I. SAVITRI.

     
      PART I.
          Savitri was the only child
      Of Madra's wise and mighty king;
    Stern warriors, when they saw her, smiled,
      As mountains smile to see the spring.
    Fair as a lotus when the moon
      Kisses its opening petals red,
    After sweet showers in sultry June!
      With happier heart, and lighter tread,
    Chance strangers, having met her, past,
      And often would they turn the head
    A lingering second look to cast,
      And bless the vision ere it fled.
          What was her own peculiar charm?
      The soft black eyes, the raven hair,
    The curving neck, the rounded arm,
      All these are common everywhere.
    Her charm was this—upon her face
      Childlike and innocent and fair,
    No man with thought impure or base
      Could ever look;—the glory there,
    The sweet simplicity and grace,
      Abashed the boldest; but the good
    God's purity there loved to trace,
      Mirrored in dawning womanhood.
          In those far-off primeval days
      Fair India's daughters were not pent
    In closed zenanas. On her ways
      Savitri at her pleasure went
    Whither she chose,—and hour by hour
      With young companions of her age,
    She roamed the woods for fruit or flower,
      Or loitered in some hermitage,
    For to the Munis gray and old
      Her presence was as sunshine glad,
    They taught her wonders manifold
      And gave her of the best they had.
          Her father let her have her way
      In all things, whether high or low;
    He feared no harm; he knew no ill
      Could touch a nature pure as snow.
    Long childless, as a priceless boon
      He had obtained this child at last
    By prayers, made morning, night, and noon
      With many a vigil, many a fast;
    Would Shiva his own gift recall,
      Or mar its perfect beauty ever?—
    No, he had faith,—he gave her all
      She wished, and feared and doubted never.
          And so she wandered where she pleased
      In boyish freedom. Happy time!
    No small vexations ever teased,
      Nor crushing sorrows dimmed her prime.
    One care alone, her father felt—
      Where should he find a fitting mate
    For one so pure?—His thoughts long dwelt
      On this as with his queen he sate.
    “Ah, whom, dear wife, should we select?”
      “Leave it to God,” she answering cried,
    “Savitri, may herself elect
      Some day, her future lord and guide.”
          Months passed, and lo, one summer morn
      As to the hermitage she went
    Through smiling fields of waving corn,
      She saw some youths on sport intent,
    Sons of the hermits, and their peers,
      And one among them tall and lithe
    Royal in port,—on whom the years
      Consenting, shed a grace so blithe,
    So frank and noble, that the eye
      Was loth to quit that sun-browned face;
    She looked and looked,—then gave a sigh,
      And slackened suddenly her pace.
          What was the meaning—was it love?
      Love at first sight, as poets sing,
    Is then no fiction? Heaven above
      Is witness, that the heart its king
    Finds often like a lightning flash;
      We play,—we jest,—we have no care,—
    When hark a step,—there comes no crash,—
      But life, or silent slow despair.
    Their eyes just met,—Savitri past
      Into the friendly Muni's hut,
    Her heart-rose opened had at last—
      Opened no flower can ever shut.
          In converse with the gray-haired sage
      She learnt the story of the youth,
    His name and place and parentage—
      Of royal race he was in truth.
    Satyavan was he hight,—his sire
      Dyoumatsen had been Salva's king,
    But old and blind, opponents dire
      Had gathered round him in a ring
    And snatched the sceptre from his hand;
      Now,—with his queen and only son
    He lived a hermit in the land,
      And gentler hermit was there none.
          With many tears was said and heard
      The story,—and with praise sincere
    Of Prince Satyavan; every word
      Sent up a flush on cheek and ear,
    Unnoticed. Hark! The bells remind
      'Tis time to go,—she went away,
    Leaving her virgin heart behind,
      And richer for the loss. A ray,
    Shot down from heaven, appeared to tinge
      All objects with supernal light,
    The thatches had a rainbow fringe,
      The cornfields looked more green and bright.
          Savitri's first care was to tell
      Her mother all her feelings new;
    The queen her own fears to dispel
      To the king's private chamber flew.
    “Now what is it, my gentle queen,
      That makes thee hurry in this wise?”
    She told him, smiles and tears between,
      All she had heard; the king with sighs
    Sadly replied:—“I fear me much!
      Whence is his race and what his creed?
    Not knowing aught, can we in such
      A matter delicate, proceed?”
          As if the king's doubts to allay,
      Came Narad Muni to the place
    A few days after. Old and gray,
      All loved to see the gossip's face,
    Great Brahma's son,—adored of men,
      Long absent, doubly welcome he
    Unto the monarch, hoping then
      By his assistance, clear to see.
