Who now, 'neath the dark wood by night, a pious reader shall be heard?
Whose honeyed 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.
Because, my boy, in innocence, by wicked deed thou hast been slain,
Rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence ne'er stoop to this dark world
again.
Those that to earth return no more, the sense-subdued, the hermits wise,
Priests their sage masters that adore, to their eternal seats arise.
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