ATTENDANT.—Gentle Sir, I thank you; but he is not the saint's son.

KING.—His behavior and whole bearing would have led me to doubt it, had not the place of his abode encouraged the idea.

[Follows the child, and takes him by the hand, according to the request of the attendant. Speaking aside. I marvel that the touch of this strange child Should thrill me with delight; if so it be, How must the fond caresses of a son Transport the father's soul who gave him being!

ATTENDANT [looking at them both].—Wonderful! Prodigious!

KING.—What excites your surprise, my good woman?

ATTENDANT.—I am astonished at the striking resemblance between the child and yourself; and, what is still more extraordinary, he seems to have taken to you kindly and submissively, though you are a stranger to him.

KING [fondling the child].—If he be not the son of the great sage, of what family does he come, may I ask?

ATTENDANT.—Of the race of Puru.

KING [aside].—What! are we, then, descended from the same ancestry? This, no doubt, accounts for the resemblance she traces between the child and me. Certainly it has always been an established usage among the princes of Puru's race, To dedicate the morning of their days To the world's weal, in palaces and halls, 'Mid luxury and regal pomp abiding; Then, in the wane of life, to seek release From kingly cares, and make the hallowed shade Of sacred trees their last asylum, where As hermits they may practise self-abasement, And bind themselves by rigid vows of penance. [Aloud.] But how could mortals by their own power gain admission to this sacred region?

ATTENDANT.—Your remark is just; but your wonder will cease when I tell you that his mother is the offspring of a celestial nymph, and gave him birth in the hallowed grove of Kasyapa.

KING [aside].—Strange that my hopes should be again excited! [Aloud.] But what, let me ask, was the name of the prince whom she deigned to honor with her hand?

ATTENDANT.—How could I think of polluting my lips by the mention of a wretch who had the cruelty to desert his lawful wife?

KING [aside].—Ha! the description suits me exactly. Would I could bring myself to inquire the name of the child's mother! [Reflecting.] But it is against propriety to make too minute inquiries about the wife of another man.

FIRST ATTENDANT [entering with the china peacock in her hand].—Sarva-damana, Sarva-damana, see, see, what a beautiful Sakoonta (bird).

CHILD [looking round].—My mother! Where? Let me go to her.

BOTH ATTENDANTS.—He mistook the word Sakoonta for Sakoontala. The boy dotes upon his mother, and she is ever uppermost in his thoughts.

SECOND ATTENDANT.—Nay, my dear child, I said, Look at the beauty of this Sakoonta.

KING [aside].—What! is his mother's name Sakoontala? But the name is not uncommon among women. Alas! I fear the mere similarity of a name, like the deceitful vapor of the desert, has once more raised my hopes only to dash them to the ground.

CHILD [takes the toy].—Dear nurse, what a beautiful peacock!

FIRST ATTENDANT [looking at the child. In great distress].—Alas! alas! I do not see the amulet on his wrist.

KING.—Don't distress yourself. Here it is. It fell off while he was struggling with the young lion.

[Stoops to pick it up.

BOTH ATTENDANTS.—Hold! hold! Touch it not, for your life. How marvellous! He has actually taken it up without the slightest hesitation.

[Both raise their hands to their breasts and look at each other in astonishment.

KING.—Why did you try to prevent my touching it?

FIRST ATTENDANT.—Listen, great Monarch. This amulet, known as "The Invincible," was given to the boy by the divine son of Marichi, soon after his birth, when the natal ceremony was performed. Its peculiar virtue is, that when it falls on the ground, no one excepting the father or mother of the child can touch it unhurt.

KING.—And suppose another person touches it?

FIRST ATTENDANT.—Then it instantly becomes a serpent, and bites him.

KING.—Have you ever witnessed the transformation with your own eyes?

BOTH ATTENDANTS.—Over and over again.

KING [with rapture. Aside].—Joy! joy! Are then my dearest hopes to be fulfilled? [Embraces the child.

SECOND ATTENDANT.—Come, my dear Suvrata, we must inform Sakoontala immediately of this wonderful event, though we have to interrupt her in the performance of her religious vows. [Exeunt.

CHILD [to the King].—Do not hold me. I want to go to my mother.

KING.—We will go to her together, and give her joy, my son.

CHILD.—Dushyanta is my father, not you.

KING [smiling].—His contradiction convinces me only the more.

Enter Sakoontala, in widow's apparel, with her long hair twisted into a single braid.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—I have just heard that Sarva-damana's amulet has retained its form, though a stranger raised it from the ground. I can hardly believe in my good fortune. Yet why should not Sanumati's prediction be verified?

KING [gazing at Sakoontala].—Alas! can this indeed be my Sakoontala? Clad in the weeds of widowhood, her face Emaciate with fasting, her long hair Twined in a single braid, her whole demeanor Expressive of her purity of soul: With patient constancy she thus prolongs The vow to which my cruelty condemned her.

SAKOONTALA [gazing at the King, who is pale with remorse]. Surely this is not like my husband; yet who can it be that dares pollute by the pressure of his hand my child, whose amulet should protect him from a stranger's touch?

CHILD [going to his mother].—Mother, who is this man that has been kissing me and calling me his son?

KING.—My best beloved, I have indeed treated thee most cruelly, but am now once more thy fond and affectionate lover. Refuse not to acknowledge me as thy husband.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—Be of good cheer, my heart. The anger of Destiny is at last appeased. Heaven regards thee with compassion. But is he in very truth my husband?

KING.—Behold me, best and loveliest of women, Delivered from the cloud of fatal darkness That erst oppressed my memory. Again Behold us brought together by the grace Of the great lord of Heaven. So the moon Shines forth from dim eclipse, to blend his rays With the soft lustre of his Rohini.

SAKOONTALA.—May my husband be victorious——— [She stops short, her voice choked with tears.

KING.—O fair one, though the utterance of thy prayer Be lost amid the torrent of thy tears, Yet does the sight of thy fair countenance, And of thy pallid lips, all unadorned And colorless in sorrow for my absence, Make me already more than conqueror.

CHILD.—Mother, who is this man?

SAKOONTALA.—My child, ask the deity that presides over thy destiny.

KING [falling at Sakoontala's feet].—Fairest of women, banish from thy mind The memory of my cruelty; reproach The fell delusion that overpowered my soul, And blame not me, thy husband; 'tis the curse Of him in whom the power of darkness reigns, That he mistakes the gifts of those he loves For deadly evils. Even though a friend Should wreathe a garland on a blind man's brow, Will he not cast it from him as a serpent?

SAKOONTALA.—Rise, my own husband, rise. Thou wast not to blame. My own evil deeds, committed in a former state of being, brought down this judgment upon me. How else could my husband, who was ever of a compassionate disposition, have acted so unfeelingly? [The King rises.] But tell me, my husband, how did the remembrance of thine unfortunate wife return to thy mind?

KING.—As soon as my heart's anguish is removed, and its wounds are healed, I will tell thee all. Oh! let me, fair one, chase away the drop That still bedews the fringes of thine eye; And let me thus efface the memory Of every tear that stained thy velvet cheek, Unnoticed and unheeded by thy lord, When in his madness he rejected thee. [Wipes away the tear.

SAKOONTALA [seeing the signet-ring on his finger].—Ah! my dear husband, is that the Lost Ring?

KING.—Yes; the moment I recovered it, my memory was restored.

SAKOONTALA.—The ring was to blame in allowing itself to be lost at the very time when I was anxious to convince my noble husband of the reality of my marriage.

KING.—Receive it back, as the beautiful twining plant receives again its blossom in token of its reunion with the spring.

