Toward the sound the shaft let fly--ah, cruelly deceived by fate! The winged arrow scarce had flown--and scarce had reached its destined aim, 'Ah me, I'm slain,' a feeble moan--in trembling human accents came. 'Ah whence hath come this fatal shaft--against a poor recluse like me, Who shot that bolt with deadly craft--alas! what cruel man is he? At the lone midnight had I come--to draw the river's limpid flood, And here am struck to death, by whom?--ah whose this wrongful deed of blood. Alas! and in my parent's heart--the old, the blind, and hardly fed, In the wild wood, hath pierced the dart--that here hath struck their offspring dead. Ah, deed most profitless as worst--a deed of wanton useless guilt; As though a pupil's hand accurs'd[146]--his holy master's blood had spilt. But not mine own untimely fate--it is not that which I deplore, My blind, my aged parents state--'tis their distress afflicts me more. That sightless pair, for many a day--from me their scanty food have earned, What lot is theirs, when I'm away--to the five elements returned?[147] Alike all wretched they, as I--ah, whose this triple deed of blood? For who the herbs will now supply--the roots, the fruit, their blameless food?' My troubled soul, that plaintive moan--no sooner heard, so faint and low, Trembled to look on what I'd done--fell from my shuddering hand my bow. Swift I rushed up, I saw him there--heart-pierced, and fall'n the stream beside, That hermit boy with knotted hair--his clothing was the black deer's hide. On me most piteous turned his look--his wounded breast could scarce respire, 'What wrong, oh Kshatriya,[148] have I done--to be thy deathful arrow's aim, The forest's solitary son--to draw the limpid stream I came. Both wretched and both blind they lie--in the wild wood all destitute, My parents, listening anxiously--to hear my home-returning foot. By this, thy fatal shaft, this one--three miserable victims fall, The sire, the mother, and the son--ah why? and unoffending all. How vain my father's life austere--the Veda's studied page how vain, He knew not with prophetic fear--his son would fall untimely slain. But had he known, to one as he--so weak, so blind, 'twere bootless all, No tree can save another tree--by the sharp hatchet marked to fall. But to my father's dwelling haste--oh Raghu's[149] son, lest in his ire, Thy head with burning curse he blast--as the dry forest tree the fire. Thee to my father's lone retreat--will quickly lead yon onward path, Oh haste, his pardon to entreat--or ere he curse thee in his wrath. Yet first, that gently I may die--draw forth the barbed steel from hence, Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I--not thine of Brahmin blood the offence. My sire, a Brahmin hermit he--my mother was of Sudra race.'[150]