Reading section 7

long survived that hermit seer--to mourn his child in lone regret. This day that Brahmin curse fulfilled--hath fallen on my devoted head, In anguish for any parted child--have all my sinking spirits fled. No more my darkened eyes can see--my clouded memory is o'ercast, Dark Yama's heralds summon me--to his deep, dreary, realm to haste. Mine eye no more my Rama sees--and grief o'erburns, my spirits sink, As the swollen stream sweeps down the trees--that grow upon the crumbling brink. Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake--one word his home-returning voice, Again to life should I awake--as quaffing nectar draughts rejoice, But what so sad could e'er have been--celestial partner of my heart, Than, Rama's beauteous face unseen,--from life untimely to depart. His exile in the forest o'er--him home returned to Oudes high town, Oh happy those, that see once more--like Indra from the sky come down. No mortal men, but gods I deem--moonlike, before whose wondering sight, My Rama's glorious face shall beam--from the dark forest bursting bright. Happy that gaze on Rama's face--with beauteous teeth and smile of love, Like the blue lotus in its grace--and like the starry king above. Like to the full autumnal moon--and like the lotus in its bloom, That youth who sees returning soon--how blest shall be that mortal's doom. Dwelling on that sweet memory--on his last bed the monarch lay, And slowly, softly, seemed to die--as fades the moon at dawn away. "Ah, Rama! ah, my son!" thus said--or scarcely said, the king of men, His gentle hapless spirit fled--in sorrow for his Rama then, The shepherd of his people old--at midnight on his bed of death, The tale of his son's exile told--and breathed away his dying breath.

EXTRACTS FROM THE MAHABHARATA.

THE BRAHMIN'S LAMENT.

The hostility of the kindred races of Pandu and Kuru forms one of the great circles of Indian fable. It fills great part of the immense poem, the Mahabharata. At this period the five sons of Pandu and their mother Kunti have been driven into the wilderness from the court of their uncle Dritarashtra at Nagapur. The brothers, during their residence in the forest, have an encounter with a terrible giant, Hidimba, the prototype of the Cyclops of Homer, and of the whole race of giants of northern origin, who, after amusing our ancestors, children of larger growth, descended to our nurseries, from whence they are now well-nigh exploded. After this adventure the brothers take up their residence in the city of Ekachara, where they are hospitably received in the house of a Brahmin. The neighbourhood of this city is haunted by another terrible giant, Baka, whose cannibal appetite has been glutted by a succession of meaner victims. It is now come to the Brahmin's turn to furnish the fatal banquet; they overhear the following complaint of their host, whose family, consisting of himself, his wife, a grown up daughter, and a son a little child, must surrender one to become the horrible repast of the monster. In turn, the father, the mother, in what may be fairly called three singularly pathetic Indian elegies, enforce each their claim to the privilege of suffering for the rest.

THE BRAHMIN'S LAMENT.

Alas for life, so vain, so weary--in this changing world below, Ever-teeming root of sorrow--still dependent, full of woe! Still to life clings strong affliction--life that's one long suffering all, Whoso lives must bear his sorrow--soon or late that must befall.

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Oh to find a place of refuge--in this dire extremity, For my wife, my son, my daughter--and myself what hope may be? Oft I've said to thee, my dearest--Priestess, that thou knowest well, But my word thou never heededst--let us go where peace may dwell. "Here I had my birth, my nurture--still my sire is living here; Oh unwise!" 'twas thus thou answeredst--to my oft-repeated prayer. Thine old father went to heaven--slept thy mother by his side, Then thy near and dear relations--why delight'st thou here t' abide? Fondly loving still thy kindred--thine old home thou would'st not leave, Of thy kindred death deprived thee--in thy griefs I could but grieve. Now to me is death approaching--never victim will I give, From mine house, like some base craven--and myself consent to live. Thee with righteous soul, the gentle--ever like a mother deemed, A sweet friend the gods have given me--aye my choicest wealth esteem'd. From thy parents thee, consenting--mistress of my house I took, Thee I chose, and thee I honoured--as enjoins the holy book. Thou the high-born, thou the virtuous!--my dear children's mother thou, Only to prolong my being--thee the good, the blameless, now, Can to thy death surrender--mine own true, my faithful wife? Yet my son can I abandon--in his early bloom of life, Offer him in his sweet childhood--with no down his cheek to shade? Her, whom Brahma, the all-bounteous--for a lovely bride hath made, Mother of a race of heroes--a heaven-winning race may make;[153] Of myself begot, the virgin--could I ever her forsake? Towards a son the hearts of fathers--some have thought, are deepest moved, Others deem the daughter dearer--both alike I've ever loved: She that sons, that heaven hath in her--sons whose offerings heaven may win, Can I render up my daughter--blameless, undefiled by sin? If myself I offer, sorrow--in the next world my lot must be, Hardly then could live my children--and my wife bereft of me. One of these so dear to offer--to the wise, were sin, were shame, Yet without me they must perish--how to 'scape the sin, the blame! Woe! Oh woe! where find I refuge--for myself, for mine, oh where! Better 'twere to die together--for to live I cannot bear.

