Pleased with the scene—­and knowing not
      Which way, alas! to go,
    The monarch lingered on the spot—­
      The lake spread bright below.

    He lingered, when—­oh hark! oh hark
      What sound salutes his ear! 
    A roebuck drinking in the dark,
      Not hunted, nor in fear.

    Straight to the stretch his bow he drew,
      That bow ne’er missed its aim,
    Whizzing the deadly arrow flew,
      Ear-guided, on the game!

    Ah me!  What means this?—­Hark, a cry,
      A feeble human wail,
    “Oh God!” it said—­“I die—­I die,
      Who’ll carry home the pail?”

    Startled, the monarch forward ran,
      And then there met his view
    A sight to freeze in any man
      The warm blood coursing true.

    A child lay dying on the grass,
      A pitcher by his side,
    Poor Sindhu was the child, alas! 
      His parents’ stay and pride.

    His bow and quiver down to fling,
      And lift the wounded boy,
    A moment’s work was with the king. 
      Not dead—­that was a joy! 
    He placed the child’s head on his lap,
      And ’ranged the blinding hair,
    The blood welled fearful from the gap
      On neck and bosom fair.

    He dashed cold water on the face,
      He chafed the hands, with sighs,
    Till sense revived, and he could trace
      Expression in the eyes.

    Then mingled with his pity, fear—­
      In all this universe
    What is so dreadful as to hear
      A Brahman’s dying curse!

    So thought the king, and on his brow
      The beads of anguish spread,
    And Sindhu, fully conscious now,
      The anguish plainly read.

    “What dost thou fear, O mighty king? 
      For sure a king thou art! 
    Why should thy bosom anguish wring? 
      No crime was in thine heart!

    Unwittingly the deed was done;
      It is my destiny,
    O fear not thou, but pity one
      Whose fate is thus to die.

    No curses, no!—­I bear no grudge,
      Not thou my blood hast spilt,
    Lo! here before the unseen Judge,
      Thee I absolve from guilt.

    The iron, red-hot as it burns,
      Burns those that touch it too,
    Not such my nature—­for it spurns,
      Thank God, the like to do.

    Because I suffer, should I give
      Thee, king, a needless pain? 
    Ah, no!  I die, but may’st thou live,
      And cleansed from every stain!”
    Struck with these words, and doubly grieved
      At what his hands had done,
    The monarch wept, as weeps bereaved
      A man his only son.

    “Nay, weep not so,” resumed the child,
      “But rather let me say
    My own sad story, sin-defiled,
      And why I die to-day!