“A name thou sayest—­never, never would
  Thy Rudra die unhonoured and unknown
  And bear the evil name and the reproach
  For ever with his sons and his sons’ sons,
  That of his old illustrious family
  He was the only one that feared to go
  Upon the sea.  The sun is going down,
  And cruel darkness is invading fast
  On us; and soon the ship will leave the port. 
  Within a year thou shalt see me again. 
  But if ’tis ruled by God that I should not
  Return, to one thing listen ere I go. 
  To soothe thy spirits in a few short months
  An infant will be lying on thy lap,
  And if a daughter she should be, let her
  Be married to one worthy of our race. 
  But if a son is born tend him with care;
  When he grows old, let it be said of him
  That he is his lost father’s worthy son.” 
  And when the few last awful words were spoke
  The frighted wife that stood supported by
  Her lord at once grew pale and motionless. 
  As one that watched with anxious care the growth
  Of a young tendril slowly fixes it
  Upon a new and stronger prop, e’en so
  Brave Rudra extricated himself from
  Her grasp and gently placed her on the couch;
  Then gazed on her for a few moments with
  His hands upon her throbbing temples, kissed
  Her brow, and straightway vanished from the room.

  And now the little ship in which he sailed
  Safe bore the crew along the wat’ry waste,
  And after twenty days’ fast sailing she
  Encountered on the way a storm, was wrecked,
  And all save Rudra perished in the waves. 
  The shipwrecked merchant lost all that he had,
  And wandered through a distant country with
  No friends, no money but his hands to earn
  For him his daily bread:  the lonely youth
  Thus dragged for years his miserable life
  With nothing to make it worth living save
  The hope, the only hope, to see his wife;
  Till at the end of twenty years a ship
  Was sighted that was bound for Nundipore. 
  In it he sailed and safely landed in
  His native port.  It was the midday noon;
  He saw the selfsame fishing village that
  Stood years ago upon the sandy beach,
  And with a joyful heart he hastened to
  His house which all deserted seemed; inside
  With falt’ring steps he went, and on the walls
  Of the big hall were hanging pictures of
  His sire, of Krishna playing on the flute,
  Of Rama, Siva, and the other gods
  Whom in his childhood days his house adored,
  And seemed as they were drawn but yesterday;
  A thousand other old familiar scenes
  In quick succession passed before his eyes,
  Then quickly passed into a room, where lo! 
  There slept a youth and she for whom for years
  Life’s toils he patient bore.  As one born blind
  Had after years of pray’r the gift of sight
  Vouchsafed to him by God, his Maker, to