    No god in heaven, nor king on earth,
      But Narad knew his history,—
    The sun's, the moon's, the planets' birth
      Was not to him a mystery.
          “Now welcome, welcome, dear old friend,
      All hail, and welcome once again!”
    The greeting had not reached its end,
      When glided like a music-strain
    Savitri's presence through the room.—
      “And who is this bright creature, say,
    Whose radiance lights the chamber's gloom—
      Is she an Apsara or fay?”
    “No son thy servant hath, alas!
      This is my one,—my only child;”—
    “And married?”—“No.”—“The seasons pass,
      Make haste, O king,”—he said, and smiled.
          “That is the very theme, O sage,
      In which thy wisdom ripe I need;
    Seen hath she at the hermitage
      A youth to whom in very deed
    Her heart inclines.”—“And who is he?”
      “My daughter, tell his name and race,
    Speak as to men who best love thee.”
      She turned to them her modest face,
    And answered quietly and clear.—
      “Ah, no! ah, no!—It cannot be—
    Choose out another husband, dear,”—
      The Muni cried,—“or woe is me!”
          “And why should I? When I have given
      My heart away, though but in thought,
    Can I take back? Forbid it, Heaven!
      It were a deadly sin, I wot.
    And why should I? I know no crime
      In him or his.”—“Believe me, child,
    My reasons shall be clear in time,
      I speak not like a madman wild;
    Trust me in this.”—“I cannot break
      A plighted faith,—I cannot bear
    A wounded conscience.”—“Oh, forsake
      This fancy, hence may spring despair.”—
          “It may not be.”—The father heard
      By turns the speakers, and in doubt
    Thus interposed a gentle word,—
      “Friend should to friend his mind speak out,
    Is he not worthy? tell us.”—“Nay,
      All worthiness is in Satyavan,
    And no one can my praise gainsay:
      Of solar race—more god than man!
    Great Soorasen, his ancestor,
      And Dyoumatsen his father blind
    Are known to fame: I can aver
      No kings have been so good and kind.”
          “Then where, O Muni, is the bar?
      If wealth be gone, and kingdom lost,
    His merit still remains a star,
      Nor melts his lineage like the frost.
    For riches, worldly power, or rank
      I care not,—I would have my son
    Pure, wise, and brave,—the Fates I thank
      I see no hindrance, no, not one.”
    “Since thou insistest, King, to hear
      The fatal truth,—I tell you,—I,
    Upon this day as rounds the year
      The young Prince Satyavan shall die.”
          This was enough. The monarch knew
      The future was no sealèd book
    To Brahma's son. A clammy dew
      Spread on his brow,—he gently took
    Savitri's palm in his, and said:
      “No child can give away her hand,
    A pledge is nought unsanctionèd;
      And here, if right I understand,
    There was no pledge at all,—a thought,
      A shadow,—barely crossed the mind—
    Unblamed, it may be clean forgot,
      Before the gods it cannot bind.
          “And think upon the dreadful curse
      Of widowhood; the vigils, fasts,
    And penances; no life is worse
      Than hopeless life,—the while it lasts.
    Day follows day in one long round,
      Monotonous and blank and drear;
    Less painful were it to be bound
      On some bleak rock, for aye to hear—
    Without one chance of getting free—
      The ocean's melancholy voice!
    Mine be the sin,—if sin there be,
      But thou must make a different choice.”
          In the meek grace of virginhood
      Unblanched her cheek, undimmed her eye,
    Savitri, like a statue, stood,
      Somewhat austere was her reply.
    “Once, and once only, all submit
      To Destiny,—'tis God's command;
    Once, and once only, so 'tis writ,
      Shall woman pledge her faith and hand;
    Once, and once only, can a sire
      Unto his well-loved daughter say,
    In presence of the witness fire,
      I give thee to this man away.
          “Once, and once only, have I given
      My heart and faith—'tis past recall;
    With conscience none have ever striven,
      And none may strive, without a fall.
    Not the less solemn was my vow
      Because unheard, and oh! the sin
    Will not be less, if I should now
      Deny the feeling felt within.
    Unwedded to my dying day
      I must, my father dear, remain;
    'Tis well, if so thou will'st, but say
      Can man balk Fate, or break its chain?
          “If Fate so rules, that I should feel
      The miseries of a widow's life,
    Can man's device the doom repeal?
