Ah, deed most profitless as worst, a deed of wanton useless guilt:
As though a pupil's hand accurs'd 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?
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 fallen the stream
beside,
The 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,
And these the words, O queen, he spoke, as to consume me in his ire:
'What wrong, O Kshatriya, 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 wildwood all destitute,
My parents, listening anxiously to hear my home-returning foot.
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