_The_ BRAHMIN'S WIFE _speaks_.

As of lowly caste, my husband--yield not thus thy soul to woe, This is not a time for wailing--who the Vedas knows must know: Fate inevitable orders--all must yield to death in turn, Hence the doom, th' irrevocable--it beseems not thee to mourn. Man hath wife, and son, and daughter--for the joy of his own heart. Wherefore wisely check thy sorrow--it is I must hence depart. Tis the wife's most holy duty--law on earth without repeal, That her life she offer freely--when demands her husband's weal. And e'en now, a deed so noble--hath its meed of pride and bliss, In the next world life eternal--and unending fame in this. 'Tis a high, yet certain duty--that my life I thus resign, 'Tis thy right, as thy advantage--both the willing deed enjoin-- All for which a wife is wedded--long erenow through me thou'st won, Blooming son and gentle daughter--that my debt is paid and done. Thou may'st well support our children--gently guard, when I am gone, I shall have no power to guard them--nor support them, left alone. Oh, despoiled of thy assistance--lord of me, and all I have, How these little ones from ruin--how my hapless self to save: Widow'd, reft of thee, and helpless--with two children in their youth, How maintain my son, and daughter--in the path of right and truth. From the lustful, from the haughty--how shall I our child protect, When they seek thy blameless daughter--by a father's awe unchecked. As the birds in numbers swarming--gather o'er the earth-strewn corn, Thus the men round some sad widow--of her noble lord forlorn. Thus by all the rude and reckless--with profane desires pursued,[154] How shall I the path still follow--loved and honoured by the good. This thy dear, thy only daughter--this pure maiden innocent, How to teach the way of goodness--where her sire, her fathers went. How can I instil the virtues--in the bosom of our child, Helpless and beset on all sides--as thou would'st in duty skilled. Round thy unprotected daughter--Sudras like[155] to holy lore, Scorning me in their wild passion--will unworthy suitors pour. And if I refuse to give her--mindful of thy virtuous course, As the storks the rice of offering[156]--they will bear her off by force. Should I see my son degenerate--like his noble sire no more, In the power of the unworthy--the sweet daughter that I bore; And myself, the world's scorn, wandering--so as scarce myself to know, Of proud men the scoff, the outcast--I should die of shame and woe. And bereft of me, my children--and without thy aid to cherish, As the fish when water fails them--both would miserably perish. Thus of all the three is ruin--the inevitable lot, Desolate of thee, their guardian--wherefore, Oh, forsake us not! The dark way before her husband--'tis a wife's first bliss to go, 'Tis a wife's that hath borne children--this the wise, the holy know. For thee forsaken be my daughter--let my son forsaken be, I for thee forsook my kindred--and forsake my life for thee. More than offering 'tis, than penance--liberal gift or sacrifice, When a wife, thus clearly summoned--for her husband's welfare dies. That which now to do I hasten--all the highest duty feel, For thy bliss, for thy well-doing--thine and all thy race's weal. Men, they say, but pray for children--riches, or a generous friend, To assist

