THE STORY OF THE MAHA-BHARATA.

Long ago there dwelt in India two great Rajas who were brothers, the Raja Pandu and the blind Raja, Dhritarashtra. The former had five noble sons called the Pandavas, the eldest of whom was Yudhi-sthira, the second Bhima, the third Arjuna, and the youngest, twin sons, Nakalu and Sahadeva. All were girted in every way, but Arjuna was especially noble in form and feature.

The blind Raja had a family of one hundred sons, called the Kauravas from their ancestor, Kura. The oldest of these was Duryodhana, and the bravest, Dhusasana.

Before the birth of Pandu's sons, he had left his kingdom in charge of Dhrita-rashtra, that he might spend his time in hunting in the forests on the slopes of the Himalayas. After his death Dhrita-rashtra continued to rule the kingdom; but on account of their claim to the throne, he invited the Pandavas and their mother to his court, where they were trained, together with his sons, in every knightly exercise.

There was probably jealousy between the cousins from the beginning, and when their teacher, Drona, openly expressed his pride in the wonderful archery of Arjuna, the hatred of the Kauravas was made manifest. No disturbance occurred, however, until the day when Drona made a public tournament to display the prowess of his pupils.

The contests were in archery and the use of the noose and of clubs. Bhima, who had been endowed by the serpent king with the strength of ten thousand elephants, especially excelled in the use of the club, Nakalu was most skillful in taming and driving the horse, and the others in the use of the sword and spear. When Arjuna made use of the bow and the noose the plaudits with which the spectators greeted his skill so enraged the Kauravas that they turned the contest of clubs, which was to have been a friendly one, into a degrading and blood-shedding battle. The spectators left the splendid lists in sorrow, and the blind Raja determined to separate the unfriendly cousins before further harm could come from their rivalry.

Before this could be done, another event increased their hostility. Drona had agreed to impart to the Kauravas and the Pandavas his skill in warfare, on condition that they would conquer for him his old enemy, the Raja of Panchala. On account of their quarrel the cousins would not fight together, and the Kauravas, marching against the Raja, were defeated. On their return, the Pandavas went to Panchala, and took the Raja prisoner.

After Yudhi-sthira had been appointed Yuva-Raja, a step Dhrita-rashtra was compelled by the people of Hastinapur to take, the Kauravas declared that they could no longer remain in the same city with their cousins.

A plot was laid to destroy the Pandavas, the Raja's conscience having been quieted by the assurances of his Brahman counsellor that it was entirely proper to slay one's foe, be he father, brother, or friend, openly or by secret means. The Raja accordingly pretended to send his nephews on a pleasure-trip to a distant province, where he had prepared for their reception a "house of lac," rendered more combustible by soaking in clarified butter, in which he had arranged to have them burned as if by accident, as soon as possible after their arrival.

All Hastinapur mourned at the departure of the Pandavas, and the princes themselves were sad, for they had been warned by a friend that Dhrita-rashtra had plotted for their destruction. They took up their abode in the house of lac, to which they prudently constructed a subterranean outlet, and one evening, when a woman with five sons attended a feast of their mother's, uninvited, and fell into a drunken sleep, they made fast the doors, set fire to the house, and escaped to the forest. The bodies of the five men and their mother were found next day, and the assurance was borne to Hastinapur that the Pandavas and their mother Kunti had perished by fire.

The five princes, with their mother, disguised as Brahmans, spent several years wandering through the forests, having many strange adventures and slaying many demons. While visiting Ekachakra, which city they freed from a frightful rakshasa, they were informed by the sage Vyasa that Draupadi, the lovely daughter of the Raja Draupada of Panchala, was going to hold a Svayamvara in order to select a husband. The suitors of a princess frequently attended a meeting of this sort and took part in various athletic contests, at the end of which the princess signified who was most pleasing to her, usually the victor in the games, by hanging around his neck a garland of flowers.

Vyasa's description of the lovely princess, whose black eyes were large as lotus leaves, whose skin was dusky, and her locks dark and curling, so excited the curiosity of the Pandavas that they determined to attend the Svayamvara. They found the city full of princes and kings who had come to take part in the contest for the most beautiful woman in the world. The great amphitheatre in which the games were to take place was surrounded by gold and jewelled palaces for the accommodation of the princes, and with platforms for the convenience of the spectators.

After music, dancing, and various entertainments, which occupied sixteen days, the contest of skill began. On the top of a tall pole, erected in the plain, was placed a golden fish, below which revolved a large wheel. He who sent his arrow through the spokes of the wheel and pierced the eye of the golden fish was to be the accepted suitor of Draupadi.

When the princes saw the difficulty of the contest, many of them refused to enter it; as many tried it only to fail, among them, the Kaurava Duryodhana. At last Arjuna, still in his disguise, stepped forward, drew his bow, and sent his arrow through the wheel into the eye of the golden fish.

Immediately a great uproar arose among the spectators because a Brahman had entered a contest limited to members of the Kshatriya, or warrior class. In the struggle which ensued, however, Arjuna, assisted by his brothers, especially Bhima, succeeded in carrying off the princess, whose father did not demur.

