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قراءة كتاب Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan

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‏اللغة: English
Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan

Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 8

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But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn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.

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