them in misfortune--and a wife for the same end. The whole race (the wise declare it)--thou the increaser of thy race, Than the single self less precious--ever holds a second place. Let me then discharge the duty--and preserve thyself by me, Give me thine assent, all-honoured--and my children's guardian be. Women must be spared from slaughter--this the learn'd in duty say, Even the giant knows that duty--me he will not dare to slay. Of the man the death is certain--of the woman yet in doubt, Wherefore, noblest, on the instant--as the victim send me out. I have lived with many blessings--I have well fulfilled my part, I have given thee beauteous offspring--death hath nought t' appal mine heart. I've borne children, I am aged--in my soul I've all revolved, And with spirit strong to serve thee--I am steadfast and resolved. Offering me, all-honoured husband--thou another wife wilt find, And to her wilt do thy duty--gentle as to me, and kind. Many wives if he espouses--man incurs nor sin nor blame, For a wife to wed another--'tis inexpiable shame. This well weighed within thy spirit--and the sin thyself to die, Save thyself, thy race, thy children--be the single victim I.

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Hearing thus his wife, the husband--fondly clasp'd her to his breast, And their tears they poured together--by their mutual grief oppressed.

THIRD SONG.

Of these two the troubled language--in the chamber as she heard, Lost herself in grief the daughter--thus took up the doleful word.

_The_ DAUGHTER _spake_.

Why to sorrow thus abandoned?--weep not thus, as all forlorn, Hear ye now my speech, my parents--and your sorrows may be borne. Me with right ye may abandon--none that right in doubt will call, Yield up her that best is yielded--I alone may save you all. Wherefore wishes man for children?--they in need mine help will be: Lo, the time is come, my parents--in your need find help in me. Ever here the son by offering--or hereafter doth atone, Either way is he th' atoner--hence the wise have named him son. Daughters too, the great forefathers--of a noble race desire, And I now shall prove their wisdom--saving thus from death my sire. Lo, my brother but an infant!--to the other world goest thou, In a little time we perish--who may dare to question how? But if first depart to heaven--he that after me was born, Cease our race's sacred offerings--our offended sires would mourn. Without father, without mother--of my brother too bereft, I shall die, unused to sorrow--yet to deepest sorrow left. But thyself, my sire! my mother--and my gentle brother save, And their meet, unfailing offerings--shall our fathers' spirits have. A second self the son, a friend the wife--the daughter's but a grief, From thy grief thy daughter offering--thou of right wilt find relief. Desolate and unprotected--ever wandering here and there, Shall I quickly be, my father!--reft of thy paternal care! But wert thou through me, my father--and thy race from peril freed, Noble fruit should I have borne thee--having done this single deed. But if thou from hence departing-leav'st me, noblest, to my fate, Down I sink to bitterest misery--save, Oh save me from that state! For mine own sake, and for virtue's--for our noble race's sake, Yield up her who best is yielded--me thine own life's ransom make. Instantly this step, the only--the inevitable take. Hath the world a fate more wretched--than when thou to heaven art fled, Like a dog to wander begging--and subsist on others' bread. But my father, thus preserving--thus preserving all that's thine, I shall then become immortal--and partake of bliss divine, And the gods, and our forefathers--all will hail the prudent choice, Still will have the water offerings--that their holy spirits rejoice.

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As they heard her lamentation--in their troubled anguish deep, Wept the father, wept the mother--'gan the daughter too to weep. Then the little son beheld them--and their doleful moan he heard; And with both his eyes wide open--lisped he thus his broken word. "Weep not father, weep not mother--Oh my sister, weep not so!" First to one, and then to th' other--smiling went he to and fro. Then a blade of spear-grass lifting--thus in bolder glee he said, "With this spear-grass will I kill him--this man-eating giant dead." Though o'erpowered by bitterest sorrow--as they heard their prattling boy, Stole into the parents' bosoms--mute and inexpressive joy.

THE DELUGE.

The following extract from the Mahabharata was published by Bopp, with a German translation, (the promised Latin version has not yet reached this country,) with four other extracts from the same poem. It is inserted here not on account of its poetical merit, but on account of the interest of the subject. It is the genuine, and probably the earliest, version of the Indian tradition of the Flood. The author has made the following observations on this subject in the Quarterly Review, which he ventures here to transcribe.