When the princes returned to their hut they went into the inner room and informed their mother that they had brought home a prize. Supposing that it was some game, she told them it would be well to share it equally. The mother's word was law, but would the gods permit them to share Draupadi? Their troubled minds were set at rest by Vyasa, who assured them that Draupadi had five different times in former existences besought Siva for a good husband. He had refused her requests then, but would now allow her five husbands at once. The princes were well satisfied, and when the Raja Draupada learned that the Brahmans were great princes in disguise, he caused the five weddings to be celebrated in great state.

Not satisfied with this, the Raja at once endeavored to make peace between the Pandavas and their hostile cousins, and succeeded far enough to induce Dhrita-rashtra to cede to his nephews a tract of land in the farthest part of his kingdom, on the river Jumna, where they set about founding a most splendid city, Indra-prastha.

Here they lived happily with Draupadi, conquering so many kingdoms and accumulating so much wealth that they once more aroused the jealousy of their old enemies, the Kauravas. The latter, knowing that it would be impossible to gain the advantage of them by fair means, determined to conquer them by artifice, and accordingly erected a large and magnificent hall and invited their cousins thither, with a great show of friendliness, to a gambling match.

The Pandavas knew they would not be treated fairly, but as such an invitation could not be honorably declined by a Kshatriya, they went to Hastinapur. Yudhi-sthira's opponent was Shakuni, the queen's brother, an unprincipled man, by whom he was defeated in every game.

Yudhi-sthira staked successively his money, his jewels, and his slaves; and when these were exhausted, he continued to play, staking his kingdom, his brothers, and last of all his peerless wife, Draupadi.

At this point, when the excitement was intense, the brutal Dhusasana commanded Draupadi to be brought into the hall, and insulted her in every way, to the great rage of the helpless Pandavas, until Dhrita-rashtra, affrighted by the evil omens by which the gods signified their disapproval, rebuked Dhusasana for his conduct, and giving Draupadi her wish, released her husbands and herself and sent them back to their kingdom.

To prevent the Pandavas from gaining time to avenge their insult, the Kauravas induced their father to invite their cousins to court to play a final game, this time the conditions being that the losing party should go into exile for thirteen years, spending twelve years in the forest and the thirteenth in some city. If their disguise was penetrated by their enemies during the thirteenth year, the exile was to be extended for another thirteen years.

Though they knew the outcome, the Pandavas accepted the second invitation, and in consequence again sought the forest, not departing without the most terrible threats against their cousins.

In the forest of Kamyaka, Yudhi-sthira studied the science of dice that he might not again be defeated so disastrously, and journeyed pleasantly from one point of interest to another with Draupadi and his brothers, with the exception of Arjuna, who had sought the Himalayas to gain favor with the god Siva, that he might procure from him a terrible weapon for the destruction of his cousins.

After he had obtained the weapon he was lifted into the heaven of the god Indra, where he spent five happy years. When he rejoined his wife and brothers, they were visited by the god Krishna and by the sage Markandeya, who told them the story of the creation and destruction of the universe, of the flood, and of the doctrine of Karma, which instructs one that man's sufferings here below are due to his actions in former and forgotten existences. He also related to them the beautiful story of how the Princess Sâvitrî had wedded the Prince Satyavan, knowing that the gods had decreed that he should die within a year; how on the day set for his death she had accompanied him to the forest, had there followed Yama, the awful god of death, entreating him until, for very pity of her sorrow and admiration of her courage and devotion, he yielded to her her husband's soul.

Near the close of the twelfth year of their exile, the princes, fatigued from a hunt, sent Nakalu to get some water from a lake which one had discovered from a tree-top. As the prince approached the lake he was warned by a voice not to touch it, but thirst overcoming fear, he drank and fell dead. The same penalty was paid by Sahadeva, Arjuna, and Bhima, who in turn followed him. Yudhi-sthira, who went last, obeyed the voice, which, assuming a terrible form, asked the king questions on many subjects concerning the universe. These being answered satisfactorily, the being declared himself to be Dharma, the god of justice, Yudhi-sthira's father, and in token of his affection for his son, restored the princes to life, and granted them the boon of being unrecognizable during the remaining year of their exile.

The thirteenth year of their exile they spent in the city of Virata, where they entered the service of the Raja,—Yudhi-sthira as teacher of dice-playing, Bhima as superintendent of the cooks, Arjuna as a teacher of music and dancing to the ladies, Nakalu as master of horse, and Sahadeva as superintendent of the cattle. Draupadi, who entered the service of the queen, was so attractive, even in disguise, that Bhima was forced to kill the queen's brother, Kechaka, for insulting her. This would have caused the Pandavas' exile from Virata had not their services been needed in a battle between Virata and the king of the Trigartas.

The Kauravas assisted the Trigartas in this battle, and the recognition, among the victors, of their cousins, whose thirteenth year of exile was now ended, added to the bitterness of their defeat.