SAKOONTALA.—Nay; I can never more place confidence in it. Let my husband retain it.

Enter Matali.

MATALI.—I congratulate your Majesty. Happy are you in your reunion with your wife: happy are you in beholding the face of your son.

KING.—Yes, indeed. My heart's dearest wish has borne sweet fruit. But tell me, Matali, is this joyful event known to the great Indra?

MATALI [smiling].—What is unknown to the gods? But come with me, noble Prince, the divine Kasyapa graciously permits thee to be presented to him.

KING.—Sakoontala, take our child and lead the way. We will together go into the presence of the holy Sage.

SAKOONTALA.—I shrink from entering the august presence of the great Saint, even with my husband at my side.

KING.—Nay; on such a joyous occasion it is highly proper. Come, come; I entreat thee. [All advance.

Kasyapa is discovered seated on a throne with his wife Aditi.

KASYAPA [gazing at Dushyanta. To his wife].—O Aditi, This is the mighty hero, King Dushyanta, Protector of the earth; who, at the head Of the celestial armies of thy son, Does battle with the enemies of heaven. Thanks to his bow, the thunderbolt of Indra Rests from its work, no more the minister Of death and desolation to the world, But a mere symbol of divinity.

ADITI.—He bears in his noble form all the marks of dignity.

MATALI [to Dushyanta].—Sire, the venerable progenitors of the celestials are gazing at your Majesty with as much affection as if you were their son. You may advance towards them.

KING.—Are these, O Matali, the holy pair, Offspring of Daksha and divine Marichi, Children of Brahma's sons, by sages deemed Sole fountain of celestial light, diffused Through twelve effulgent orbs? Are these the pair From whom the ruler of the triple world, Sovereign of gods and lord of sacrifice, Sprang into being? That immortal pair Whom Vishnu, greater than the self-existent, Chose for his parents, when, to save mankind, He took upon himself the shape of mortals?

MATALI.—Even so.

KING [prostrating himself].—Most august of beings, Dushyanta, content to have fulfilled the commands of your son Indra, offers you his adoration.

KASYAPA.—My son, long may'st thou live, and happily may'st thou reign over the earth!

ADITI.—My son, may'st thou ever be invincible in the field of battle!

SAKOONTALA.—I also prostrate myself before you, most adorable beings, and my child with me.

KASYAPA.—My daughter, Thy lord resembles Indra, and thy child Is noble as Jayanta, Indra's son; I have no worthier blessing left for thee, May'st thou be faithful as the god's own wife!

ADITI.—My daughter, may'st thou be always the object of thy husband's fondest love; and may thy son live long to be the joy of both his parents! Be seated.

[All sit down in the presence of Kasyapa.

KASYAPA [regarding each of them by turns].—Hail to the beautiful Sakoontala! Hail to her noble son! and hail to thee, Illustrious Prince! Rare triple combination Of virtue, wealth, and energy united!

KING.—Most venerable Kasyapa, by your favor all my desires were accomplished even before I was admitted to your presence. Never was mortal so honored that his boon should be granted ere it was solicited. Because, Bloom before fruit, the clouds before the rain— Cause first and then effect, in endless sequence, Is the unchanging law of constant nature: But, ere the blessing issued from thy lips, The wishes of my heart were all fulfilled.

MATALI.—It is thus that the great progenitors of the world confer favors.

KING.—Most reverend Sage, this thy handmaid was married to me by the Gandharva ceremony, and after a time was conducted to my palace by her relations. Meanwhile a fatal delusion seized me; I lost my memory and rejected her, thus committing a grievous offence against the venerable Kanwa, who is of thy divine race. Afterwards the sight of this ring restored my faculties, and brought back to my mind all the circumstances of my union with his daughter. But my conduct still seems to me incomprehensible; As foolish as the fancies of a man Who, when he sees an elephant, denies That 'tis an elephant, yet afterwards, When its huge bulk moves onward, hesitates, Yet will not be convinced till it has passed Forever from his sight, and left behind No vestige of its presence save its footsteps.

KASYAPA.—My son, cease to think thyself in fault. Even the delusion that possessed thy mind was not brought about by any act of thine. Listen to me.

KING.—I am attentive.

KASYAPA.—Know that when the nymph Menaka, the mother of Sakoontala, became aware of her daughter's anguish in consequence of the loss of the ring at the nymphs' pool, and of thy subsequent rejection of her, she brought her and confided her to the care of Aditi. And I no sooner saw her than I ascertained by my divine power of meditation, that thy repudiation of thy poor faithful wife had been caused entirely by the curse of Durvasas—not by thine own fault—and that the spell would terminate on the discovery of the ring.

KING [drawing a deep breath].—Oh! what a weight is taken off my mind, now that my character is cleared of reproach.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—Joy! joy! My revered husband did not, then, reject me without good reason, though I have no recollection of the curse pronounced upon me. But, in all probability, I unconsciously brought it upon myself, when I was so distracted on being separated from my husband soon after our marriage. For I now remember that my two friends advised me not to fail to show the ring in case he should have forgotten me.

KASYAPA.—At last, my daughter, thou art happy, and hast gained thy heart's desire. Indulge, then, no feeling of resentment against thy partner. See, now, Though he repulsed thee, 'twas the sage's curse That clouded his remembrance; 'twas the curse That made thy tender husband harsh towards thee. Soon as the spell was broken, and his soul Delivered from its darkness, in a moment Thou didst gain thine empire o'er his heart. So on the tarnished surface of a mirror No image is reflected, till the dust That dimmed its wonted lustre is removed.

KING.—Holy father, see here the hope of my royal race. [Takes his child by the hand.

KASYAPA.—Know that he, too, will become the monarch of the whole earth. Observe, Soon, a resistless hero, shall he cross The trackless ocean, borne above the waves In an aerial car; and shall subdue The earth's seven sea-girt isles.[44] Now has he gained, As the brave tamer of the forest-beasts, The title Sarva-damana; but then Mankind shall hail him as King Bharata, And call him the supporter of the world.

KING.—We cannot but entertain the highest hopes of a child for whom your highness performed the natal rites.

ADITI.—My revered husband, should not the intelligence be conveyed to Kanwa, that his daughter's wishes are fulfilled, and her happiness complete? He is Sakoontala's foster-father. Menaka, who is one of my attendants, is her mother, and dearly does she love her daughter.

SAKOONTALA [aside].—The venerable matron has given utterance to the very wish that was in my mind.

KASYAPA.—His penances have gained for him the faculty of omniscience, and the whole scene is already present to his mind's eye.

KING.—Then most assuredly he cannot be very angry with me.

KASYAPA.—Nevertheless it becomes us to send him intelligence of this happy event, and hear his reply. What, ho there!

PUPIL [entering].—Holy father, what are your commands?

KASYAPA.—My good Galava, delay not an instant, but hasten through the air and convey to the venerable Kanwa, from me, the happy news that the fatal spell has ceased, that Dushyanta's memory is restored, that his daughter Sakoontala has a son, and that she is once more tenderly acknowledged by her husband.

PUPIL.—Your highness's commands shall be obeyed. [Exit.

KASYAPA.—And now, my dear son, take thy consort and thy child, re-ascend the car of Indra, and return to thy imperial capital.

KING.—Most holy father, I obey.

KASYAPA.—And accept this blessing— For countless ages may the god of gods, Lord of the atmosphere, by copious showers Secure abundant harvest to thy subjects; And thou by frequent offerings preserve The Thunderer's friendship! Thus, by interchange Of kindly actions, may you both confer Unnumbered benefits on earth and heaven!

