His sire she seeks,--the blind old king, And asks from him permission straight. "My daughter, night with ebon wing Hovers above; the hour is late. My son is active, brave, and strong, Conversant with the woods, he knows Each path; methinks it would be wrong For thee to venture where he goes, Weak and defenceless as thou art, At such a time. If thou wert near Thou might'st embarrass him, dear heart, Alone, he would not have a fear."
So spake the hermit-monarch blind, His wife too, entering in, exprest The self-same thoughts in words as kind, And begged Savitri hard, to rest. "Thy recent fasts and vigils, child, Make thee unfit to undertake This journey to the forest wild." But nothing could her purpose shake. She urged the nature of her vows, Required her now the rites were done To follow where her loving spouse Might e'en a chance of danger run.
"Go then, my child,--we give thee leave, But with thy husband quick return, Before the flickering shades of eve Deepen to night, and planets burn, And forest-paths become obscure, Lit only by their doubtful rays. The gods, who guard all women pure, Bless thee and kept thee in thy ways, And safely bring thee and thy lord!" On this she left, and swiftly ran Where with his saw in lieu of sword, And basket, plodded Satyavan.
Oh, lovely are the woods at dawn, And lovely in the sultry noon, But loveliest, when the sun withdrawn The twilight and a crescent moon Change all asperities of shape, And tone all colours softly down, With a blue veil of silvered crape! Lo! By that hill which palm-trees crown, Down the deep glade with perfume rife From buds that to the dews expand, The husband and the faithful wife Pass to dense jungle,--hand in hand.
Satyavan bears beside his saw A forkèd stick to pluck the fruit, His wife, the basket lined with straw; He talks, but she is almost mute, And very pale. The minutes pass; The basket has no further space, Now on the fruits they flowers amass That with their red flush all the place While twilight lingers; then for wood He saws the branches of the trees, The noise, heard in the solitude, Grates on its soft, low harmonies.
And all the while one dreadful thought Haunted Savitri's anxious mind, Which would have fain its stress forgot; It came as chainless as the wind, Oft and again: thus on the spot Marked with his heart-blood oft comes back The murdered man, to see the clot! Death's final blow,--the fatal wrack Of every hope, whence will it fall? For fall, by Narad's words, it must; Persistent rising to appall This thought its horrid presence thrust.