LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

       Thus with himself debating o'er and o'er,

       The Prince resolves abandonment were best.

       "For how," saith he, "should any in the wood

       Harm her, so radiant in her grace, so good,

       So noble, virtuous, faithful, famous, pure?"

       Thus mused his miserable mind, seduced

       By Kali's cursed mischiefs to betray

       His sleeping wife. Then, seeing his loin-cloth gone,

       And Damayanti clad, he drew anigh,

       Thinking to take of hers, and muttering,

       "May I not rend one fold, and she not know?"

       So meditating, round the cabin crept

       Prince Nala, feeling up and down its walls;

       And, presently, within the purlieus found

       A naked knife, keen-tempered; therewithal

       Shred he away a piece, and bound it on;

       Then made with desperate steps to seek the waste,

       Leaving the Princess sleeping; but, anon,

       Turns back again in changeful mood and glides

       Into the hut, and, gazing wistfully

       On slumbering Damayanti, moans with tears:—

       "Ah, Sweetheart! whom nor wind nor sun before

       Hath ever rudely touched; thou to be couched

       In this poor hut, its floor thy bed, and I,

       Thy lord, deserting thee, stealing from thee

       Thy last robe! O my Love with the bright smile,

       My slender-waisted Queen! Will she not wake

       To madness? Yea, and when she wanders lone

       In the dark wood, haunted with beasts and snakes,

       How will it fare with Bhima's tender child,

       The bright and peerless? O my life, my wife!

       May the great sun, may the Eight Powers of air,

       The Rudras, Maruts, and the Aświns twain,

       Guard thee, thou true and dear one, on thy way!"

       So to his sleeping Queen—on all the earth

       Unmatched for beauty—spake he piteously;

       Then breaks away once more, by Kali driven.

       But yet another and another time

       Stole back into the hut, for one last gaze—

       That way by Kali dragged, this way by love.

       Two hearts he had—the trouble-stricken Prince—

       One beating "Go," one throbbing "Stay"; and thus

       Backwards and forwards swung his mind between,

       Till, mastered by the sorrow and the spell,

       Frantic flies Nala, leaving there alone

       That tender-sleeper, sighing as she slept.

       He flies—the soulless prey of Kali flies;

       Still, while he hurries through the forest drear,

       Thinking upon that sweet face he hath left.

       Far distant (King!) was Nala, when, refreshed,

       The slender-waisted wakened, shuddering

       At the wood's silence; but when, seeking him,

       She found no Nala, sudden anguish seized

       Her frightened heart, and, lifting high her voice,

       Loud cries she: "Maharaja! Nishadha's Prince!

       Ha, Lord! ha, Maharaja! ha, Master! why

       Hast thou abandoned me? Now am I lost,

       Am doomed, undone, left in this lonesome gloom.

       Wert thou not named, O Nala, true and just?

       Yet art thou such, to quit me while I slept?

       And hast thou so forsaken me, thy wife—

       Thine own fond wife—who never wrought thee wrong

       When by all others wrong was wrought on thee?

       Mak'st thou it good to me, now, Lord of men,

       That love which long ago before the gods

       Thou didst proclaim? Alas! Death will not come,

       Except at his appointed time to men,

       And therefore for a little I shall live,

       Whom thou hast lived to leave. Nay, 't is a jest!

       Ah, Truant, Runaway, enough thou play'st!

       Come forth, my Lord!—I am afraid! Come forth!

       Linger not, for I see—I spy thee there;

       Thou art within yon thicket! Why not speak

       One word, Nishadha? Nala, cruel Prince!

       Thou know'st me, lone, and comest not to calm

       My terrors, and be with me in my need.

       Art gone indeed? Then I'll not mourn myself,

       For whatso may befall me; I must think

       How desolate thou art, and weep for thee.

       What wilt thou do, thirsty and hungry, spent

       With wandering, when, at nightfall, 'mid the trees

       Thou hast me not, sweet Prince, to comfort thee?"

       Thereat, distracted by her bitter fears,

       Like one whose heart is fire, forward and back

       She runs, hither and thither, weeping, wild.

       One while she sinks to earth, one while she springs

       Quick to her feet; now utterly overcome

       By fear and fasting, now by grief driven mad,

       Wailing and sobbing; till anon, with moans

       And broken sighs and tears, Bhima's fair child,

       The ever-faithful wife, speaks thus again:—

       "By whomsoever's spell this harm hath fall'n

       On Nishadha's Lord, I pray that evil one

       May bear a bitterer plague than Nala doth!

       To him, whoever set my guileless Prince

       On these ill deeds, I pray some direr might

       May bring far darker days, and life to live

       More miserable still!"

       Thus, woe-begone,

       Mourned that great-hearted wife her vanished lord,

       Seeking him ever in the gloomy shades,

       By wild beasts haunted. Roaming everywhere,

       Like one possessed, frantic, disconsolate,

       Went Bhima's daughter. "Ha, ha! Maharaja!"

       So crying runs she, so in every place

       Is heard her ceaseless wail, as when is heard

       The fish-hawk's cry, which screams, and circling screams,

       And will not stint complaining.

       Suddenly,

       Straying too near his den, a serpent's coils

       Seized Bhima's daughter. A prodigious snake,

       Glittering and strong, and furious for food,

       Knitted about the Princess. She, o'erwhelmed

       With horror, and the cold enfolding death,

       Spends her last breaths in pitiful laments

Скачать книгу