KING.—Holy father, I will strive, as far as I am able, to attain this happiness.

KASYAPA.—What other favor can I bestow on thee, my son?

KING.—What other can I desire? If, however, you permit me to form another wish, I would humbly beg that the saying of the sage Bharata be fulfilled:— May kings reign only for their subjects' weal! May the divine Saraswati, the source Of speech, and goddess of dramatic art, Be ever honored by the great and wise! And may the purple self-existent god, Whose vital Energy pervades all space, From future transmigrations save my soul!

[Exeunt omnes.

[43] A sacred range of mountains lying along the Himalaya chain immediately adjacent to Kailasa, the paradise of Kuvera, the god of wealth.

[44] According to the mythical geography of the Hindoos the earth consisted of seven islands surrounded by seven seas.



BALLADS OF HINDOSTAN

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

BY

TORU DUTT

INTRODUCTION

If Toru Dutt were alive, she would still be younger than any recognized European writer, and yet her fame, which is already considerable, has been entirely posthumous. Within the brief space of four years which now divides us from the date of her decease, her genius has been revealed to the world under many phases, and has been recognized throughout France and England. Her name, at least, is no longer unfamiliar in the ear of any well-read man or woman. But at the hour of her death she had published but one book, and that book had found but two reviewers in Europe. One of these, M. Andre Theuriet, the well-known poet and novelist, gave the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" adequate praise in the "Revue des Deux Mondes"; but the other, the writer of the present notice, has a melancholy satisfaction in having been a little earlier still in sounding the only note of welcome which reached the dying poetess from England. It was while Professor W. Minto was editor of the "Examiner," that one day in August, 1876, in the very heart of the dead season for books, I happened to be in the office of that newspaper, and was upbraiding the whole body of publishers for issuing no books worth reviewing. At that moment the postman brought in a thin and sallow packet with a wonderful Indian postmark on it, and containing a most unattractive orange pamphlet of verse, printed at Bhowanipore, and entitled "A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields, by Toru Dutt." This shabby little book of some two hundred pages, without preface or introduction, seemed specially destined by its particular providence to find its way hastily into the waste-paper basket. I remember that Mr. Minto thrust it into my unwilling hands, and said "There! see whether you can't make something of that." A hopeless volume it seemed, with its queer type, published at Bhowanipore, printed at the Saptahiksambad Press! But when at last I took it out of my pocket, what was my surprise and almost rapture to open at such verse as this:—

"Still barred thy doors! The far East glows, The morning wind blows fresh and free. Should not the hour that wakes the rose Awaken also thee?

"All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song, Light in the sky deep red above, Song, in the lark of pinions strong, And in my heart, true Love.

"Apart we miss our nature's goal, Why strive to cheat our destinies? Was not my love made for thy soul? Thy beauty for mine eyes? No longer sleep, Oh, listen now! I wait and weep, But where art thou?"

When poetry is as good as this it does not much matter whether Rouveyre prints it upon Whatman paper, or whether it steals to light in blurred type from some press in Bhowanipore.

Toru Dutt was the youngest of the three children of a high-caste Hindoo couple in Bengal. Her father, who survives them all, the Baboo Govin Chunder Dutt, is himself distinguished among his countrymen for the width of his views and the vigor of his intelligence. His only son, Abju, died in 1865, at the age of fourteen, and left his two younger sisters to console their parents. Aru, the elder daughter, born in 1854, was eighteen months senior to Toru, the subject of this memoir, who was born in Calcutta on March 4, 1856. With the exception of one year's visit to Bombay, the childhood of these girls was spent in Calcutta, at their father's garden-house. In a poem now printed for the first time, Toru refers to the scene of her earliest memories, the circling wilderness of foliage, the shining tank with the round leaves of the lilies, the murmuring dusk under the vast branches of the central casuarina-tree. Here, in a mystical retirement more irksome to a European in fancy than to an Oriental in reality, the brain of this wonderful child was moulded. She was pure Hindoo, full of the typical qualities of her race and blood, and, as the present volume shows us for the first time, preserving to the last her appreciation of the poetic side of her ancient religion, though faith itself in Vishnu and Siva had been cast aside with childish things and been replaced by a purer faith. Her mother fed her imagination with the old songs and legends of their people, stories which it was the last labor of her life to weave into English verse; but it would seem that the marvellous faculties of Toru's mind still slumbered, when, in her thirteenth year, her father decided to take his daughters to Europe to learn English and French. To the end of her days Toru was a better French than English scholar. She loved France best, she knew its literature best, she wrote its language with more perfect elegance. The Dutts arrived in Europe at the close of 1869, and the girls went to school, for the first and last time, at a French pension. They did not remain there very many months; their father took them to Italy and England with him, and finally they attended for a short time, but with great zeal and application, the lectures for women at Cambridge. In November, 1873, they went back to Bengal, and the four remaining years of Toru's life were spent in the old garden-house at Calcutta, in a feverish dream of intellectual effort and imaginative production. When we consider what she achieved in these forty-five months of seclusion, it is impossible to wonder that the frail and hectic body succumbed under so excessive a strain.

She brought with her from Europe a store of knowledge that would have sufficed to make an English or French girl seem learned, but which in her case was simply miraculous. Immediately on her return she began to study Sanscrit with the same intense application which she gave to all her work, and mastering the language with extraordinary swiftness, she plunged into its mysterious literature. But she was born to write, and despairing of an audience in her own language, she began to adopt ours as a medium for her thought. Her first essay, published when she was eighteen, was a monograph, in the "Bengal Magazine," on Leconte de Lisle, a writer with whom she had a sympathy which is very easy to comprehend. The austere poet of "La Mort de Valmiki" was, obviously, a figure to whom the poet of "Sindhu" must needs be attracted on approaching European literature. This study, which was illustrated by translations into English verse, was followed by another on Josephin Soulary, in whom she saw more than her maturer judgment might have justified. There is something very interesting and now, alas! still more pathetic in these sturdy and workmanlike essays in unaided criticism. Still more solitary her work became, in July, 1874, when her only sister, Aru, died, at the age of twenty. She seems to have been no less amiable than her sister, and if gifted with less originality and a less forcible ambition, to have been finely accomplished. Both sisters were well-trained musicians, with full contralto voices, and Aru had a faculty for design which promised well. The romance of "Mlle. D'Arvers" was originally projected for Aru to illustrate, but no page of this book did Aru ever see.

In 1876, as we have said, appeared that obscure first volume at Bhowanipore. The "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" is certainly the most imperfect of Toru's writings, but it is not the least interesting. It is a wonderful mixture of strength and weakness, of genius overriding great obstacles, and of talent succumbing to ignorance and inexperience. That it should have been performed at all is so extraordinary that we forget to be surprised at its inequality. The English verse is sometimes exquisite; at other times the rules of our prosody are absolutely ignored, and it is obvious that the Hindoo poetess was chanting to herself a music that is discord in an English ear. The notes are no less curious, and to a stranger no less bewildering. Nothing could be more naive than the writer's ignorance at some points, or more startling than her learning at others. On the whole, the attainment of the book was simply astounding. It consisted of a selection of translations from nearly one hundred French poets, chosen by the poetess herself on a principle of her own which gradually dawned upon the careful reader. She eschewed the Classicist writers as though they had never existed. For her Andre Chenier was the next name in chronological order after Du Bartas. Occasionally she showed a profundity of research that would have done no discredit to Mr. Saintsbury or "le doux Assellineau." She was ready to pronounce an opinion on Napol le Pyrenean or detect a plagiarism in Baudelaire. But she thought that Alexander Smith was still alive, and she was curiously vague about the career of Sainte-Beuve. This inequality of equipment was a thing inevitable to her isolation, and hardly worthy recording, except to show how laborious her mind was, and how quick to make the best of small resources.

