,But that I bear within, and must defend it,Your life, your child and mine, beneath my heart.

When he is born, I'll scorn my queenly station,Gaze on the sun, and live a hell on earth,That I may know no pain of separationFrom you, my husband, in another birth.

My king! Eternal duty bids you neverForget a hermit who for sorrow faints;Though I am exiled from your bed for ever,I claim the care you owe to all the saints."

When Rama's brother left her there to languishAnd bore to them she loved her final word,She loosed her throat in an excess of anguishAnd screamed as madly as a frightened bird.

Trees shed their flowers, the peacock-dances ended,The grasses dropped from mouths of feeding deer,As if the universal forest blendedIts tears with hers, and shared her woeful fear.

"If I am faithful to my lordIn thought, in action, and in word,I pray that Earth who bears us allMay bid me in her bosom fall."

The faithful wife no sooner spokeThan earth divided, and there brokeFrom deep within a flashing lightThat flamed like lightning, blinding-bright.

And, seated on a splendid throneUpheld by serpents' hoods alone,The goddess Earth rose visibly,And she was girded with the sea.

Sita was clasped in her embrace,While still she gazed on Rama's face:He cried aloud in wild despair;She sank, and left him standing there.

I have no king; my towers and terracesCrumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;As when the ugly winds of evening seizeThe rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,Where once was known the tinkle and the shineOf anklets, jackals slink, and by the lightOf flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

The water of the pools that used to splashWith drumlike music, under maidens' hands,Groans now when bisons from the jungle lashIt with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;They roost on trees, not perches; lose desireFor dancing to the drums; and feel no shameFor fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

On stairways where the women once were gladTo leave their pink and graceful footprints, hereUnwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,Receiving each a lily from his mate,Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatidesNeglected, weathered, stained by passing time,Wearing in place of garments that should please,The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;They still receive but cannot now reflectThe old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,That used to show their graceful beauty, whenGirls gently bent their twigs and plucked their flowers,Are broken by wild apes and wilder men.

The windows are not lit by lamps at night,Nor by fair faces shining in the day,But webs of spiders dim the delicate, lightSmoke-tracery with one mere daub of grey.

The river is deserted; on the shoreNo gaily bathing men and maidens leaveFood for the swans; its reedy bowers no moreAre vocal: seeing this, I can but grieve.

The fool who seeks a poet's fame,Must look for ridicule and blame,Like tiptoe dwarf who fain would tryTo pluck the fruit for giants high.

Yet I may enter through the doorThat mightier poets pierced of yore;A thread may pierce a jewel, butMust follow where the diamond cut.