Their exile over, the Pandavas were free to make preparations for the great war which they had determined to wage against the Kauravas. Both parties, anxious to enlist the services of Krishna, sent envoys to him at the same time. When Krishna gave them the choice of himself or his armies, Arjuna was shrewd enough to choose the god, leaving his hundreds of millions of soldiers to swell the forces of the Kauravas.

When their preparations were completed, and the time had come to wreak vengeance on their cousins, the Pandavas were loath to begin the conflict. They seemed to understand that, war once declared, there could be no compromise, but that it must be a war for extinction. But the Kauravas received their proposals of peace with taunts, and heaped insults upon their emissary.

When the Pandavas found that there was no hope of peace, they endeavored to win to their side Karna, who was really a son of Kunti, and hence their half-brother, though this fact had not been made known to him until he had long been allied with the Kauravas. In anticipation of this war, the gods, by a bit of trickery, had robbed Karna of his god-given armor and weapons. However, neither celestial artifice, the arguments of Krishna, nor the entreaties of Kunti were able to move Karna from what he considered the path of duty, though he promised that while he would fight with all his strength, he would not slay Yudhi-sthira, Bhima, and the twins.

The forces of the two armies were drawn up on the plain of Kuruk-shetra. The army of the Kauravas was under the command of the terrible Bhishma, the uncle of Pandu and Dhrita-rashtra, who had governed the country during the minority of Pandu.

Each side was provided with billions and billions of infantry, cavalry, and elephants; the warriors were supplied with weapons of the most dangerous sort. The army of the Kauravas was surrounded by a deep trench fortified by towers, and further protected by fireballs and jars full of scorpions to be thrown at the assailants.

As night fell, before the battle, the moon's face was stained with blood, earthquakes shook the land, and the images of the gods fell from their places.

The next morning, when Arjuna, from his chariot, beheld the immense army, he was appalled at the thought of the bloodshed to follow, and hesitated to advance. Krishna insisted that it was unnecessary for him to lament, setting forth his reasons in what is known as the Bhagavat-gita, the divine song, in which he said it was no sin to slay a foe, since death is but a transmigration from one form to another. The soul can never cease to be; who then can destroy it? Therefore, when Arjuna slew his cousins he would merely remove their offensive bodies; their souls, unable to be destroyed, would seek other habitations. To further impress Arjuna, Krishna boasted of himself as embodying everything, and as having passed through many forms. Faith in Krishna was indispensable, for the god placed faith above either works or contemplation. He next exhibited himself in his divine form to Arjuna, and the warrior was horror-stricken at the terrible divinity with countless arms, hands, and heads, touching the skies. Having been thus instructed by Krishna, Arjuna went forth, and the eighteen days' battle began.

The slaughter was wholesale; no quarter was asked or given, since each side was determined to exterminate the other. Flights of arrows were stopped in mid-air by flights of arrows from the other side. Great maces were cut in pieces by well-directed darts. Bhima, wielding his great club with his prodigious strength, wiped out thousands of the enemy at one stroke, and Arjuna did the same with his swift arrows. Nor were the Kauravas to be despised. Hundreds of thousands of the Pandavas' followers fell, and the heroic brothers were themselves struck by many arrows.

Early in the battle the old Bhishma was pierced by so many arrows that, falling from his chariot, he rested upon their points as on a couch, and lay there living by his own desire, until long after the battle.

After eighteen days of slaughter, during which the field reeked with blood and night was made horrible by the cries of the jackals and other beasts of prey that devoured the bodies of the dead, the Kauravas were all slain, and the five Pandavas, reconciled to the blind Raja, accompanied him back to Hastinapur, where Yudhi-sthira was crowned Raja, although the Raj was still nominally under the rule of his old uncle.

Yudhi-sthira celebrated his accession to the throne by the performance of the great sacrifice, which was celebrated with the utmost splendor. After several years the unhappy Dhrita-rashtra retired with his wife to a jungle on the banks of the Ganges, leaving Yudhi-sthira in possession of the kingdom. There the Pandavas visited him, and talked over the friends who had fallen in the great war. One evening the sage Vyasa instructed them to bathe in the Ganges and then stand on the banks of the river. He then went into the water and prayed, and coming out stood by Yudhi-sthira and called the names of all those persons who had been slain at Kuruk-shetra. Immediately the water began to foam and boil, and to the great surprise and terror of all, the warriors lost in the great battle appeared in their chariots, at perfect peace with one another, and cleansed of all earthly stain. Then the living were happy with the dead; long separated families were once more united, and the hearts that had been desolate for fifteen long years were again filled with joy. The night sped quickly by in tender conversation, and when morning came, all the dead mounted into their chariots and disappeared. Those who had come to meet them prepared to leave the river, but with the permission of Vyasa, the widows drowned themselves that they might rejoin their husbands.

Not long after his return to Hastinapur, Yudhi-sthira heard that the old Raja and his wife had lost their lives in a jungle-fire; and soon after this, tidings came to him of the destruction of the city of the Yadavas, the capital of Krishna, in punishment for the dissipation of its inhabitants.