      Unequal seems to be a strife,
    Between Humanity and Fate;
      None have on earth what they desire;
    Death comes to all or soon or late;
      And peace is but a wandering fire;
    Expediency leads wild astray;
      The Right must be our guiding star;
    Duty our watchword, come what may;
      Judge for me, friends,—as wiser far.”
          She said, and meekly looked to both.
      The father, though he patient heard,
    To give the sanction still seemed loth,
      But Narad Muni took the word.
    “Bless thee, my child! 'Tis not for us
      To question the Almighty will,
    Though cloud on cloud loom ominous,
      In gentle rain they may distil.”
    At this, the monarch—“Be it so!
      I sanction what my friend approves;
    All praise to Him, whom praise we owe;
      My child shall wed the youth she loves.”
      PART II.
          Great joy in Madra. Blow the shell
      The marriage over to declare!
    And now to forest-shades where dwell
      The hermits, wend the wedded pair.
    The doors of every house are hung
      With gay festoons of leaves and flowers;
    And blazing banners broad are flung,
      And trumpets blown from castle towers!
    Slow the procession makes its ground
      Along the crowded city street:
    And blessings in a storm of sound
      At every step the couple greet.
          Past all the houses, past the wall,
      Past gardens gay, and hedgerows trim,
    Past fields, where sinuous brooklets small
      With molten silver to the brim
    Glance in the sun's expiring light,
      Past frowning hills, past pastures wild,
    At last arises on the sight,
      Foliage on foliage densely piled,
    The woods primeval, where reside
      The holy hermits;—henceforth here
    Must live the fair and gentle bride:
      But this thought brought with it no fear.
          Fear! With her husband by her still?
      Or weariness! Where all was new?
    Hark! What a welcome from the hill!
      There gathered are a hermits few.
    Screaming the peacocks upward soar;
      Wondering the timid wild deer gaze;
    And from Briarean fig-trees hoar
      Look down the monkeys in amaze
    As the procession moves along;
      And now behold, the bridegroom's sire
    With joy comes forth amid the throng;—
      What reverence his looks inspire!
          Blind! With his partner by his side!
      For them it was a hallowed time!
    Warmly they greet the modest bride
      With her dark eyes and front sublime!
    One only grief they feel.—Shall she
      Who dwelt in palace halls before,
    Dwell in their huts beneath the tree?
      Would not their hard life press her sore;—
    The manual labour, and the want
      Of comforts that her rank became,
    Valkala robes, meals poor and scant,
      All undermine the fragile frame?
          To see the bride, the hermits' wives
      And daughters gathered to the huts,
    Women of pure and saintly lives!
      And there beneath the betel-nuts
    Tall trees like pillars, they admire
      Her beauty, and congratulate
    The parents, that their hearts' desire
      Had thus accorded been by Fate,
    And Satyavan their son had found
      In exile lone, a fitting mate:
    And gossips add,—good signs abound;
      Prosperity shall on her wait.
          Good signs in features, limbs, and eyes,
      That old experience can discern,
    Good signs on earth and in the skies,
      That it could read at every turn.
    And now with rice and gold, all bless
      The bride and bridegroom,—and they go
    Happy in others' happiness,
      Each to her home, beneath the glow
    Of the late risen moon that lines
      With silver, all the ghost-like trees,
    Sals, tamarisks, and South-Sea pines,
      And palms whose plumes wave in the breeze.
          False was the fear, the parents felt,
      Savitri liked her new life much;
    Though in a lowly home she dwelt
      Her conduct as a wife was such
    As to illumine all the place;
      She sickened not, nor sighed, nor pined;
    But with simplicity and grace
      Discharged each household duty kind.
    Strong in all manual work,—and strong
      To comfort, cherish, help, and pray,
    The hours past peacefully along
      And rippling bright, day followed day.
          At morn Satyavan to the wood
      Early repaired and gathered flowers
    And fruits, in its wild solitude,
      And fuel,—till advancing hours
    Apprised him that his frugal meal
      Awaited him. Ah, happy time!
    Savitri, who with fervid zeal
      Had said her orisons sublime,
    And fed the Bramins and the birds,
      Now ministered. Arcadian love,
    With tender smiles and honeyed words,
      All bliss of earth thou art above!
          And yet there was a spectre grim,
      A skeleton in Savitri's heart,
    Looming in shadow, somewhat dim,
      But which would never thence depart.
    It was that fatal, fatal speech
      Of Narad Muni. As the days
    Slipt smoothly past, each after each,
      In private she more fervent prays.
    But there is none to share her fears,
      For how could she communicate
    The sad cause of her bidden tears?
      The doom approached, the fatal date.
