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.”