Hush! Hark, a sweet voice rises clear! A voice of earnestness intense, "If I have worshipped Thee in fear And duly paid with reverence The solemn sacrifices,--hear! Send consolation, and thy peace Eternal, to our parents dear, That their anxieties may cease. Oh, ever hath I loved Thy truth, Therefore on Thee I dare to call, Help us, this night, and them, for sooth Without thy help, we perish all."
She took in hers Satyavan's hand, She gently wiped his falling tears, "This weakness, Love, I understand! Courage!" She smiled away his fears. "Now we shall go, for thou art strong." She helped him rise up by her side And led him like a child along, He, wistfully the basket eyed Laden with fruit and flowers. "Not now, To-morrow we shall fetch it hence." And so, she hung it on a bough, "I'll bear thy saw for our defence."
In one fair hand the saw she took, The other with a charming grace She twined around him, and her look She turnèd upwards to his face. Thus aiding him she felt anew His bosom beat against her own-- More firm his step, more clear his view, More self-possessed his words and tone Became, as swift the minutes past, And now the pathway he discerns, And 'neath the trees, they hurry fast, For Hope's fair light before them burns.
Under the faint beams of the stars How beautiful appeared the flowers, Light scarlet, flecked with golden bars Of the palâsas,[1] in the bowers That Nature there herself had made Without the aid of man. At times Trees on their path cast densest shade, And nightingales sang mystic rhymes Their fears and sorrows to assuage. Where two paths met, the north they chose, As leading to the hermitage, And soon before them, dim it rose.
Here let us end. For all may guess The blind old king received his sight, And ruled again with gentleness The country that was his by right; And that Savitri's royal sire Was blest with many sons,--a race Whom poets praised for martial fire, And every peaceful gift and grace. As for Savitri, to this day Her name is named, when couples wed, And to the bride the parents say, Be thou like her, in heart and head.
"Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry! It is,--it is my husband's voice! Oh hasten, to his succour fly, No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice. He calls on thee, perhaps his foes Environ him on all sides round, That wail,--it means death's final throes! Why standest thou, as magic-bound?