          No help from man. Well, be it so!
      No sympathy,—it matters not!
    God can avert the heavy blow!
      He answers worship. Thus she thought.
    And so, her prayers, by day and night,
      Like incense rose unto the throne;
    Nor did she vow neglect or rite
      The Veds enjoin or helpful own.
    Upon the fourteenth of the moon,
      As nearer came the time of dread,
    In Joystee, that is May or June,
      She vowed her vows and Bramins fed.
          And now she counted e'en the hours,
      As to Eternity they past;
    O'er head the dark cloud darker lowers,
      The year is rounding full at last.
    To-day,—to-day,—with doleful sound
      The word seem'd in her ear to ring!
    O breaking heart,—thy pain profound
      Thy husband knows not, nor the king,
    Exiled and blind, nor yet the queen;
      But One knows in His place above.
    To-day,—to-day,—it will be seen
      Which shall be victor, Death or Love!
          Incessant in her prayers from morn,
      The noon is safely tided,—then
    A gleam of faint, faint hope is born,
      But the heart fluttered like a wren
    That sees the shadow of the hawk
      Sail on,—and trembles in affright,
    Lest a down-rushing swoop should mock
      Its fortune, and o'erwhelm it quite.
    The afternoon has come and gone
      And brought no change;—should she rejoice?
    The gentle evening's shades come on,
      When hark!—She hears her husband's voice!
          “The twilight is most beautiful!
      Mother, to gather fruit I go,
    And fuel,—for the air is cool
      Expect me in an hour or so.”
    “The night, my child, draws on apace,”
      The mother's voice was heard to say,
    “The forest paths are hard to trace
      In darkness,—till the morrow stay.”
    “Not hard for me, who can discern
      The forest-paths in any hour,
    Blindfold I could with ease return,
      And day has not yet lost its power.”
          “He goes then,” thought Savitri, “thus
      With unseen bands Fate draws us on
    Unto the place appointed us;
      We feel no outward force,—anon
    We go to marriage or to death
      At a determined time and place;
    We are her playthings; with her breath
      She blows us where she lists in space.
    What is my duty? It is clear,
      My husband I must follow; so,
    While he collects his forest gear
      Let me permission get to go.”
          His sire she seeks,—the blind old king,
      And asks from him permission straight.
    “My daughter, night with ebon wing
      Hovers above; the hour is late.
    My son is active, brave, and strong,
      Conversant with the woods, he knows
    Each path; methinks it would be wrong
      For thee to venture where he goes,
    Weak and defenceless as thou art,
      At such a time. If thou wert near
    Thou might'st embarrass him, dear heart,
      Alone, he would not have a fear.”
          So spake the hermit-monarch blind,
      His wife too, entering in, exprest
    The self-same thoughts in words as kind,
      And begged Savitri hard, to rest.
    “Thy recent fasts and vigils, child,
      Make thee unfit to undertake
    This journey to the forest wild.”
      But nothing could her purpose shake.
    She urged the nature of her vows,
      Required her now the rites were done
    To follow where her loving spouse
      Might e'en a chance of danger run.
          “Go then, my child,—we give thee leave,
      But with thy husband quick return,
    Before the flickering shades of eve
      Deepen to night, and planets burn,
    And forest-paths become obscure,
      Lit only by their doubtful rays.
    The gods, who guard all women pure,
      Bless thee and kept thee in thy ways,
    And safely bring thee and thy lord!”
      On this she left, and swiftly ran
    Where with his saw in lieu of sword,
      And basket, plodded Satyavan.
          Oh, lovely are the woods at dawn,
      And lovely in the sultry noon,
    But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn
      The twilight and a crescent moon
    Change all asperities of shape,
      And tone all colours softly down,
    With a blue veil of silvered crape!
      Lo! By that hill which palm-trees crown,
    Down the deep glade with perfume rife
      From buds that to the dews expand,
    The husband and the faithful wife
      Pass to dense jungle,—hand in hand.
          Satyavan bears beside his saw
      A forkèd stick to pluck the fruit,
    His wife, the basket lined with straw;
      He talks, but she is almost mute,
    And very pale. The minutes pass;
      The basket has no further space,
    Now on the fruits they flowers amass
      That with their red flush all the place
    While twilight lingers; then for wood
      He saws the branches of the trees,
    The noise, heard in the solitude,
      Grates on its soft, low harmonies.
          And all the while one dreadful thought
      Haunted Savitri's anxious mind,
    Which would have fain its stress forgot;
      It came as chainless as the wind,
    Oft and again: thus on the spot
      Marked with his heart-blood oft comes back
    The murdered man, to see the clot!