We have already seen that the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields" attracted the very minimum of attention in England. In France it was talked about a little more. M. Garcin de Tassy, the famous Orientalist, who scarcely survived Toru by twelve months, spoke of it to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, author of a somewhat remarkable book on the position of women in ancient Indian society. Almost simultaneously this volume fell into the hands of Toru, and she was moved to translate it into English, for the use of Hindoos less instructed than herself. In January, 1877, she accordingly wrote to Mlle. Bader requesting her authorization, and received a prompt and kind reply. On the 18th of March Toru wrote again to this, her solitary correspondent in the world of European literature, and her letter, which has been preserved, shows that she had already descended into the valley of the shadow of death:—

"Ma constitution n'est pas forte; j'ai contracte une toux opiniatre, il y a plus de deux ans, qui ne me quitte point. Cependant j'espere mettre la main a l'oeuvre bientot. Je ne peux dire, mademoiselle, combien votre affection—car vous les aimez, votre livre et votre lettre en temoignent assez—pour mes compatriotes et mon pays me touche; et je suis fiere de pouvoir le dire que les heroines de nos grandes epopees sont dignes de tout honneur et de tout amour. Y a-t-il d'heroine plus touchante, plus aimable que Sita? Je ne le crois pas. Quand j'entends ma mere chanter, le soir, les vieux chants de notre pays, je pleure presque toujours. La plainte de Sita, quand, bannie pour la seconde fois, elle erre dans la vaste foret, seule, le desespoir et l'effroi dans l'ame, est si pathetique qu'il n'y a personne, je crois, qui puisse l'entendre sans verser des larmes. Je vous envois sous ce pli deux petites traductions du Sanscrit, cette belle langue antique. Malheureusement j'ai ete obligee de faire cesser mes traductions de Sanscrit, il y a six mois. Ma sante ne me permet pas de les continuer."

These simple and pathetic words, in which the dying poetess pours out her heart to the one friend she had, and that one gained too late, seem as touching and as beautiful as any strain of Marceline Valmore's immortal verse. In English poetry I do not remember anything that exactly parallels their resigned melancholy. Before the month of March was over, Toru had taken to her bed. Unable to write, she continued to read, strewing her sick-room with the latest European books, and entering with interest into the questions raised by the Societe Asiatique of Paris, in its printed Transactions. On the 30th of July she wrote her last letter to Mlle. Clarisse Bader, and a month later, on August 30, 1877, at the age of twenty-one years six months and twenty-six days, she breathed her last in her father's house in Maniktollah street, Calcutta.

In the first distraction of grief it seemed as though her unequalled promise had been entirely blighted, and as though she would be remembered only by her single book. But as her father examined her papers, one completed work after another revealed itself. First a selection from the sonnets of the Comte de Grammont, translated into English, turned up, and was printed in a Calcutta magazine; then some fragments of an English story, which were printed in another Calcutta magazine. Much more important, however, than any of these was a complete romance, written in French, being the identical story for which her sister Aru had proposed to make the illustrations. In the meantime Toru was no sooner dead than she began to be famous. In May, 1878, there appeared a second edition of the "Sheaf gleaned in French Fields," with a touching sketch of her death, by her father; and in 1879 was published, under the editorial care of Mlle. Clarisse Bader, the romance of "Le Journal de Mlle. D'Arvers," forming a handsome volume of 259 pages. This book, begun, as it appears, before the family returned from Europe, and finished nobody knows when, is an attempt to describe scenes from modern French society, but it is less interesting as an experiment of the fancy, than as a revelation of the mind of a young Hindoo woman of genius. The story is simple, clearly told, and interesting; the studies of character have nothing French about them, but they are full of vigor and originality. The description of the hero is most characteristically Indian:—

"Il est beau en effet. Sa taille est haute, mais quelques-uns la trouveraient mince; sa chevelure noire est bouclee et tombe jusqu'a la nuque; ses yeux noirs sont profonds et bien fendus; le front est noble; la levre superieure, couverte par une moustache naissante et noire, est parfaitement modelee; son menton a quelque chose de severe; son teint est d'un blanc presque feminin, ce qui denote sa haute naissance."

In this description we seem to recognize some Surya or Soma of Hindoo mythology, and the final touch, meaningless as applied to a European, reminds us that in India whiteness of skin has always been a sign of aristocratic birth, from the days when it originally distinguished the conquering Aryas from the indigenous race of the Dasyous.

As a literary composition "Mlle. D'Arvers" deserves high commendation. It deals with the ungovernable passion of two brothers for one placid and beautiful girl, a passion which leads to fratricide and madness. That it is a very melancholy and tragical story is obvious from this brief sketch of its contents, but it is remarkable for coherence and self-restraint no less than for vigor of treatment. Toru Dutt never sinks to melodrama in the course of her extraordinary tale, and the wonder is that she is not more often fantastic and unreal.

But we believe that the original English poems will be ultimately found to constitute Toru's chief legacy to posterity. These ballads form the last and most matured of her writings, and were left so far fragmentary at her death that the fourth and fifth in her projected series of nine were not to be discovered in any form among her papers. It is probable that she had not even commenced them. Her father, therefore, to give a certain continuity to the series, has filled up these blanks with two stories from the "Vishnupurana," which originally appeared respectively in the "Calcutta Review" and in the "Bengal Magazine." These are interesting, but a little rude in form, and they have not the same peculiar value as the rhymed octo-syllabic ballads. In these last we see Toru no longer attempting vainly, though heroically, to compete with European literature on its own ground, but turning to the legends of her own race and country for inspiration. No modern Oriental has given us so strange an insight into the conscience of the Asiatic as is presented in the story of "Prehiad," or so quaint a piece of religious fancy as the ballad of "Jogadhya Uma." The poetess seems in these verses to be chanting to herself those songs of her mother's race to which she always turned with tears of pleasure. They breathe a Vedic solemnity and simplicity of temper, and are singularly devoid of that littleness and frivolity which seem, if we may judge by a slight experience, to be the bane of modern India.

As to the merely technical character of these poems, it may be suggested that in spite of much in them that is rough and inchoate, they show that Toru was advancing in her mastery of English verse. Such a stanza as this, selected out of many no less skilful, could hardly be recognized as the work of one by whom the language was a late acquirement:—

"What glorious trees! The sombre saul, On which the eye delights to rest— The betel-nut, a pillar tall, With feathery branches for a crest— The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide— The pale faint-scented bitter neem, The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, With flowers that have the ruby's gleam."

In other passages, of course, the text reads like a translation from some stirring ballad, and we feel that it gives but a faint and discordant echo of the music welling in Toru's brain. For it must frankly be confessed that in the brief May-day of her existence she had not time to master our language as Blanco White did, or as Chamisso mastered German. To the end of her days, fluent and graceful as she was, she was not entirely conversant with English, especially with the colloquial turns of modern speech. Often a very fine thought is spoiled for hypercritical ears by the queer turn of expression which she has innocently given to it. These faults are found to a much smaller degree in her miscellaneous poems. Her sonnets seem to me to be of great beauty, and her longer piece, entitled "Our Casuarina Tree," needs no apology for its rich and mellifluous numbers.

