The Thunderer on his throne sublime--had shaken at such tremendous guilt. Against the anchorite's sacred head--hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed, In th' holy Vedas deeply read--thy skull in seven wide rents had burst. But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought--that deed of death, thou livest still, Oh son of Raghu, from thy thought--dismiss all dread of instant ill. Oh lead me to that doleful spot--where my poor boy expiring lay, Beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot--of my blind age, the staff, the stay. On the cold earth 'twere yet a joy--to touch my perished child again, (So long if I may live) my boy--in one last fond embrace to strain. His body all bedewed with gore--his locks in loose disorder thrown, Let me, let her but touch once more--to the dread realm of Yama gone.' Then to that fatal place I brought--alone that miserable pair; His sightless hands, and hers I taught--to touch their boy that slumbered there. Nor sooner did they feel him lie--on the moist herbage coldly thrown, Both with a shrill and feeble cry--upon the body cast them down. The mother as she lay and groaned--addressed her boy with quivering tongue, And like a heifer sadly moaned--just plundered of her new-dropped young: 'Was not thy mother once, my son--than life itself more dear to thee? Why the long way hast thou begun--without one gentle word to me. One last embrace, and then, beloved--upon thy lonely journey go! Alas! with anger art thou moved--that not a word thou wilt bestow?' The miserable father now[151]--with gentle touch each cold limb pressed, And to the dead his words of woe--as to his living son, addressed: 'I too, my son, am I not here?--thy sire with thy sad mother stands; Awake, arise, my child, draw near--and clasp each neck with loving hands. Who now, 'neath the dark wood by night--a pious reader shall be heard? Whose honied voice my ear delight--with th' holy Veda's living word? The evening prayer, th' ablution done--the fire adored with worship meet, Who now shall soothe like thee, my son--with fondling hand, my aged feet? And who the herb, the wholesome root--or wild fruit from the wood shall bring? To us the blind, the destitute--with helpless hunger perishing? Thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned--within our hermit-dwelling lone, How shall I tend, myself as blind--now all my strength of life is gone! Oh stay, my child, Oh part not yet--to Yama's dwelling go not now, To-morrow forth we all will set--thy mother, and myself, and thou: For both, in grief for thee, and both--so helpless, ere another day, From this dark world, but little loath--shall we depart, death's easy prey! And I myself, by Yama's seat--companion of thy darksome way, The guerdon to thy virtues meet--from that great Judge of men will pray.