      Death's final blow,—the fatal wrack
    Of every hope, whence will it fall?
      For fall, by Narad's words, it must;
    Persistent rising to appall
      This thought its horrid presence thrust.
          Sudden the noise is hushed,—a pause!
      Satyavan lets the weapon drop—
    Too well Savitri knows the cause,
      He feels not well, the work must stop.
    A pain is in his head,—a pain
      As if he felt the cobra's fangs,
    He tries to look around,—in vain,
      A mist before his vision hangs;
    The trees whirl dizzily around
      In a fantastic fashion wild;
    His throat and chest seem iron-bound,
      He staggers, like a sleepy child.
          “My head, my head!—Savitri, dear,
      This pain is frightful. Let me lie
    Here on the turf.” Her voice was clear
      And very calm was her reply,
    As if her heart had banished fear:
      “Lean, love, thy head upon my breast,”
    And as she helped him, added—“here,
      So shall thou better breathe and rest.”
    “Ah me, this pain,—'tis getting dark,
      I see no more,—can this be death?
    What means this, gods?—Savitri, mark,
      My hands wax cold, and fails my breath.”
          “It may be but a swoon.” “Ah! no—
      Arrows are piercing through my heart,—
    Farewell my love! for I must go,
      This, this is death.” He gave one start
    And then lay quiet on her lap,
      Insensible to sight and sound,
    Breathing his last.... The branches flap
      And fireflies glimmer all around;
    His head upon her breast; his frame
      Part on her lap, part on the ground,
    Thus lies he. Hours pass. Still the same,
      The pair look statues, magic-bound.
      PART III.
          Death in his palace holds his court,
      His messengers move to and fro,
    Each of his mission makes report,
      And takes the royal orders,—Lo,
    Some slow before his throne appear
      And humbly in the Presence kneel:
    “Why hath the Prince not been brought here?
      The hour is past; nor is appeal
    Allowed against foregone decree;
      There is the mandate with the seal!
    How comes it ye return to me
      Without him? Shame upon your zeal!”
          “O King, whom all men fear,—he lies
      Deep in the dark Medhya wood,
    We fled from thence in wild surprise,
      And left him in that solitude.
    We dared not touch him, for there sits,
      Beside him, lighting all the place,
    A woman fair, whose brow permits
      In its austerity of grace
    And purity,—no creatures foul
      As we seemed, by her loveliness,
    Or soul of evil, ghost or ghoul,
      To venture close, and far, far less
          “To stretch a hand, and bear the dead;
      We left her leaning on her hand,
    Thoughtful; no tear-drop had she shed,
      But looked the goddess of the land,
    With her meek air of mild command.”—
      “Then on this errand I must go
    Myself, and bear my dreaded brand,
      This duty unto Fate I owe;
    I know the merits of the prince,
      But merit saves not from the doom
    Common to man; his death long since
      Was destined in his beauty's bloom.”
      PART IV.
          As still Savitri sat beside
      Her husband dying,—dying fast,
    She saw a stranger slowly glide
      Beneath the boughs that shrunk aghast.
    Upon his head he wore a crown
      That shimmered in the doubtful light;
    His vestment scarlet reached low down,
      His waist, a golden girdle dight.
    His skin was dark as bronze; his face
      Irradiate, and yet severe;
    His eyes had much of love and grace,
      But glowed so bright, they filled with fear.
          A string was in the stranger's hand
      Noosed at its end. Her terrors now
    Savitri scarcely could command.
      Upon the sod beneath a bough,
    She gently laid her husband's head,
      And in obeisance bent her brow.
    “No mortal form is thine,”—she said,
      “Beseech thee say what god art thou?
    And what can be thine errand here?”
      “Savitri, for thy prayers, thy faith,
    Thy frequent vows, thy fasts severe,
      I answer,—list,—my name is Death.
          “And I am come myself to take
      Thy husband from this earth away,
    And he shall cross the doleful lake
      In my own charge, and let me say
    To few such honours I accord,
      But his pure life and thine require
    No less from me.” The dreadful sword
      Like lightning glanced one moment dire;
    And then the inner man was tied,
      The soul no bigger than the thumb,
    To be borne onwards by his side:—
      Savitri all the while stood dumb.
          But when the god moved slowly on
      To gain his own dominions dim,
    Leaving the body there—anon
      Savitri meekly followed him,
    Hoping against all hope; he turned
      And looked surprised. “Go back, my child!”