It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honors which need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced so much of lasting worth. And her courage and fortitude were worthy of her intelligence. Among "last words" of celebrated people, that which her father has recorded, "It is only the physical pain that makes me cry," is not the least remarkable, or the least significant of strong character. It was to a native of our island, and to one ten years senior to Toru, to whom it was said, in words more appropriate, surely, to her than to Oldham,

"Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness, and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime."

That mellow sweetness was all that Toru lacked to perfect her as an English poet, and of no other Oriental who has ever lived can the same be said. When the history of the literature of our country comes to be written, there is sure to be a page in it dedicated to this fragile exotic blossom of song.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.

London, 1881.



BALLADS OF HINDOSTAN

JOGADHYA UMA

"Shell-bracelets ho! Shell-bracelets ho! Fair maids and matrons come and buy!" Along the road, in morning's glow, The pedler raised his wonted cry. The road ran straight, a red, red line, To Khirogram, for cream renowned, Through pasture-meadows where the kine, In knee-deep grass, stood magic bound And half awake, involved in mist, That floated in dun coils profound, Till by the sudden sunbeams kissed Rich rainbow hues broke all around.

"Shell-bracelets ho! Shell-bracelets ho!" The roadside trees still dripped with dew, And hung their blossoms like a show. Who heard the cry? 'Twas but a few, A ragged herd-boy, here and there, With his long stick and naked feet; A ploughman wending to his care, The field from which he hopes the wheat; An early traveller, hurrying fast To the next town; an urchin slow Bound for the school; these heard and passed, Unheeding all—"Shell-bracelets ho!"

Pellucid spread a lake-like tank Beside the road now lonelier still, High on three sides arose the bank Which fruit-trees shadowed at their will; Upon the fourth side was the Ghat, With its broad stairs of marble white, And at the entrance-arch there sat, Full face against the morning light, A fair young woman with large eyes, And dark hair falling to her zone, She heard the pedler's cry arise, And eager seemed his ware to own.

"Shell-bracelets ho! See, maiden see! The rich enamel sunbeam kissed! Happy, oh happy, shalt thou be, Let them but clasp that slender wrist; These bracelets are a mighty charm, They keep a lover ever true, And widowhood avert, and harm, Buy them, and thou shalt never rue. Just try them on!"—She stretched her hand, "Oh what a nice and lovely fit! No fairer hand, in all the land, And lo! the bracelet matches it."

Dazzled the pedler on her gazed Till came the shadow of a fear, While she the bracelet arm upraised Against the sun to view more clear. Oh she was lovely, but her look Had something of a high command That filled with awe. Aside she shook Intruding curls by breezes fanned And blown across her brows and face, And asked the price, which when she heard She nodded, and with quiet grace For payment to her home referred.

"And where, O maiden, is thy house? But no, that wrist-ring has a tongue, No maiden art thou, but a spouse, Happy, and rich, and fair, and young." "Far otherwise, my lord is poor, And him at home thou shalt not find; Ask for my father; at the door Knock loudly; he is deaf, but kind. Seest thou that lofty gilded spire Above these tufts of foliage green? That is our place; its point of fire Will guide thee o'er the tract between."

"That is the temple spire."—"Yes, there We live; my father is the priest, The manse is near, a building fair But lowly, to the temple's east. When thou hast knocked, and seen him, say, His daughter, at Dhamaser Ghat, Shell-bracelets bought from thee to-day, And he must pay so much for that. Be sure, he will not let thee pass Without the value, and a meal. If he demur, or cry alas! No money hath he—then reveal,

Within the small box, marked with streaks Of bright vermilion, by the shrine, The key whereof has lain for weeks Untouched, he'll find some coin—'tis mine. That will enable him to pay The bracelet's price, now fare thee well!" She spoke, the pedler went away, Charmed with her voice, as by some spell; While she left lonely there, prepared To plunge into the water pure, And like a rose her beauty bared, From all observance quite secure.

Not weak she seemed, nor delicate, Strong was each limb of flexile grace, And full the bust; the mien elate, Like hers, the goddess of the chase On Latmos hill—and oh, the face Framed in its cloud of floating hair, No painter's hand might hope to trace The beauty and the glory there! Well might the pedler look with awe, For though her eyes were soft, a ray Lit them at times, which kings who saw Would never dare to disobey.

Onwards through groves the pedler sped Till full in front the sunlit spire Arose before him. Paths which led To gardens trim in gay attire Lay all around. And lo! the manse, Humble but neat with open door! He paused, and blest the lucky chance That brought his bark to such a shore. Huge straw ricks, log huts full of grain, Sleek cattle, flowers, a tinkling bell, Spoke in a language sweet and plain, "Here smiling Peace and Plenty dwell."

Unconsciously he raised his cry, "Shell-bracelets ho!" And at his voice Looked out the priest, with eager eye, And made his heart at once rejoice. "Ho, Sankha pedler! Pass not by, But step thou in, and share the food Just offered on our altar high, If thou art in a hungry mood. Welcome are all to this repast! The rich and poor, the high and low! Come, wash thy feet, and break thy fast, Then on thy journey strengthened go."

"Oh thanks, good priest! Observance due And greetings! May thy name be blest! I came on business, but I knew, Here might be had both food and rest Without a charge; for all the poor Ten miles around thy sacred shrine Know that thou keepest open door, And praise that generous hand of thine: But let my errand first be told, For bracelets sold to thine this day, So much thou owest me in gold, Hast thou the ready cash to pay?

The bracelets were enamelled—so The price is high."—"How! Sold to mine? Who bought them, I should like to know." "Thy daughter, with the large black eyne, Now bathing at the marble ghat." Loud laughed the priest at this reply, "I shall not put up, friend, with that; No daughter in the world have I, An only son is all my stay; Some minx has played a trick, no doubt, But cheer up, let thy heart be gay. Be sure that I shall find her out."

"Nay, nay, good father, such a face Could not deceive, I must aver; At all events, she knows thy place, 'And if my father should demur To pay thee'—thus she said—'or cry He has no money, tell him straight The box vermilion-streaked to try, That's near the shrine,'" "Well, wait, friend, wait!" The priest said thoughtful, and he ran And with the open box came back, "Here is the price exact, my man, No surplus over, and no lack.

How strange! how strange! Oh blest art thou To have beheld her, touched her hand, Before whom Vishnu's self must bow, And Brahma and his heavenly band! Here have I worshipped her for years And never seen the vision bright; Vigils and fasts and secret tears Have almost quenched my outward sight; And yet that dazzling form and face I have not seen, and thou, dear friend, To thee, unsought for, comes the grace, What may its purport be, and end?

How strange! How strange! Oh happy thou! And couldst thou ask no other boon Than thy poor bracelet's price? That brow Resplendent as the autumn moon Must have bewildered thee, I trow, And made thee lose thy senses all." A dim light on the pedler now Began to dawn; and he let fall His bracelet basket in his haste, And backward ran the way he came; What meant the vision fair and chaste, Whose eyes were they—those eyes of flame?

Swift ran the pedler as a hind, The old priest followed on his trace, They reached the Ghat but could not find The lady of the noble face. The birds were silent in the wood, The lotus flowers exhaled a smell Faint, over all the solitude, A heron as a sentinel Stood by the bank. They called—in vain, No answer came from hill or fell, The landscape lay in slumber's chain, E'en Echo slept within her cell.

Broad sunshine, yet a hush profound! They turned with saddened hearts to go; Then from afar there came a sound Of silver bells;—the priest said low, "O Mother, Mother, deign to hear, The worship-hour has rung; we wait In meek humility and fear. Must we return home desolate? Oh come, as late thou cam'st unsought, Or was it but an idle dream? Give us some sign if it was not, A word, a breath, or passing gleam."