Yudhi-sthira's reign of thirty-six years had been a succession of gloomy events, and he began to grow weary of earth and to long for the blessings promised above. He therefore determined to make the long and weary pilgrimage to Heaven without waiting for death. According to the Mahâ-Bhârata, the earth was divided into seven concentric rings, each of which was surrounded by an ocean or belt separating it from the next annular continent. The first ocean was of salt water; the second, of the juice of the sugar-cane; the third, of wine; the fourth, of clarified butter; the fifth, of curdled milk; the sixth, of sweet milk; the seventh, of fresh water. In the centre of this vast annular system Mount Meru rose to the height of sixty-four thousand miles.

Upon this mountain was supposed to rest the heaven of the Hindus, and thither Yudhi-sthira proposed to make his pilgrimage. His brothers and their wife Draupadi insisted on going with him, for all were equally weary of the world. Their people would fain have accompanied them, but the princes sent them back and went unaccompanied save by their faithful dog. They kept on, fired by their high resolves, until they reached the long and dreary waste of sand that stretched before Mount Meru. There Draupadi fell and yielded up her life, and Yudhi-sthira, never turning to look back, told the questioning Bhima that she died because she loved her husbands better than all else, better than heaven. Next Sahadeva fell, then Nakalu, and afterwards Arjuna and Bhima. Yudhi-sthira, still striding on, informed Bhima that pride had slain the first, self-love the second, the sin of Arjuna was a lie, and Bhima had loved too well the good things of earth.

Followed by the dog, Yudhi-sthira pushed across the barren sand until he reached the mount and stood in the presence of the god. Well pleased with his perseverance, the god promised him the reward of entering into heaven in his own form, but he refused to go unless the dog could accompany him. After vainly attempting to dissuade him, the god allowed the dog to assume its proper form, and lo! it was Dharma, the god of justice, and the two entered heaven together.

But where were Draupadi and the gallant princes, her husbands? Yudhi-sthira could see them nowhere, and he questioned only to learn that they were in hell. His determination was quickly taken. There could be no heaven for him unless his brothers and their wife could share it with him. He demanded to be shown the path to hell, to enter which he walked over razors, and trod under foot mangled human forms. But joy of joys! The lotus-eyed Draupadi called to him, and his brothers cried that his presence in hell brought a soothing breeze that gave relief to all the tortured souls.

Yudhi-sthira's self-sacrifice sufficiently tested, the gods proclaimed that it was all but an illusion shown to make him enjoy the more, by contrast, the blisses of heaven. The king Yudhi-sthira then bathed in the great river flowing through three worlds, and, washed from all sins and soils, went up, hand in hand with the gods, to his brothers, the Pandavas, and

  "Lotus-eyed and loveliest Draupadi,

   Waiting to greet him, gladdening and glad."

 

SELECTIONS FROM THE MAHA-BHARATA.

SÂVITRI, OR LOVE AND DEATH.

The beautiful princess Sâvitri of her own choice wedded the prince Satyavan, son of a blind and exiled king, although she knew that he was doomed by the gods to die within a year. When the year was almost gone, she sat for several days beneath a great tree, abstaining from food and drink, and imploring the gods to save him from death. On the fateful day she accompanied him to the forest to gather the sacred wood for the evening sacrifice. As he struck the tree with the axe he reeled in pain, and exclaiming, "I cannot work!" fell fainting.

  Thereon that noble lady, hastening near.

  Stayed him that would have fallen, with quick arms;

  And, sitting on the earth, laid her lord's head

  Tenderly in her lap. So bent she, mute,

  Fanning his face, and thinking 't was the day—

  The hour—which Narad named—the sure fixed date

  Of dreadful end—when, lo! before her rose

  A shade majestic. Red his garments were,

  His body vast and dark; like fiery suns

  The eyes which burned beneath his forehead-cloth;

  Armed was he with a noose, awful of mien.

  This Form tremendous stood by Satyavan,

  Fixing its gaze upon him. At the sight

  The fearful Princess started to her feet.

  Heedfully laying on the grass his head,

 

  Up started she, with beating heart, and joined

  Her palms for supplication, and spake thus

  In accents tremulous: "Thou seem'st some God;

  Thy mien is more than mortal; make me know

  What god thou art, and what thy purpose here."

 

  And Yama said (the dreadful god of death):

  "Thou art a faithful wife, O Sâvitrî,

  True to thy vows, pious, and dutiful;

  Therefore I answer thee. Yama I am!

  This Prince thy lord lieth at point to die;

  Him will I straightway bind and bear from life;

  This is my office, and for this I come."

 

  Then Sâvitrî spake sadly: "It is taught

  Thy messengers are sent to fetch the dying;

  Why is it, Mightiest, thou art come thyself?"

