Legend.

Water-fetching goes the noble     Brahmin's wife, so pure and lovely;     He is honour'd, void of blemish.     And of justice rigid, stern.     Daily from the sacred river     Brings she back refreshments precious;     But where is the pail and pitcher?     She of neither stands in need.     For with pure heart, hands unsullied,     She the water lifts, and rolls it     To a wondrous ball of crystal     This she bears with gladsome bosom,     Modestly, with graceful motion,     To her husband in the house.     She to-day at dawn of morning     Praying comes to Ganges' waters,     Bends her o'er the glassy surface     Sudden, in the waves reflected,     Flying swiftly far above her,     From the highest heavens descending,     She discerns the beauteous form     Of a youth divine, created     By the God's primeval wisdom     In his own eternal breast.     When she sees him, straightway feels she     Wondrous, new, confused sensations     In her inmost, deepest being;     Fain she'd linger o'er the vision,     Then repels it, it returneth,     And, perplex'd, she bends her flood-wards     With uncertain hands to draw it;     But, alas, she draws no more!     For the water's sacred billows     Seem to fly, to hasten from her;     She but sees the fearful chasm     Of a whirlpool black disclosed.     Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,     Can this be the pathway homewards?     Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?     Can she think, when thought and counsel,     When assistance all are lost?     So before her spouse appears she     On her looks he look is judgment     Proudly on the sword he seizes,     To the hill of death he drags her,     Where delinquents' blood pays forfeit.     What resistance could she offer?     What excuses could she proffer,     Guilty, knowing not her guilt?     And with bloody sword returns he,     Musing, to his silent dwelling,     When his son before him stands:     "Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!"     "The delinquent woman's!" "Never!     For upon the sword it dries not,     Like the blood of the delinquent;     Fresh it flows, as from the wound.     Mother! mother! hither hasten!     Unjust never was my father,     Tell me what he now hath done."     "Silence! silence! hers the blood is!"     "Whose, my father?" "Silence! Silence!"     "What! oh what! my mother's blood!     What her crime? What did she? Answer!     Now, the sword! the sword now hold I;     Thou thy wife perchance might'st slaughter,     But my mother might'st not slay!     Through the flames the wife is able     Her beloved spouse to follow,     And his dear and only mother     Through the sword her faithful son."     "Stay! oh stay!" exclaim'd the father:     "Yet 'tis time, so hasten, hasten!     Join the head upon the body,     With the sword then touch the figure,     And, alive she'll follow thee."     Hastening, he, with breathless wonder,     Sees the bodies of two women     Lying crosswise, and their heads too;     Oh, what horror! which to choose!     Then his mother's head he seizes,     Does not kiss it, deadly pale 'tis,     On the nearest headless body     Puts it quickly, and then blesses     With the sword the pious work.     Then the giant form uprises,     From the dear lips of his mother,     Lips all god-like changeless blissful,     Sound these words with horror fraught:     "Son, oh son! what overhast'ning!     Yonder is thy mother's body,     Near it lies the impious head     Of the woman who hath fallen     Victim to the judgment-sword!     To her body I am grafted     By thy hand for endless ages;     Wise in counsel, wild in action,     I shall be amongst the gods.     E'en the heav'nly boy's own image,     Though in eye and brow so lovely,     Sinking downwards to the bosom     Mad and raging lust will stir.     "'Twill return again for ever,     Ever rising, ever sinking,     Now obscured, and now transfigur'd,     So great Brama hath ordain'd.     He 'twas sent the beauteous pinions,     Radiant face and slender members     Of the only God-begotten,     That I might be proved and tempted;     For from high descends temptation,     When the gods ordain it so.     And so I, the Brahmin woman,     With my head in Heaven reclining,     Must experience, as a Pariah,     The debasing power of earth.     Son, I send thee to thy father!     Comfort him! Let no sad penance,     Weak delay, or thought of merit,     Hold thee in the desert fast     Wander on through ev'ry nation,     Roam abroad throughout all ages,     And proclaim to e'en the meanest,     That great Brama hears his cry!     "None is in his eyes the meanest     He whose limbs are lame and palsied,     He whose soul is wildly riven,     Worn with sorrow, hopeless, helpless,     Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,     If tow'rd heaven he turns his gaze,     Will perceive, will learn to know it:     Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,     Thousand ears are calmly list'ning,     From which nought below is hid.     "If I to his throne soar upward,     If he sees my fearful figure     By his might transform'd to horror,     He for ever will lament it,     May it to your good be found!     And I now will kindly warn him,     And I now will madly tell him     Whatsoe'er my mind conceiveth,     What within my bosom heaveth.     But my thoughts, my inmost feelings     Those a secret shall remain."