Sudden from out the water sprung A rounded arm, on which they saw As high the lotus buds among It rose, the bracelet white, with awe. Then a wide ripple tost and swung The blossoms on that liquid plain, And lo! the arm so fair and young Sank in the waters down again. They bowed before the mystic Power, And as they home returned in thought, Each took from thence a lotus flower In memory of the day and spot.

Years, centuries, have passed away, And still before the temple shrine Descendants of the pedler pay Shell-bracelets of the old design As annual tribute. Much they own In lands and gold—but they confess From that eventful day alone Dawned on their industry—success. Absurd may be the tale I tell, Ill-suited to the marching times, I loved the lips from which it fell, So let it stand among my rhymes.



BUTTOO

"Ho! Master of the wondrous art! Instruct me in fair archery, And buy for aye—a grateful heart That will not grudge to give thy fee." Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes, A hunter's lowborn son was he— To Dronacharjya, great and wise, Who sat with princes round his knee.

Up Time's fair stream far back—oh far, The great wise teacher must be sought! The Kurus had not yet in war With the Pandava brethren fought. In peace, at Dronacharjya's feet, Magic and archery they learned, A complex science, which we meet No more, with ages past inurned.

"And who art thou," the teacher said, "My science brave to learn so fain? Which many kings who wear the thread Have asked to learn of me in vain." "My name is Buttoo," said the youth, "A hunter's son, I know not Fear;" The teacher answered, smiling smooth, "Then know him from this time, my dear."

Unseen the magic arrow came, Amidst the laughter and the scorn Of royal youths—like lightning flame Sudden and sharp. They blew the horn, As down upon the ground he fell, Not hurt, but made a jest and game;— He rose—and waved a proud farewell, But cheek and brow grew red with shame.

And lo—a single, single tear Dropped from his eyelash as he past, "My place I gather is not here; No matter—what is rank or caste? In us is honor, or disgrace, Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused, "The question is—not wealth or place, But gifts well used, or gifts abused."

"And I shall do my best to gain The science that man will not teach, For life is as a shadow vain, Until the utmost goal we reach To which the soul points. I shall try To realize my waking dream, And what if I should chance to die? None miss one bubble from a stream."

So thinking, on and on he went, Till he attained the forest's verge, The garish day was well-nigh spent, Birds had already raised its dirge. Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm! It soothed at once his wounded pride, And on his spirit shed a balm That all its yearnings purified.

What glorious trees! The sombre saul On which the eye delights to rest, The betel-nut—a pillar tall, With feathery branches for a crest, The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide, The pale faint-scented bitter neem, The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,

The Indian fig's pavilion tent In which whole armies might repose, With here and there a little rent, The sunset's beauty to disclose, The bamboo boughs that sway and swing 'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows, The mango-tope, a close dark ring, Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,

The champac, bok, and South-sea pine, The nagessur with pendant flowers Like ear-rings—and the forest vine That clinging over all, embowers, The sirish famed in Sanscrit song Which rural maidens love to wear, The peepul giant-like and strong, The bramble with its matted hair,

All these, and thousands, thousands more, With helmet red, or golden crown, Or green tiara, rose before The youth in evening's shadows brown. He passed into the forest—there New sights of wonder met his view, A waving Pampas green and fair All glistening with the evening dew.

How vivid was the breast-high grass! Here waved in patches, forest corn— Here intervened a deep morass— Here arid spots of verdure shorn Lay open—rock or barren sand— And here again the trees arose Thick clustering—a glorious band Their tops still bright with sunset glows.—

Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs, And seemed to welcome him with signs, Onwards and on—till Buttoo's brows Are gemmed with pearls, and day declines. Then in a grassy open space He sits and leans against a tree, To let the wind blow on his face And look around him leisurely.

Herds, and still herds, of timid deer Were feeding in the solitude, They knew not man, and felt no fear, And heeded not his neighborhood, Some young ones with large eyes and sweet Came close, and rubbed their foreheads smooth Against his arms, and licked his feet, As if they wished his cares to soothe.

"They touch me," he exclaimed with joy, "They have no pride of caste like men, They shrink not from the hunter-boy, Should not my home be with them then? Here in this forest let me dwell, With these companions innocent, And learn each science and each spell All by myself in banishment.

A calm, calm life, and it shall be Its own exceeding great reward! No thoughts to vex in all I see, No jeers to bear or disregard;— All creatures and inanimate things Shall be my tutors; I shall learn From beast, and fish, and bird with wings, And rock, and stream, and tree, and fern.

With this resolve, he soon began To build a hut, of reeds and leaves, And when that needful work was done He gathered in his store, the sheaves Of forest corn, and all the fruit, Date, plum, guava, he could find, And every pleasant nut and root By Providence for man designed,

A statue next of earth he made, An image of the teacher wise, So deft he laid, the light and shade, On figure, forehead, face and eyes, That any one who chanced to view That image tall might soothly swear, If he great Dronacharjya knew, The teacher in his flesh was there.

Then at the statue's feet he placed A bow, and arrows tipped with steel, With wild-flower garlands interlaced, And hailed the figure in his zeal As Master, and his head he bowed, A pupil reverent from that hour Of one who late had disallowed The claim, in pride of place and power.

By strained sense, by constant prayer, By steadfastness of heart and will, By courage to confront and dare, All obstacles he conquered still; A conscience clear—a ready hand, Joined to a meek humility, Success must everywhere command, How could he fail who had all three!

And now, by tests assured, he knows His own God-gifted wondrous might, Nothing to any man he owes, Unaided he has won the fight; Equal to gods themselves—above Wishmo and Drona—for his worth His name, he feels, shall be with love Reckoned with great names of the earth.

Yet lacks he not, in reverence To Dronacharjya, who declined To teach him—nay, with e'en offence That well might wound a noble mind, Drove him away;—for in his heart Meek, placable, and ever kind, Resentment had not any part, And Malice never was enshrined.

One evening, on his work intent, Alone he practised Archery, When lo! the bow proved false and sent The arrow from its mark awry; Again he tried—and failed again; Why was it? Hark!—A wild dog's bark! An evil omen:—it was plain Some evil on his path hung dark!

Thus many times he tried and failed, And still that lean, persistent dog At distance, like some spirit wailed, Safe in the cover of a fog. His nerves unstrung, with many a shout He strove to frighten it away, It would not go—but roamed about, Howling, as wolves howl for their prey.

Worried and almost in a rage, One magic shaft at last he sent, A sample of his science sage, To quiet but the noises meant. Unerring to its goal it flew, No death ensued, no blood was dropped; But by the hush the young man knew At last that howling noise had stopped.

It happened on this very day That the Pandava princes came With all the Kuru princes gay To beat the woods and hunt the game. Parted from others in the chase, Arjuna brave the wild dog found— Stuck still the shaft—but not a trace Of hurt, though tongue and lip were bound.

"Wonder of wonders! Didst not thou O Dronacharjya, promise me Thy crown in time should deck my brow And I be first in archery? Lo! here, some other thou hast taught A magic spell—to all unknown; Who has in secret from thee bought The knowledge, in this arrow shown!"

Indignant thus Arjuna spake To his great Master when they met— "My word, my honor, is at stake, Judge not, Arjuna, judge not yet. Come, let us see the dog "—and straight They followed up the creature's trace. They found it, in the self-same state, Dumb, yet unhurt—near Buttoo's place.

