Hark the rangers of the forest! how their voices strike the ear!
Prowlers of the darksome jungle! how they fill my breast with fear!
Forest-fire is raging yonder, for I see a distant gleam,
And the rising evening breezes help the red and radiant beam,
Let me fetch a burning faggot and prepare a friendly light,
With these fallen withered branches chase the shadows of the night,
And if feeble still thy footsteps,—long and weary is our way,—
By the fire repose, my husband, and return by light of day.”
“For my parents, fondly anxious,” Satyavan thus made reply,
“Pains my heart and yearns my bosom, let us to their cottage hie,
When I tarried in the jungle or by day or dewy eve,
Searching in the hermitages often did my parents grieve,
And with father's soft reproaches and with mother's loving fears,
Chid me for my tardy footsteps, dewed me with their gentle tears!
Think then of my father's sorrow, of my mother's woeful plight,
If afar in wood and jungle pass we now the livelong night,
Wife beloved, I may not fathom what mishap or load of care,
Unknown dangers, unseen sorrows, even now my parents share!”
Gentle drops of filial sorrow trickled down his manly eye,
Pond Savitri sweetly speaking softly wiped the tear-drops dry: