Those that to earth return no more-the sense-subdued, the hermits wise,

Priests their sage masters that adore,-to their eternal seats arise.
Those that have studied to the last-the Veda's, the Vedanga's page,
Where saintly kings of earth have passed,-Nahusa and Yayáti sage;
The sires of holy families,—the true to wedlock's sacred vow;
And those that cattle, gold, or rice,—or lands, with liberal hands bestow;
That ope th' asylum to th' oppressed,-that ever love, and speak the
truth;

[youth. Up to the dwellings of the blest-th' eternal, soar thou, best loved For none of such a holy race-within the lowest seat may dwell; But that will be his fatal place-by whom my only offspring fell.' "So groaning deep, that wretched pair-the hermit and his wife, essayed

The meet ablution to prepare,—their hands their last faint effort made. Divine, with glorious body bright-in splendid car of heaven elate, Before them stood their son in light, and thus consoled their helpless

state:

[of joy ;

Meed of my duteous filial care-I've reached the wished for realms And ye, in those glad realms, prepare-to meet full soon your dearloved boy.

My parents, weep no more for me,-yon warrior monarch slew me not,
My death was thus ordained to be,-predestined was the shaft he shot.'
Thus, as he spoke, the anchorite's son-soared up the glowing heaven
afar,

In air his heavenly body shone,-while stood he in his gorgeous car.
But they, of that lost boy so dear—the last ablution meetly made,
Thus spoke to me that holy seer,-with folded hands above his head.
Albeit by thy unknowing dart-my blameless boy untimely fell,
A curse I lay upon thy heart,-whose fearful pain I know too well.
As sorrowing for my son I bow,—and yield up my unwilling breath,
So, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou-at life's last close repose in death.'
That curse, dread sounding in mine ear,―to mine own city forth I set,
Nor 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 my 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'erborne, my spirits sink,
As the swoln 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,
As, Rama's beauteous face unseen,-from life untimely to depart?
His exile in the forest o'er,-him home returned to Oude's 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

[bright.

My Rama's glorious face shall beam-from the dark forest bursting
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 Nâgapur. 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 those 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.

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 befal.

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
Only to prolong my being-thee the good, the blameless, now, [thou,
Can I 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 ;
Of myself begot, the virgin,—could I ever her forsake ? [moved,
Towards a son the hearts of fathers,-some have thought, are deepest
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 ere now 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,
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 wouldst, in duty skilled?
Round thy unprotected daughter,-Sudras like to holy lore,
Scorning me in their wild passion,-will unworthy suitors pour.