    Pale, pale the stars above them burned,
      More weird the scene had grown and wild;
    “It is not for the living—hear!
      To follow where the dead must go,
    Thy duty lies before thee clear,
      What thou shouldst do, the Shasters show.
          “The funeral rites that they ordain
      And sacrifices must take up
    Thy first sad moments; not in vain
      Is held to thee this bitter cup;
    Its lessons thou shall learn in time!
      All that thou canst do, thou hast done
    For thy dear lord. Thy love sublime
      My deepest sympathy hath won.
    Return, for thou hast come as far
      As living creature may. Adieu!
    Let duty be thy guiding star,
      As ever. To thyself be true!”
          “Where'er my husband dear is led,
      Or journeys of his own free will,
    I too must go, though darkness spread
      Across my path, portending ill,
    'Tis thus my duty I have read!
      If I am wrong, oh! with me bear;
    But do not bid me backward tread
      My way forlorn,—for I can dare
    All things but that; ah! pity me,
      A woman frail, too sorely tried!
    And let me, let me follow thee,
      O gracious god,—whate'er betide.
          “By all things sacred, I entreat,
      By Penitence that purifies,
    By prompt Obedience, full, complete,
      To spiritual masters, in the eyes
    Of gods so precious, by the love
      I bear my husband, by the faith
    That looks from earth to heaven above,
      And by thy own great name O Death,
    And all thy kindness, bid me not
      To leave thee, and to go my way,
    But let me follow as I ought
      Thy steps and his, as best I may.
          “I know that in this transient world
      All is delusion,—nothing true;
    I know its shows are mists unfurled
      To please and vanish. To renew
    Its bubble joys, be magic bound
      In Maya's network frail and fair,
    Is not my aim! The gladsome sound
      Of husband, brother, friend, is air
    To such as know that all must die,
      And that at last the time must come,
    When eye shall speak no more to eye
      And Love cry,—Lo, this is my sum.
          “I know in such a world as this
      No one can gain his heart's desire,
    Or pass the years in perfect bliss;
      Like gold we must be tried by fire;
    And each shall suffer as he acts
      And thinks,—his own sad burden bear;
    No friends can help,—his sins are facts
      That nothing can annul or square,
    And he must bear their consequence.
      Can I my husband save by rites?
    Ah, no,—that were a vain pretence,
      Justice eternal strict requites.
          “He for his deeds shall get his due
      As I for mine: thus here each soul
    Is its own friend if it pursue
      The right, and run straight for the goal;
    But its own worst and direst foe
      If it choose evil, and in tracks
    Forbidden, for its pleasure go.
      Who knows not this, true wisdom lacks,
    Virtue should be the turn and end
      Of every life, all else is vain,
    Duty should be its dearest friend
      If higher life, it would attain.”
          “So sweet thy words ring on mine ear,
      Gentle Savitri, that I fain
    Would give some sign to make it clear
      Thou hast not prayed to me in vain.
    Satyavan's life I may not grant,
      Nor take before its term thy life,
    But I am not all adamant,
      I feel for thee, thou faithful wife!
    Ask thou aught else, and let it be
      Some good thing for thyself or thine,
    And I shall give it, child, to thee,
      If any power on earth be mine.”
          “Well be it so. My husband's sire,
      Hath lost his sight and fair domain,
    Give to his eyes their former fire,
      And place him on his throne again.”
    “It shall be done. Go back, my child,
      The hour wears late, the wind feels cold,
    The path becomes more weird and wild,
      Thy feet are torn, there's blood, behold!
    Thou feelest faint from weariness,
      Oh try to follow me no more;
    Go home, and with thy presence bless
      Those who thine absence there deplore.”
          “No weariness, O Death, I feel,
      And how should I, when by the side
    Of Satyavan? In woe and weal
      To be a helpmate swears the bride.
    This is my place; by solemn oath
      Wherever thou conductest him
    I too must go, to keep my troth;
      And if the eye at times should brim,
    'Tis human weakness, give me strength
      My work appointed to fulfil,
    That I may gain the crown at length
      The gods give those who do their will.
          “The power of goodness is so great
      We pray to feel its influence
    For ever on us. It is late,
      And the strange landscape awes my sense;
    But I would fain with thee go on,
      And hear thy voice so true and kind;
    The false lights that on objects shone
      Have vanished, and no longer blind,
    Thanks to thy simple presence. Now
      I feel a fresher air around,
    And see the glory of that brow
      With flashing rubies fitly crowned.
          “Men call thee Yama—conqueror,
      Because it is against their will
    They follow thee,—and they abhor
      The Truth which thou wouldst aye instil.