 

  In pity of her love, the Pityless

  Answered—the King of all the Dead replied:

  "This was a Prince unparalleled, thy lord;

  Virtuous as fair, a sea of goodly gifts,

  Not to be summoned by a meaner voice

  Than Yama's own: therefore is Yama come."

 

  With that the gloomy God fitted his noose

  And forced forth from the Prince the soul of him—

  Subtile, a thumb in length—which being reft,

  Breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone,

  And all life's warmth to stony coldness turned.

  Then, binding it, the Silent Presence bore

  Satyavan's soul away toward the South.

 

  But Sâvitrî the Princess followed him;

  Being so bold in wifely purity,

  So holy by her love; and so upheld,

  She followed him.

 

                     Presently Yama turned.

  "Go back," quoth he. "Pay for him funeral dues.

  Enough, O Sâvitrî, is wrought for love;

  Go back! Too far already hast thou come."

 

  Then Sâvitrî made answer: "I must go

  Where my lord goes, or where my lord is borne;

  Naught other is my duty. Nay, I think,

  By reason of my vows, my services,

  Done to the Gurus, and my faultless love,

  Grant but thy grace, I shall unhindered go.

  The sages teach that to walk seven steps

  One with another, maketh good men friends;

  Beseech thee, let me say a verse to thee:—

 

  "Be master of thyself, if thou wilt be

  Servant of Duty. Such as thou shall see

  Not self-subduing, do no deeds of good

  In youth or age, in household or in wood.

  But wise men know that virtue is best bliss,

  And all by some one way may reach to this.

  It needs not men should pass through orders four

  To come to knowledge: doing right is more

  Than any learning; therefore sages say

  Best and most excellent is Virtue's way."

 

  Spake Yama then: "Return! yet I am moved

  By those soft words; justly their accents fell,

  And sweet and reasonable was their sense.

  See now, thou faultless one. Except this life

  I bear away, ask any boon from me;

  It shall not be denied."

 

                              Sâvitrî said:

  "Let, then, the King, my husband's father, have

  His eyesight back, and be his strength restored,

  And let him live anew, strong as the sun."

 

  "I give this gift," Yama replied. "Thy wish,

  Blameless, shall be fulfilled. But now go back;

  Already art thou wearied, and our road

  Is hard and long. Turn back, lest thou, too, die."

 

  The Princess answered: "Weary am I not,

  So I walk near my lord. Where he is borne,

  Thither wend I. Most mighty of the Gods,

  I follow wheresoe'er thou takest him.

  A verse is writ on this, if thou wouldst hear:—

 

  "There is naught better than to be

  With noble souls in company:

  There is naught better than to wend

  With good friends faithful to the end.

  This is the love whose fruit is sweet,

  Therefore to bide within is meet."

 

  Spake Yama, smiling: "Beautiful! thy words

  Delight me; they are excellent, and teach

  Wisdom unto the wise, singing soft truth.

  Look, now! Except the life of Satyavan,

  Ask yet another—any—boon from me."

 

  Sâvitrî said: "Let, then, the pious King,

  My husband's father, who hath lost his throne,

  Have back the Raj; and let him rule his realm

  In happy righteousness. This boon I ask."

 

  "He shall have back the throne," Yama replied,

  "And he shall reign in righteousness: these things

  Will surely fall. But thou, gaining thy wish,

  Return anon; so shalt thou 'scape sore ill."

 

  "Ah, awful God! who hold'st the world in leash,"

  The Princess said, "restraining evil men,

  And leading good men—even unconscious—there,

  Where they attain, hear yet those famous words:—

 

  "The constant virtues of the good are tenderness and love

  To all that lives—in earth, air, sea—great, small—below, above;

  Compassionate of heart, they keep a gentle thought for each,

  Kind in their actions, mild in will, and pitiful of speech;

  Who pitieth not, he hath not faith; full many an one so lives,

  But when an enemy seeks help, a good man gladly gives."

 

  "As water to the thirsty," Yama said,

  "Princess, thy words melodious are to me.

  Except the life of Satyavan, thy lord,

  Ask one boon yet again, for I will grant."

 

  Answer made Sâvitrî: "The King, my sire,

  Hath no male child. Let him see many sons

  Begotten of his body, who may keep

  The royal line long regnant. This I ask."

 

  "So shall it be," the Lord of Death replied;

  "A hundred fair preservers of his race

  Thy sire shall boast. But this wish being won,

  Return, dear Princess; thou hast come too far."

 

  "It is not far for me," quoth Sâvitrî,

  "Since I am near my husband; nay, my heart

  Is set to go as far as to the end;

  But hear these other verses, if thou wilt:—

 

  "By that sunlit name thou bearest,

  Thou, Vaivaswata! art dearest;

  Those that as their Lord proclaim thee,

  King of Righteousness do name thee:

  Better than themselves the wise

  Trust the righteous. Each relies

  Most upon the good, and makes

  Friendship with them. Friendship takes

  Fear from hearts; yet friends betray,

  In good men we may trust alway."

 

  "Sweet lady," Yama said, "never were words

  Spoke better; never truer heard by ear;

  Lo! I am pleased with thee. Except this soul,

  Ask one gift yet again, and get thee home."

