Harp is hushed within the dark tents and the voice of warlike song,
Bards beside the evening camp-fire tales of war do not prolong!
Good Yudhishthir's tent is voiceless, and my brothers look so pale,
Abhimanyu comes not joyous Krishna and his sire to hail!
Abhimanyu's love and greeting bless like blessings from above,
Fair Subhadra's joy and treasure, Arjun's pride and hope and love!”
Softly and with many tear-drops did the sad Yudhishthir tell,
How in dreadful field of battle gallant Abhimanyu fell!
How the impious Jayadratha fell on Arjun's youthful son,—
He with six proud Kuru chieftains,—Abhimanyu all alone!
How the young prince, reft of weapon and deprived of steed and car,
Fell as falls a Kshatra warrior fighting on the field of war!
Arjun heard; the father's bosom felt the cruel cureless wound,
“Brave and gallant boy!” said Arjun;—and he sank upon the ground!
Moments passed of voiceless sorrow and of speechless bitter tear,
Sobs within his mailéd bosom smote the weeping listener's ear!
Moments passed; with rising anger quivered Arjun's iron frame,
Abhimanyu's cruel murder smote the father's heart to flame!
“Didst thou say that Sindhu's monarch on my Abhimanyu bore,—
He alone,—and Jayadratha leagued with six marauders more?