    If they thy nature knew aright,
      O god, all other gods above!
    And that thou conquerest in the fight
      By patience, kindness, mercy, love,
    And not by devastating wrath,
      They would not shrink in childlike fright
    To see thy shadow on their path,
      But hail thee as sick souls the light.”
          “Thy words, Savitri, greet mine ear
      As sweet as founts that murmur low
    To one who in the deserts drear
      With parchèd tongue moves faint and slow,
    Because thy talk is heart-sincere,
      Without hypocrisy or guile;
    Demand another boon, my dear,
      But not of those forbad erewhile,
    And I shall grant it, ere we part:
      Lo, the stars pale,—the way is long,
    Receive thy boon, and homewards start,
      For ah, poor child, thou art not strong.”
          “Another boon! My sire the king
      Beside myself hath children none,
    Oh grant that from his stock may spring
      A hundred boughs.” “It shall be done.
    He shall be blest with many a son
      Who his old palace shall rejoice.”
    “Each heart-wish from thy goodness won,
      If I am still allowed a choice,
    I fain thy voice would ever hear,
      Reluctant am I still to part,
    The way seems short when thou art near
      And Satyavan, my heart's dear heart.
          “Of all the pleasures given on earth
      The company of the good is best,
    For weariness has never birth
      In such a commerce sweet and blest;
    The sun runs on its wonted course,
      The earth its plenteous treasure yields,
    All for their sake, and by the force
      Their prayer united ever wields.
    Oh let me, let me ever dwell
      Amidst the good, where'er it be,
    Whether in lowly hermit-cell
      Or in some spot beyond the sea.
          “The favours man accords to men
      Are never fruitless, from them rise
    A thousand acts beyond our ken
      That float like incense to the skies;
    For benefits can ne'er efface,
      They multiply and widely spread,
    And honour follows on their trace.
      Sharp penances, and vigils dread,
    Austerities, and wasting fasts,
      Create an empire, and the blest
    Long as this spiritual empire lasts
      Become the saviours of the rest.”
          “O thou endowed with every grace
      And every virtue,—thou whose soul
    Appears upon thy lovely face,
      May the great gods who all control
    Send thee their peace. I too would give
      One favour more before I go;
    Ask something for thyself, and live
      Happy, and dear to all below,
    Till summoned to the bliss above.
      Savitri ask, and ask unblamed.”—
    She took the clue, felt Death was Love,
      For no exceptions now he named,
          And boldly said,—“Thou knowest, Lord,
      The inmost hearts and thoughts of all!
    There is no need to utter word,
      Upon thy mercy sole, I call.
    If speech be needful to obtain
      Thy grace,—oh hear a wife forlorn,
    Let my Satyavan live again
      And children unto us be born,
    Wise, brave, and valiant.” “From thy stock
      A hundred families shall spring
    As lasting as the solid rock,
      Each son of thine shall be a king.”
          As thus he spoke, he loosed the knot
      The soul of Satyavan that bound,
    And promised further that their lot
      In pleasant places should be found
    Thenceforth, and that they both should live
      Four centuries, to which the name
    Of fair Savitri, men would give,—
      And then he vanished in a flame.
    “Adieu, great god!” She took the soul,
      No bigger than the human thumb,
    And running swift, soon reached her goal,
      Where lay the body stark and dumb.
          She lifted it with eager hands
      And as before, when he expired,
    She placed the head upon the bands
      That bound her breast which hope new-fired,
    And which alternate rose and fell;
      Then placed his soul upon his heart
    Whence like a bee it found its cell,
      And lo, he woke with sudden start!
    His breath came low at first, then deep,
      With an unquiet look he gazed,
    As one awaking from a sleep
      Wholly bewildered and amazed.
      PART V.
          As consciousness came slowly back
      He recognised his loving wife—
    “Who was it, Love, through regions black
      Where hardly seemed a sign of life
    Carried me bound? Methinks I view
      The dark face yet—a noble face,
    He had a robe of scarlet hue,
      And ruby crown; far, far through space
    He bore me, on and on, but now,”—
      “Thou hast been sleeping, but the man
    With glory on his kingly brow,
      Is gone, thou seest, Satyavan!
          “O my belovèd,—thou art free!
      Sleep which had bound thee fast, hath left
    Thine eyelids. Try thyself to be!
      For late of every sense bereft
    Thou seemedst in a rigid trance;
      And if thou canst, my love, arise,
    Regard the night, the dark expanse
      Spread out before us, and the skies.”