 

  "I ask thee then," quickly the Princess cried,

  "Sons, many sons, born of my body; boys;

  Satyavan's children; lovely, valiant, strong;

  Continuers of their line. Grant this, kind God."

 

  "I grant it," Yama answered; "thou shalt bear

  These sons thy heart desireth, valiant, strong.

  Therefore go back, that years be given thee.

  Too long a path thou treadest, dark and rough."

 

  But sweeter than before, the Princess sang:—

 

  "In paths of peace and virtue

  Always the good remain;

  And sorrow shall not stay with them,

  Nor long access of pain;

  At meeting or at parting

  Joys to their bosom strike;

  For good to good is friendly,

  And virtue loves her like.

  The great sun goes his journey

  By their strong truth impelled;

  By their pure lives and penances

  Is earth itself upheld;

  Of all which live and shall live

  Upon its hills and fields,

  Pure hearts are the protectors,

  For virtue saves and shields.

 

  "Never are noble spirits

  Poor while their like survive;

  True love has gems to render,

  And virtue wealth to give.

  Never is lost or wasted

  The goodness of the good;

  Never against a mercy,

  Against a right, it stood;

  And seeing this, that virtue

  Is always friend to all,

  The virtuous and true-hearted,

  Men their protectors call."

 

  "Line for line, Princess, as thou sangest so,"

  Quoth Yama, "all that lovely praise of good,

  Grateful to hallowed minds, lofty in sound,

  And couched in dulcet numbers—word by word—

  Dearer thou grew'st to me. O thou great heart,

  Perfect and firm! ask any boon from me,—

  Ask an incomparable boon!"

 

                              She cried

  Swiftly, no longer stayed: "Not Heaven I crave,

  Nor heavenly joys, nor bliss incomparable,

  Hard to be granted, even by thee; but him,

  My sweet lord's life, without which I am dead;

  Give me that gift of gifts! I will not take

  Aught less without him,—not one boon—no praise,

  No splendors, no rewards,—not even those sons

  Whom thou didst promise. Ah, thou wilt not now

  Bear hence the father of them and my hope!

  Make thy free word good; give me Satyavan

  Alive once more."

 

  And thereupon the God—

  The Lord of Justice, high Vaivaswata—

  Loosened the noose and freed the Prince's soul,

  And gave it to the lady, saying this,

  With eyes grown tender: "See, thou sweetest queen

  Of women, brightest jewel of thy kind!

  Here is thy husband. He shall live and reign

  Side by side with thee, saved by thee,—in peace

  And fame and wealth, and health, many long years,

  For pious sacrifices world-renowned.

  Boys shalt thou bear to him, as I did grant,—

  Kshatriya kings, fathers of kings to be,

  Sustainers of thy line. Also thy sire

  Shall see his name upheld by sons of sons,

  Like the immortals, valiant, Mâlavas."

 

                          ARNOLD: Indian Idylls.

 

FROM "THE GREAT JOURNEY."

The shadow of the Great War hung over King Yudhi-sthira, whose reign was one long succession of gloomy events, culminating in the death of the blind Raja and his wife in a jungle fire, and the destruction of the capital city of Krishna because of the dissipation of its inhabitants.

  On tidings of the wreck of Vrishni's race,

  King Yudhi-sthira of the Pandavas

  Was minded to be done with earthly things,

  And to Arjuna spake: "O noble prince,

  Time endeth all; we linger, noose on neck,

  Till the last day tightens the line, and kills.

  Let us go forth to die, being yet alive."

  And Kunti's son, the great Arjuna, said:

  "Let us go forth! Time slayeth all.

  We will find Death, who seeketh other men."

  And Bhimasena, hearing, answered: "Yea,

  We will find Death!" and Sahadev cried: "Yea!"

  And his twin brother Nakalu; whereat

  The princes set their faces for the Mount.

 

  So ordering ere he went, the righteous King

  Made offering of white water, heedfully,

  To Vasudev, to Rama, and the rest,—

  All funeral rites performing; next he spread

  A funeral feast....

 

  And all the people cried, "Stay with us, Lord!"

  But Yudhi-sthira knew his time was come,

  Knew that life passes and that virtue lasts,

  And put aside their love....

 

  So, with farewells

  Tenderly took of lieges and of lords,

  Girt he for travel with his princely kin,

  Great Yudhi-sthira, Dharma's royal son.

  Crest-gem and belt and ornaments he stripped

  From off his body, and for broidered robe

  A rough dress donned, woven of jungle bark;

  And what he did—O Lord of men!—so did

  Arjuna, Bhima, and the twin-born pair,

  Nakalu with Sahadev, and she,—in grace

  The peerless,—Draupadi. Lastly those six,—

  Thou son of Bharata!—in solemn form

  Made the high sacrifice of Naishtiki,

  Quenching their flames in water at the close;

  And so set forth, midst wailing of all folk

  And tears of women, weeping most to see

  The Princess Draupadi—that lovely prize

  Of the great gaming, Draupadi the Bright—

  Journeying afoot; but she and all the five

  Rejoiced because their way lay heavenward.