A hut—a statue—and a youth In the dim forest—what mean these? They gazed in wonder, for in sooth The thing seemed full of mysteries. "Now who art thou that dar'st to raise Mine image in the wilderness? Is it for worship and for praise? What is thine object? speak, confess,"

"Oh Master, unto thee I came To learn thy science. Name or pelf I had not, so was driven with shame, And here I learn all by myself. But still as Master thee revere, For who so great in archery! Lo, all my inspiration here, And all my knowledge is from thee."

"If I am Master, now thou hast Finished thy course, give me my due. Let all the past, be dead and past, Henceforth be ties between us new." "All that I have, O Master mine, All I shall conquer by my skill, Gladly shall I to thee resign, Let me but know thy gracious will,"

"Is it a promise?" "Yea, I swear So long as I have breath and life To give thee all thou wilt," "Beware! Rash promise ever ends in strife." "Thou art my Master—ask! oh ask! From thee my inspiration came, Thou canst not set too hard a task, Nor aught refuse I, free from blame."

"If it be so—Arjuna hear!" Arjuna and the youth were dumb, "For thy sake, loud I ask and clear, Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb. I promised in my faithfulness No equal ever shall there be To thee, Arjuna—and I press For this sad recompense—for thee."

Glanced the sharp knife one moment high, The severed thumb was on the sod, There was no tear in Buttoo's eye, He left the matter with his God. "For this"—said Dronacharjya—"Fame Shall sound thy praise from sea to sea, And men shall ever link thy name With Self-help, Truth, and Modesty."



SINDHU

PART I

Deep in the forest shades there dwelt A Muni and his wife, Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly felt Their slender hold on life.

No friends had they, no help or stay, Except an only boy, A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay, Their leaf-hut filled with joy.

Attentive, duteous, loving, kind, Thoughtful, sedate, and calm, He waited on his parents blind, Whose days were like a psalm.

He roamed the woods for luscious fruits, He brought them water pure, He cooked their simple mess of roots, Content to live obscure.

To fretful questions, answers mild He meekly ever gave, If they reproved, he only smiled, He loved to be their slave.

Not that to him they were austere, But age is peevish still, Dear to their hearts he was—so dear, That none his place might fill. They called him Sindhu, and his name Was ever on their tongue, And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame, Who dwelt his own among.

A belt of Bela-trees hemmed round The cottage small and rude, If peace on earth was ever found 'Twas in that solitude.



PART II

Great Dasarath, the King of Oudh, Whom all men love and fear, With elephants and horses proud Went forth to hunt the deer.

O gallant was the long array! Pennons and plumes were seen, And swords that mirrored back the day, And spears and axes keen.

Rang trump, and conch, and piercing fife, Woke Echo from her bed! The solemn woods with sounds were rife As on the pageant sped.

Hundreds, nay thousands, on they went! The wild beasts fled away! Deer ran in herds, and wild boars spent Became an easy prey.

Whirring the peacocks from the brake With Argus wings arose, Wild swans abandoned pool and lake For climes beyond the snows.

From tree to tree the monkeys sprung, Unharmed and unpursued, As louder still the trumpets rung And startled all the wood.

The porcupines and such small game Unnoted fled at will, The weasel only caught to tame From fissures in the hill.

Slunk light the tiger from the bank, But sudden turned to bay! When he beheld the serried rank That barred his tangled way. Uprooting fig-trees on their path, And trampling shrubs and flowers, Wild elephants, in fear and wrath, Burst through, like moving towers.

Lowering their horns in crescents grim Whene'er they turned about, Retreated into coverts dim The bisons' fiercer rout.

And in this mimic game of war In bands dispersed and passed The royal train—some near, some far, As day closed in at last.

Where was the king? He left his friends At mid-day, it was known, And now that evening fast descends Where was he? All alone.

Curving, the river formed a lake, Upon whose bank he stood, I No noise the silence there to break, Or mar the solitude.

Upon the glassy surface fell The last beams of the day, Like fiery darts, that lengthening swell, As breezes wake and play.

Osiers and willows on the edge And purple buds and red, Leant down—and 'mid the pale green sedge The lotus raised its head.

And softly, softly, hour by hour Light faded, and a veil Fell over tree, and wave, and flower, On came the twilight pale.

Deeper and deeper grew the shades, Stars glimmered in the sky, The nightingale along the glades Raised her preluding cry. What is that momentary flash? A gleam of silver scales Reveals the Mahseer;—then a splash, And calm again prevails.

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

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

He lingered, when—oh hark! oh hark What sound salutes his ear! A roebuck drinking in the dark, Not hunted, nor in fear.

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

Ah me! What means this?—Hark, a cry, A feeble human wail, "Oh God!" it said—"I die—I die, Who'll carry home the pail?"

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

A child lay dying on the grass, A pitcher by his side, Poor Sindhu was the child, alas! His parents' stay and pride.

His bow and quiver down to fling, And lift the wounded boy, A moment's work was with the king. Not dead—that was a joy! He placed the child's head on his lap, And 'ranged the blinding hair, The blood welled fearful from the gap On neck and bosom fair.

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

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

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

"What dost thou fear, O mighty king? For sure a king thou art! Why should thy bosom anguish wring? No crime was in thine heart!

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

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

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

Because I suffer, should I give Thee, king, a needless pain? Ah, no! I die, but may'st thou live, And cleansed from every stain!" Struck with these words, and doubly grieved At what his hands had done, The monarch wept, as weeps bereaved A man his only son.

"Nay, weep not so," resumed the child, "But rather let me say My own sad story, sin-defiled, And why I die to-day!

Picking a living in our sheaves, And happy in their loves, Near, 'mid a peepul's quivering leaves, There lived a pair of doves.

Never were they two separate, And lo, in idle mood, I took a sling and ball, elate In wicked sport and rude—

And killed one bird—it was the male, Oh cruel deed and base! The female gave a plaintive wail And looked me in the face!

The wail and sad reproachful look In plain words seemed to say, A widowed life I cannot brook, The forfeit thou must pay.

What was my darling's crime that thou Him wantonly shouldst kill? The curse of blood is on thee now, Blood calls for red blood still.

And so I die—a bloody death— But not for this I mourn, To feel the world pass with my breath I gladly could have borne,

But for my parents, who are blind, And have no other stay— This, this, weighs sore upon my mind, And fills me with dismay.

Upon the eleventh day of the moon They keep a rigorous fast, All yesterday they fasted; soon For water and repast

They shall upon me feebly call! Ah, must they call in vain? Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis all I ask—down that steep lane."

He pointed—ceased—then sudden died! The king took up the corpse, And with the pitcher slowly hied, Attended by Remorse,

Down the steep lane—unto the hut Girt round with Bela-trees; Gleamed far a light—the door not shut Was open to the breeze.



PART III

"Oh why does not our child return? Too long he surely stays."— Thus to the Muni, blind and stern, His partner gently says.

"For fruits and water when he goes He never stays so long, Oh can it be, beset by foes, He suffers cruel wrong?

Some distance he has gone, I fear, A more circuitous round— Yet why should he? The fruits are near, The river near our bound.

I die of thirst—it matters not If Sindhu be but safe, What if he leave us, and this spot, Poor birds in cages chafe.

Peevish and fretful oft we are— Ah, no—that cannot be: Of our blind eyes he is the star, Without him, what were we?

Too much he loves us to forsake, But something ominous, Here in my heart, a dreadful ache, Says, he is gone from us.

Why do my bowels for him yearn, What ill has crossed his path? Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn, Or how avert the wrath?

Lord of my soul—what means my pain? This horrid terror—like Some cloud that hides a hurricane; Hang not, O lightning—strike!"