Nothing has thrown so much discredit on oriental studies, particularly on the valuable Asiatic Researches, as the fixed determination to find the whole of the Mosaic history in the remoter regions of the East. It was not to be expected that, when the new world of oriental literature was suddenly disclosed, the first attempts to explore would be always guided by cool and dispassionate criticism. Even Sir W. Jones was led away, at times, by the ardour of his imagination; and the gorgeous palaces of the Mahabadian dynasty, which were built on the authority of the Desatir and the Dabistan, and thrown upward into an age anterior even to the earliest Indian civilisation, have melted away, and 'left not a wreck behind,' before the cooler and more profound investigations of Mr. Erskine[157]. Sir W. Jones was succeeded by Wilford, a man of most excursive imagination, bred in the school of Bryant, who, even if he had himself been more deeply versed in the ancient language, would have been an unsafe guide. But Wilford, it is well known, unfortunately betrayed to the crafty and mercenary pundits whom he employed, the objects which he hoped to find; and these unscrupulous interpreters, unwilling to disappoint their employer, had little difficulty in discovering, or forging, or interpolating, whatever might suit his purpose. The honest candour with which Wilford, a man of the strictest integrity, made the open and humiliating confession of the deceptions which had been practised upon him, ought for ever to preserve his memory from disrespect. The fictions to which he had given currency, only retained, and still we are ashamed to say retain, their ground in histories of the Bible and works of a certain school of theology, from which no criticism can exorcise an error once established: still, however, with sensible men, a kind of suspicion was thrown over the study itself; and the cool and sagacious researches of men, probably better acquainted with their own language than some of the Brahmins themselves, were implicated in the fate of the fantastic and, though profoundly learned, ever injudicious reveries of Wilford.

Now, however, that we may depend on the genuineness of our documents, it is curious to examine the Indian version or versions of the universal tradition of the Deluge; for, besides this extract from the Mahabharata, Sir W. Jones had extracted from the Bhagavata Purana another, and, in some respects, very different legend. Both of these versions are strongly impregnated with the mythological extravagance of India; but the Purana, one of the Talmudic books of Indian tradition, as M. Bopp observes, is evidently of a much later date than the ruder and simpler fable of the old Epic. It belongs to a less ancient school of poetry, and a less ancient system of religion. While it is much more exuberant in its fiction, it nevertheless betrays a sort of apprehension lest it shall shock the less easy faith of a more incredulous reader; it is manifestly from the religious school of the follower of Vishnu, and, indeed, seems to have some reference to one of the philosophic systems. Yet the outline of the story is the same. In the Mahabharatic version, Manu, like Noah, stands alone in an age of universal depravity. His virtues, however, are of the Indian cast--the most severe and excruciating penance by which he extorts, as it were, the favour of the deity[158].

THE DELUGE.

Vivaswata's son, a raja--and a sage of mighty fame, King of men, the first great fathers--in his glory equalled he, In his might and kingly power--Manu, and in earthly bliss, And in wonder-working penance--sire and grandsire far surpassed. With his arms on high outstretching--wrought the sovereign of men, Steadily on one foot standing--penance rigorous and dread, With his downward head low-drooping--with his fixed, unwavering eyes, Dreed he thus his awful penance--many a long and weary year. To the penitent with tresses--streaming loose, and wet, and long, By the margin of Wirini--thus the fish began to speak: "Blessed! lo, the least of fishes--of the mighty fish in dread, Wilt thou not from death preserve me--thou that all thy vows fulfill'st? Since the strongest of the fishes--persecute the weaker still, Over us impends for ever--our inevitable fate. Ere I sink, if thou wilt free me--from th' extremity of dread, Meet return can I compensate--when the holy deed is done." Speaking thus the fish when heard he--full of pity all his heart, In his hand that fish king Manu--son of Vivaswata took. Brought the son of Vivaswata--to the river shore the fish, Cast it in a crystal vessel--like the moonshine clear and bright. "Rapid grew that fish, O raja--tended with such duteous care, Cleaved to him the heart of Manu--as to a beloved son. Time rolled on, and larger, larger--ever waxed that wonderous fish, Nor within that crystal vessel--found he longer space to move." Spake again the fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake: "O all prosperous! O all gentle!--bring me to another place." Then the fish from out the vessel--blessed Manu took again; And with gentle speed he bare him,--Manu, to a spacious lake. There the conqueror of cities,--mighty Manu, cast him in. Still he grew, that fish so wondrous--many a circling round of years. Three miles long that lake expanded--and a single mile its breadth, Yet that fish with eyes like lotus--there no longer might endure; Nor, O sovereign of the Vaisyas!--might that lake his bulk contain. Spake again that fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake: "Bring me now, O blest and holy!--to the Ganga, ocean's bride, Let me dwell in her wide waters--yet, O loved one, as thou wilt, Be it so; whate'er thy bidding,--murmur would beseem me ill, Since through thee, O blest and blameless!--to this wondrous bulk I've grown." Thus addressed, the happy Manu--took again the fish, and bore To the sacred stream of Ganga--and himself he cast him in. Still it grew, as time rolled onward--tamer of thy foes! that fish. Spake again that fish to Manu--as he saw him, thus he spake: "Mightiest! I can dwell no longer--here in Ganga's narrow stream; Best of men! once more befriend me--bear me to the ocean swift." Manu's self from Ganga's water--took again that wondrous fish, And he brought him to the ocean,--with his own hand cast him in. Brought by Manu to the ocean--very large that fish appeared, But not yet of form unmeasured,--spread delicious odours round. But that fish by kingly Manu--cast into the ocean wide, In these words again bespake him--and he smiled as thus he spake: "Blessed! thou hast still preserved me--still my every wish fulfilled, When the awful time approaches--hear from me what thou must do. In