 

  Seven were they, setting forth,—Princess and King,

  The King's four brothers and a faithful dog.

  Those left Hastinapur; but many a man,

  And all the palace household, followed them

  The first sad stage: and ofttimes prayed to part,

 

  Put parting off for love and pity, still

  Sighing, "A little farther!" till day waned;

  Then one by one they turned.

 

                                 Thus wended they,

  Pandu's five sons and loveliest Draupadi,

  Taking no meat and journeying due east,

  On righteousness their high hearts fed, to heaven

  Their souls assigned; and steadfast trod their feet—

  By faith upborne—past nullah ran, and wood,

  River and jheel and plain. King Yudhi-sthir

  Walked foremost, Bhima followed, after him

  Arjuna, and the twin-born brethren next,

  Nakalu with Sahadev; in whose still steps—

  O Best of Bharat's offspring!—Draupadi,

  That gem of women paced, with soft dark face,—

  Clear-edged like lotus petals; last the dog

  Following the Pandavas.

 

                      While yet those heroes walked,

  Now to the northward banding, where long coasts

  Shut in the sea of salt, now to the north,

  Accomplishing all quarters, journeyed they;

  The earth their altar of high sacrifice,

  Which these most patient feet did pace around

  Till Meru rose.

 

                    At last it rose! These Six,

  Their senses subjugate, their spirits pure,

  Wending along, came into sight—far off

  In the eastern sky—of awful Himavat;

  And midway in the peaks of Himavat,

  Meru, the mountain of all mountains, rose,

  Whose head is heaven; and under Himavat

  Glared a wide waste of sand, dreadful as death.

 

  Then, as they hastened o'er the deathly waste,

  Aiming for Meru, having thoughts at soul

  Infinite, eager,—lo! Draupadi reeled,

  With faltering heart and feet; and Bhima turned,

  Gazing upon her; and that hero spake

  To Yudhi-sthira: "Master, Brother, King!

  Why doth she fail? For never all her life

  Wrought our sweet lady one thing wrong, I think.

  Thou knowest; make us know, why hath she failed?"

 

  Then Yudhi-sthira answered: "Yea, one thing.

  She loved our brothers better than all else,—

  Better than Heaven: that was her tender sin,

  Fault of a faultless soul: she pays for that."

 

  So spake the monarch, turning not his eyes,

  Though Draupadi lay dead,—striding straight on

  For Meru, heart-full of the things of Heaven,

  Perfect and firm. But yet a little space

  And Sahadev fell down; which Bhima seeing,

  Cried once again: "O King, great Madri's son

  Stumbles and sinks. Why hath he sunk?—so true,

  So brave and steadfast, and so free from pride!"

 

  "He was not free," with countenance still fixed,

  Quoth Yudhi-sthira; "he was true and fast

  And wise; yet wisdom made him proud; he hid

  One little hurt of soul, but now it kills."

 

  So saying, he strode on, Kunti's strong son,

  And Bhima; and Arjuna followed him,

  And Nakalu and the hound; leaving behind

  Sahadev in the sands. But Nakalu,

  Weakened and grieved to see Sahadev fall—

  His dear-loved brother—lagged and stayed; and then

  Prone on his face he fell, that noble face

  Which had no match for beauty in the land,—

  Glorious and godlike Nakalu! Then sighed

  Bhima anew: "Brother and Lord! the man

  Who never erred from virtue, never broke

  Our fellowship, and never in the world

  Was matched for goodly perfectness of form

  Or gracious feature,—Nakalu has fallen!"

 

  But Yudhi-sthira, holding fixed his eyes,—

  That changeless, faithful, all-wise king,—replied:

  "Yea, but he erred! The god-like form he wore

  Beguiled him to believe none like to him,

  And he alone desirable, and things

  Unlovely, to be slighted. Self-love slays

  Our noble brother. Bhima, follow! Each

  Pays what his debt was."

 

                            Which Arjuna heard,

  Weeping to see them fall; and that stout son

  Of Pandu, that destroyer of his foes,

  That Prince, who drove through crimson waves of war,

  In old days, with his milk-white chariot-steeds,

  Him, the arch hero, sank! Beholding this,—

  The yielding of that soul unconquerable,

 

  Fearless, divine, from Sakra's self derived,

  Arjuna's—Bhima cried aloud: "O King!

  This man was surely perfect. Never once,

  Not even in slumber, when the lips are loosed,

  Spake he one word that was not true as truth.

  Ah, heart of gold! why art thou broke? O King!

  Whence falleth he?"

 

                        And Yudhi-sthira said,

  Not pausing: "Once he lied, a lordly lie!

  He bragged—our brother—that a single day

  Should see him utterly consume, alone,

  All those his enemies,—which could not be.

