hou never heededst--let us go where peace may dwell.
"Here I had my birth, my nurture--still my sire is living here;
Oh unwise!" 'twas thus thou answeredst--to my oft-repeated prayer.
Thine old father went to heaven--slept thy mother by his side,
Then thy near and dear relations--why delight'st thou here t' abide?
Fondly loving still thy kindred--thine old home thou would'st not leave,
Of thy kindred death deprived thee--in thy griefs I could but grieve.
Now to me is death approaching--never victim will I give,
From mine house, like some base craven--and myself consent to live.
Thee with righteous soul, the gentle--ever like a mother deemed,
A sweet friend the gods have given me--aye my choicest wealth esteem'd.
From thy parents thee, consenting--mistress of my house I took,
Thee I chose, and thee I honoured--as enjoins the holy book.
Thou the high-born, thou the virtuous!--my dear children's mother thou,
Only to prolong my being--thee the good, the blameless, now,
Can to thy death surrender--mine own true, my faithful wife?
Yet my son can I abandon--in his early bloom of life,
Offer him in his sweet childhood--with no down his cheek to shade?
Her, whom Brahma, the all-bounteous--for a lovely bride hath made,
Mother of a race of heroes--a heaven-winning race may make;[153]
Of myself begot, the virgin--could I ever her forsake?
Towards a son the hearts of fathers--some have thought, are deepest moved,
Others deem the daughter dearer--both alike I've ever loved:
She that sons, that heaven hath in her--sons whose offerings heaven may win,
Can I render up my daughter--blameless, undefiled by sin?
If myself I offer, sorrow--in the next world my lot must be,
Hardly then could live my children--and my wife bereft of me.
One of these so dear to offer--to the wise, were sin, were shame,
Yet without me they must perish--how to 'scape the sin, the blame!
Woe! Oh woe! where find I refuge--for myself, for mine, oh where!
Better 'twere to die together--for to live I cannot bear.

_The_ BRAHMIN'S WIFE _speaks_.

As of lowly caste, my husband--yield not thus thy soul to woe,
This is not a time for wailing--who the Vedas knows must know:
Fate inevitable orders--all must yield to death in turn,
Hence the doom, th' irrevocable--it beseems not thee to mourn.
Man hath wife, and son, and daughte