    Supported by her, looked he long
      Upon the landscape dim outspread,
    And like some old remembered song
      The past came back,—a tangled thread.
          “I had a pain, as if an asp
      Gnawed in my brain, and there I lay
    Silent, for oh! I could but gasp,
      Till someone came that bore away
    My spirit into lands unknown:
      Thou, dear, who watchedst beside me,—say
    Was it a dream from elfland blown,
      Or very truth,—my doubts to stay.”
    “O Love, look round,—how strange and dread
      The shadows of the high trees fall,
    Homeward our path now let us tread,
      To-morrow I shall tell thee all.
          “Arise! Be strong! Gird up thy loins!
      Think of our parents, dearest friend!
    The solemn darkness haste enjoins,
      Not likely is it soon to end.
    Hark! Jackals still at distance howl,
      The day, long, long will not appear,
    Lo, wild fierce eyes through bushes scowl,
      Summon thy courage, lest I fear.
    Was that the tiger's sullen growl?
      What means this rush of many feet?
    Can creatures wild so near us prowl?
      Rise up, and hasten homewards, sweet!”
          He rose, but could not find the track,
      And then, too well, Savitri knew
    His wonted force had not come back.
      She made a fire, and from the dew
    Essayed to shelter him. At last
      He nearly was himself again,—
    Then vividly rose all the past,
      And with the past, new fear and pain.
    “What anguish must my parents feel
      Who wait for me the livelong hours!
    Their sore wound let us haste to heal
      Before it festers, past our powers:
          “For broken-hearted, they may die!
      Oh hasten dear,—now I am strong,
    No more I suffer, let us fly,
      Ah me! each minute seems so long.
    They told me once, they could not live
      Without me, in their feeble age,
    Their food and water I must give
      And help them in the last sad stage
    Of earthly life, and that Beyond
      In which a son can help by rites.
    Oh what a love is theirs—how fond!
      Whom now Despair, perhaps, benights.
          “Infirm herself, my mother dear
      Now guides, methinks, the tottering feet
    Of my blind father, for they hear
      And hasten eagerly to meet
    Our fancied steps. O faithful wife
      Let us on wings fly back again,
    Upon their safety hangs my life!”
      He tried his feelings to restrain,
    But like some river swelling high
      They swept their barriers weak and vain,
    Sudden there burst a fearful cry,
      Then followed tears,—like autumn rain.
          Hush! Hark, a sweet voice rises clear!
      A voice of earnestness intense,
    “If I have worshipped Thee in fear
      And duly paid with reverence
    The solemn sacrifices,—hear!
      Send consolation, and thy peace
    Eternal, to our parents dear,
      That their anxieties may cease.
    Oh, ever hath I loved Thy truth,
      Therefore on Thee I dare to call,
    Help us, this night, and them, for sooth
      Without thy help, we perish all.”
          She took in hers Satyavan's hand,
      She gently wiped his falling tears,
    “This weakness, Love, I understand!
      Courage!” She smiled away his fears.
    “Now we shall go, for thou art strong.”
      She helped him rise up by her side
    And led him like a child along,
      He, wistfully the basket eyed
    Laden with fruit and flowers. “Not now,
      To-morrow we shall fetch it hence.”
    And so, she hung it on a bough,
      “I'll bear thy saw for our defence.”
          In one fair hand the saw she took,
      The other with a charming grace
    She twined around him, and her look
      She turnèd upwards to his face.
    Thus aiding him she felt anew
      His bosom beat against her own—
    More firm his step, more clear his view,
      More self-possessed his words and tone
    Became, as swift the minutes past,
      And now the pathway he discerns,
    And 'neath the trees, they hurry fast,
      For Hope's fair light before them burns.
          Under the faint beams of the stars
      How beautiful appeared the flowers,
    Light scarlet, flecked with golden bars
      Of the palâsas,[1] in the bowers
    That Nature there herself had made
      Without the aid of man. At times
    Trees on their path cast densest shade,
      And nightingales sang mystic rhymes
    Their fears and sorrows to assuage.
      Where two paths met, the north they chose,
    As leading to the hermitage,
      And soon before them, dim it rose.
          Here let us end. For all may guess
      The blind old king received his sight,
    And ruled again with gentleness
      The country that was his by right;
    And that Savitri's royal sire
      Was blest with many sons,—a race
    Whom poets praised for martial fire,
      And every peaceful gift and grace.
    As for Savitri, to this day
      Her name is named, when couples wed,
    And to the bride the parents say,
      Be thou like her, in heart and head.
      [1] Butea frondosa.