a little time, O blessed!--all this firm and seated earth, All that moves upon its surface--shall a deluge sweep away. Near it comes, of all creation--the ablution day is near; Therefore what I now forewarn thee--may thy highest weal secure. All the fixed and all the moving--all that stirs, or stirreth not, Lo, of all the time approaches--the tremendous time of doom. Build thyself a ship, O Manu--strong, with cables well prepared, And thyself, with the seven Sages--mighty Manu enter in. All the living seeds of all things--by the Brahmins named of yore, Place thou first within thy vessel--well secured, divided well. From thy ship keep watch, O hermit--watch for me, as I draw near; Horned shall I swim before thee--by my horn thou'lt know me well. This the work thou must accomplish,--I depart; so fare thee well-- Over these tumultuous waters--none without mine aid can sail. Doubt thou not, O lofty minded!--of my warning speech the truth." To the fish thus answered Manu--"All that thou requir'st, I'll do." Thus they parted, of each other--mutual leave when they had ta'en, Manu, raja! to accomplish--all to him the fish had said. Taking first the seeds of all things--launched he forth upon the sea; On the billowy sea, the prudent--in a beauteous vessel rode. Manu of the fish bethought him;--conscious of his thought the fish, Conqueror of hostile cities!--with his horn came floating by. King of men, the born of Manu!--Manu saw the sea-borne fish, In his form foreshewn, the horned--like a mountain huge and high. To the fish's head his cable, Manu bound--O king of men! Strong and firm his cable wound he--round and round on either horn: And the fish, all conquering raja!--with that twisted cable bound, With the utmost speed that vessel--dragged along the ocean tide. In his bark along the ocean--boldly went the king of men: Dancing with the tumbling billows--dashing through the roaring spray, Tossed about by winds tumultuous--in the vast and heaving sea, Like a trembling, drunken woman--reeled that ship, O king of men. Earth was seen no more, no region--nor the intermediate space; All around a waste of water--water all, and air and sky. In the whole world of creation--princely son of Bharata! None was seen but those seven Sages--Manu only, and the fish. Years on years, and still unwearied--drew that fish the bark along, Till at length it came, where lifted--Himavan its loftiest peak. There at length it came, and smiling--thus the fish addressed the sage: "To the peak of Himalaya--bind thou now thy stately ship." At the fish's mandate quickly--to the peak of Himavan Bound the sage his bark, and ever--to this day that loftiest peak, Bears the name of Manubandhan--from the binding of the bark. To the sage, the god of mercy--thus with fixed look bespake: "I am lord of all creation--Brahma, higher than all height; I in fishlike form have saved thee--Manu, in the perilous hour; But from thee new tribes of creatures--gods, asuras, men must spring. All the worlds must be created--all that moves or moveth not, By an all-surpassing penance--this great work must be achieved. Through my mercy, thy creation--to confusion ne'er shall run," Spake the fish, and on the instant--to the invisible he passed. Vivaswata's son, all eager--the creation to begin,