  Yet from a great heart sprang the unmeasured speech,

  Howbeit a finished hero should not shame

  Himself in such a wise, nor his enemy,

  If he will faultless fight and blameless die:

  This was Arjuna's sin. Follow thou me!"

 

  So the King still went on. But Bhima next

  Fainted, and stayed upon the way, and sank;

  But, sinking, cried behind the steadfast Prince:

  "Ah, Brother, see! I die! Look upon me,

  Thy well beloved! Wherefore falter I,

  Who strove to stand?"

 

                          And Yudhi-sthira said:

  "More than was well the goodly things of earth

  Pleased thee, my pleasant brother! Light the offence

  And large thy spirit; but the o'erfed soul

  Plumed itself over others. Pritha's son,

  For this thou fallest, who so near didst gain."

 

  Thenceforth alone the long-armed monarch strode,

  Not looking back,—nay, not for Bhima's sake,—

  But walking with his face set for the Mount;

  And the hound followed him,—only the hound.

 

  After the deathly sands, the Mount! and lo!

  Sakra shone forth,—the God,—filling the earth

  And Heavens with the thunders of his chariot wheels.

  "Ascend," he said, "with me, Pritha's great son!"

  But Yudhi-sthira answered, sore at heart

  For those his kinsfolk, fallen on the way:

  "O Thousand-eyed, O Lord of all the gods,

  Give that my brothers come with me, who fell!

  Not without them is Swarga sweet to me.

  She too, the dear and kind and queenly,—she

  Whose perfect virtue Paradise must crown,—

  Grant her to come with us! Dost thou grant this?"

 

  The God replied: "In Heaven thou shalt see

  Thy kinsmen and the Queen—these will attain—

  And Krishna. Grieve no longer for thy dead,

  Thou chief of men! their mortal coverings stripped,

  These have their places; but to thee, the gods

  Allow an unknown grace: thou shalt go up,

  Living and in thy form, to the immortal homes."

 

  But the King answered: "O thou wisest One,

  Who know'st what was, and is, and is to be,

  Still one more grace! This hound hath ate with me,

  Followed me, loved me; must I leave him now?"

 

  "Monarch," spake Indra, "thou art now as we,—

  Deathless, divine; thou art become a god;

  Glory and power and gifts celestial,

  And all the joys of heaven are thine for aye:

  What hath a beast with these? Leave here thy hound."

 

  Yet Yudhi-sthira answered: "O Most High,

  O Thousand-Eyed and Wisest! can it be

  That one exalted should seem pitiless?

  Nay, let me lose such glory: for its sake

  I cannot leave one living thing I loved."

 

  Then sternly Indra spake: "He is unclean,

  And into Swarga such shall enter not.

  The Krodhavasha's wrath destroys the fruits

  Of sacrifice, if dog defile the fire.

  Bethink thee, Dharmaraj; quit now this beast!

  That which is seemly is not hard of heart."

 

  Still he replied: "'Tis written that to spurn

  A suppliant equals in offence to slay

  A twice-born; wherefore, not for Swarga's bliss

  Quit I, Mahendra, this poor clinging dog,—

  So without any hope or friend save me.

  So wistful, fawning for my faithfulness;

  So agonized to die, unless I help

  Who among men was called steadfast and just."

 

  Quoth Indra: "Nay, the altar flame is foul

  Where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep

  The ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits

  Of offering, and the merit of the prayer

  Of him whom a hound toucheth. Leave it here!

  He that will enter Heaven must enter pure.

  Why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way,

  And Krishna, and the dear-loved Draupadi,

  Attaining firm and glorious to this Mount

  Through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute?

  Hath Yudhi-sthira vanquished self, to melt

  With one pure passion at the door of bliss?

  Stay'st thou for this, who did not stay for them,—

  Draupadi, Bhima?"

 

                     But the King yet spake:

  "'T is known that none can hurt or help the dead.

  They, the delightful ones, who sank and died.

  Following my footsteps, could not live again

  Though I had turned—therefore I did not turn;

  But could help profit, I had stayed to help.

  There be four sins, O Sakra, grievous sins:

  The first is making suppliants despair,

  The second is to slay a nursing wife,

  The third is spoiling Brahmans' goods by force,

  The fourth is injuring an ancient friend.

  These four I deem not direr than the crime,

  If one, in coming forth from woe to weal,

  Abandon any meanest comrade then."

 

  Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled;

  Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there

  The Lord of Death and Justice, Dharma's self!

  Sweet were the words which fell from those dread lips,

  Precious the lovely praise: "O thou true King,

  Thou that dost bring to harvest the good seed

  Of Pandu's righteousness; thou that hast ruth

  As he before, on all which lives!—O Son!

 

  "Hear thou my word! Because thou didst not mount

  This car divine, lest the poor hound be shent

  Who looked to thee, lo! there is none in heaven

  Shall sit above thee, King! Bharata's son!

  Enter thou now to the eternal joys,

  Living and in thy form. Justice and Love

  Welcome thee, Monarch! thou shalt throne with us!"

                         ARNOLD: Indian Idylls.