Thus while she spake, the king drew near With haggard look and wild, Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear, Bearing the lifeless child.

Rustled the dry leaves 'neath his foot, And made an eerie sound, A neighboring owl began to hoot, All else was still around.

At the first rustle of the leaves The Muni answered clear, "Lo, here he is—oh wherefore grieves Thy soul, my partner dear?"

The words distinct, the monarch heard, He could no further go, His nature to its depths was stirred, He stopped in speechless woe.

No steps advanced—the sudden pause Attention quickly drew, Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause, But, hark!—the steps renew.

"Where art thou, darling—why so long Hast thou delayed to-night? We die of thirst—we are not strong, This fasting kills outright.

Speak to us, dear one—only speak, And calm our idle fears, Where hast thou been, and what to seek? Have pity on these tears."

With head bent low the monarch heard, Then came a cruel throb That tore his heart—still not a word, Only a stifled sob!

"It is not Sindhu—who art thou? And where is Sindhu gone? There's blood upon thy hands—avow!" "There is."—"Speak on, speak on,"

The dead child in their arms he placed, And briefly told his tale, The parents their dead child embraced, And kissed his forehead pale.

"Our hearts are broken. Come, dear wife, On earth no more we dwell; Now welcome Death, and farewell Life, And thou, O king, farewell!

We do not curse thee, God forbid But to my inner eye The future is no longer hid, Thou too shalt like us die.

Die—for a son's untimely loss! Die—with a broken heart! Now help us to our bed of moss, And let us both depart."

Upon the moss he laid them down, And watched beside the bed; Death gently came and placed a crown Upon each reverend head.

Where the Sarayu's waves dash free Against a rocky bank, The monarch had the corpses three Conveyed by men of rank;

There honored he with royal pomp Their funeral obsequies— Incense and sandal, drum and tromp. And solemn sacrifice.

What is the sequel of the tale? How died the king?—Oh man, A prophet's words can never fail— Go, read the Ramayan.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

NEAR HASTINGS

Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach, We loitered at the time When ripens on the wall the peach, The autumn's lovely prime. Far off—the sea and sky seemed blent, The day was wholly done, The distant town its murmurs sent, Strangers—we were alone.

We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint, Then one of us sat down, No nature hers, to make complaint;— The shadows deepened brown. A lady past—she was not young, But oh! her gentle face No painter-poet ever sung, Or saw such saintlike grace.

She passed us—then she came again, Observing at a glance That we were strangers; one, in pain— Then asked—Were we from France? We talked awhile—some roses red That seemed as wet with tears, She gave my sister, and she said, God bless you both, my dears!"

Sweet were the roses—sweet and full, And large as lotus flowers That in our own wide tanks we cull To deck our Indian bowers. But sweeter was the love that gave Those flowers to one unknown, I think that He who came to save The gift a debt will own.

The lady's name I do not know, Her face no more may see, But yet, oh yet I love her so! Blest, happy, may she be! Her memory will not depart, Though grief my years should shade, Still bloom her roses in my heart! And they shall never fade!

FRANCE

1870

Not dead—oh no—she cannot die! Only a swoon, from loss of blood! Levite England passes her by, Help, Samaritan! None is nigh; Who shall staunch me this sanguine flood?

'Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne, Dash cold water over her face! Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign, Give her a draught of generous wine. None heed, none hear, to do this grace.

Head of the human column, thus Ever in swoon wilt thou remain? Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous Whence then shall Hope arise for us, Plunged in the darkness all again.

No, she stirs!—There's a fire in her glance, Ware, oh ware of that broken sword! What, dare ye for an hour's mischance, Gather around her, jeering France, Attila's own exultant horde?

Lo, she stands up—stands up e'en now, Strong once more for the battle-fray, Gleams bright the star, that from her brow Lightens the world. Bow, nations, bow, Let her again lead on the way!

THE TREE OF LIFE

Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness! Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep, My hand was in my father's, and I felt His presence near me. Thus we often passed In silence, hour by hour. What was the need Of interchanging words when every thought That in our hearts arose, was known to each, And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed. I was awake:—It was an open plain Illimitable—stretching, stretching—oh, so far! And o'er it that strange light—a glorious light Like that the stars shed over fields of snow In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night, Only intenser in its brilliance calm. And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw, For I was wide awake—it was no dream, A tree with spreading branches and with leaves Of divers kinds—dead silver and live gold, Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell! Beside the tree an Angel stood; he plucked A few small sprays, and bound them round my head. Oh, the delicious touch of those strange leaves! No longer throbbed my brows, no more I felt The fever in my limbs—"And oh," I cried, "Bind too my father's forehead with these leaves." One leaf the Angel took and therewith touched His forehead, and then gently whispered "Nay!" Never, oh never had I seen a face More beautiful than that Angel's, or more full Of holy pity and of love divine. Wondering I looked awhile—then, all at once Opened my tear-dimmed eyes—When lo! the light Was gone—the light as of the stars when snow Lies deep upon the ground. No more, no more, Was seen the Angel's face. I only found My father watching patient by my bed, And holding in his own, close-prest, my hand.

MADAME THERESE

Written on the fly-leaf of Erckmann-Chatrian's novel, entitled, "Madame Therese."

Wavered the foremost soldiers—then fell back. Fallen was their leader, and loomed right before The sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black, With lighted matches waving. Now, once more, Patriots and veterans!—Ah! Tis in vain! Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave; No human troops may stand that murderous rain; But who is this—that rushes to a grave?

It is a woman—slender, tall, and brown! She snatches up the standard as it falls— In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down, And to the drummer-boy aloud she calls To beat the charge; then forwards on the pont They dash together;—who could bear to see A woman and a child, thus Death confront, Nor burn to follow them to victory?

I read the story and my heart beats fast! Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, Battling against oppression! Years have passed, Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. Va-nu-pieds! When rose high your Marseillaise Man knew his rights to earth's remotest bound, And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise! Ah, had a Washington but then been found!



SONNET

A sea of foliage girds our garden round, But not a sea of dull unvaried green, Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen; The light-green graceful tamarinds abound Amid the mango clumps of green profound, And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean, Red—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound. But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes Into a cup of silver. One might swoon Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze On a primeval Eden, in amaze.



SONNET

Love came to Flora asking for a flower That would of flowers be undisputed queen, The lily and the rose, long, long had been Rivals for that high honor. Bards of power Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"— "But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower. "Give me a flower delicious as the rose And stately as the lily in her pride"— "But of what color?"—"Rose-red," Love first chose, Then prayed—"No, lily-white—or, both provide;" And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed, And "lily-white"—the queenliest flower that blows.



OUR CASUARINA-TREE

Like a huge Python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung In crimson clusters all the boughs among, Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; And oft at nights the garden overflows With one sweet song that seems to have no close, Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose,

When first my casement is wide open thrown At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest; Sometimes, and most in winter—on its crest A gray baboon sits statue-like alone Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs His puny offspring leap about and play; And far and near kokilas hail the day; And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows; And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast, The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.

But not because of its magnificence Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: Beneath it we have played; though years may roll, O sweet companions, loved with love intense, For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear! Blent with your images, it shall arise In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes! What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach? It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech, That haply to the unknown land may reach.

Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith! Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith And the waves gently kissed the classic shore Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon: And every time the music rose—before Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.

Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those Who now in blessed sleep, for aye, repose, Dearer than life to me, alas! were they! May'st thou be numbered when my days are done With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale, Under whose awful branches lingered pale "Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton, And Time, the shadow;" and though weak the verse That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse, May Love defend thee from Oblivion's curse.

THE END