Land of the pomp of streams and mountain | Here, where wild nature 'neath their hand pride; Land of the ocean borders, stretching wide; Has blossomed with the rose; Here, where above their honored dust Their memory still is bright, A beacon-ray to guide the just Here tell again in loftier strain Stream proud defiance to the unfriendly world; birth, Centennial land, for thee our prayers ascend: In Faith's perspective glass I see revealed Oh, let us labor in this fruitful ground, Treading the noble path our fathers trod, My task is done; the struggling Muse takes To higher regions of empyreal light; Sing of our sires' heroic deeds A spirit-stirring song; Let hill and stream and fertile meads Here, where upon this hallowed land Each loved ancestral name. THE BRAHMIN'S LAMENT. FROM THE HINDUSTANEE OF THE MAHABHARATA. HE 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 had been driven into the wilderness from the court of their uncle Dritarashtra at Nagapur. 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 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 neighborhood 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. The FATHER speaks. Still dependent, full of woe! Soon or late that must befall. Oh to find a place of refuge In this dire extremity To my oft-repeated prayer. Thine old home thou wouldst 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. Ever like a mother deemed; A sweet friend the gods have given me, As enjoins the holy book. Thee, the good, the blameless, now 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? Toward a son the hearts of fathers, Some have thought, are deepest moved; Others deem the daughter dearer: Both alike I've ever loved; She that sons that heaven hath in her— Sons whose offerings heaven may winCan 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? 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; It beseems not thee to mourn. When demands her husband's weal, Hath its meed of pride and blissIn the next world life eternal, And unending fame in this. 'Tis a high yet certain duty That my life I thus resign; Long ere now through me thou'st won; Thou mayst well support our children, Gently guard when I am gone; Lord of me and all I have, How my hapless self, to save? Widowed, 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? Gather o'er the earth-strewn corn, This pure maiden innocent, In the bosom of our child, Will unworthy suitors pour. Mindful of thy virtuous course, As the storks the rice of offering, They will bear her off by force. Should I see my son degenerate, Like his noble sire no more, In the power of the unworthy The sweet daughter that I bore, Of proud men the scoff, the outcast, And without thy aid to cherish, The inevitable lot, Wherefore, oh, forsake us not! I for thee forsook my kindred, When a wife, thus clearly summoned, For her husband's welfare dies. All the highest duty feel, To assist them in misfortune, And a wife for the same end. Let me, then, discharge the duty, And preserve thyself by me; Give me thine assent, all-honored, And my children's guardian be. Me he will not dare to slay. Of the woman, yet in doubt; In my soul I've all revolved, Man incurs nor sin nor blame; 'Tis inexpiable shame. Be the single victim I. Hearing thus his wife, the husband Fondly clasped her to his breast, And their tears they poured together, By their mutual grief oppressed. THIRD SONG. Of these two the troubled language In the chamber as she heard, Lost herself in grief, the daughter Thus took up the doleful word. The DAUGHTER spake. Why to sorrow thus abandoned? None that right in doubt will call; They in need my help will be." Or hereafter, doth atone; Hence the wise have named him son. Daughters, too, the great forefathers Of a noble race desire, And I now shall prove their wisdom, To the other world goest thou, Who may dare to question how? He that after me was born, I shall die, unused to sorrow, |