Great joy in Madra. Blow the shell
The marriage over to declare!
And now to forest-shades where dwell
The hermits, wend the wedded pair.
The doors of every house are hung
With gay festoons of leaves and flowers;
And blazing banners broad are flung,
And trumpets blown from castle towers!
Slow the procession makes its ground
Along the crowded city street:
And blessings in a storm of sound
At every step the couple greet.
Past all the houses, past the wall,
Past gardens gay, and hedgerows trim,
Past fields, where sinuous brooklets small
With molten silver to the brim
Glance in the sun's expiring light,
Past frowning hills, past pastures wild,
At last arises on the sight,
Foliage on foliage densely piled,
The woods primeval, where reside
The holy hermits;—henceforth here
Must live the fair and gentle bride:
But this thought brought with it no fear.
Fear! With her husband by her still?
Or weariness! Where all was new?
Hark! What a welcome from the hill!
There gathered are a hermits few.
Screaming the peacocks upward soar;
Wondering the timid wild deer gaze;
And from Briarean fig-trees hoar
Look down the monkeys in amaze
As the procession moves along;
And now behold, the bridegroom's sire
With joy comes forth amid the throng;—
What reverence his looks inspire!
Blind! With his partner by his side!
For them it was a hallowed time!
Warmly they greet the modest bride
With her dark eyes and front sublime!
One only grief they feel.—Shall she
Who dwelt in palace halls before,
Dwell in their huts beneath the tree?
Would not their hard life press her sore;—
The manual labour, and the want
Of comforts that her rank became,
Valkala robes, meals poor and scant,
All undermine the fragile frame?
To see the bride, the hermits' wives
And daughters gathered to the huts,
Women of pure and saintly lives!
And there beneath the betel-nuts
Tall trees like pillars, they admire
Her beauty, and congratulate
The parents, that their hearts' desire
Had thus accorded been by Fate,
And Satyavan their son had found
In exile lone, a fitting mate:
And gossips add,—good signs abound;
Prosperity shall on her wait.
Good signs in features, limbs, and eyes,
That old experience can discern,
Good signs on earth and in the skies,
That it could read at every turn.
And now with rice and gold, all bless
The bride and bridegroom,—and they go
Happy in others' happiness,
Each to her home, beneath the glow
Of the late risen moon that lines
With silver, all the ghost-like trees,
Sals, tamarisks, and South-Sea pines,
And palms whose plumes wave in the breeze.
False was the fear, the parents felt,
Savitri liked her new life much;
Though in a lowly home she dwelt
Her conduct as a wife was such
As to illumine all the place;
She sickened not, nor sighed, nor pined;
But with simplicity and grace
Discharged each household duty kind.
Strong in all manual work,—and strong
To comfort, cherish, help, and pray,
The hours past peacefully along
And rippling bright, day followed day.
At morn Satyavan to the wood
Early repaired and gathered flowers
And fruits, in its wild solitude,
And fuel,—till advancing hours
Apprised him that his frugal meal
Awaited him. Ah, happy time!
Savitri, who with fervid zeal
Had said her orisons sublime,
And fed the Bramins and the birds,
Now ministered. Arcadian love,
With tender smiles and honeyed words,
All bliss of earth thou art above!
And yet there was a spectre grim,
A skeleton in Savitri's heart,
Looming in shadow, somewhat dim,
But which would never thence depart.
It was that fatal, fatal speech
Of Narad Muni. As the days
Slipt smoothly past, each after each,
In private she more fervent prays.
But there is none to share her fears,
For how could she communicate
The sad cause of her bidden tears?
The doom approached, the fatal date.
No help from man. Well, be it so!
No sympathy,—it matters not!
God can avert the heavy blow!
He answers worship. Thus she thought.
And so, her prayers, by day and night,
Like incense rose unto the throne;
Nor did she vow neglect or rite
The Veds enjoin or helpful own.
Upon the fourteenth of the moon,
As nearer came the time of dread,
In Joystee, that is May or June,
She vowed her vows and Bramins fed.