Markandeya Purana, Books VII, VIII

Rev. B. Hale Wortham

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  • BOOK VII.
  • BOOK VIII.

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    JOURNAL


    OF


    THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY.





    [New Series, Volume XIII]


    [London, Trubner and Company]


    [1881]



    {Scanned and edited by Christopher M. Weimer, May 2002}





    ART. XIII.—_Translation of the Marka.n.deya Pura.na.
    Books VII. VIII. By the Rev. B. HALE WORTHAM.





    BOOK VII.



    ONCE upon earth there lived a saintly king
    Named Harischandra; pure in heart and mind,
    In virtue eminent, he ruled the world,
    Guarding mankind from evil. While he reigned
    No famine raged, nor pain; untimely death
    Ne'er cut men off; nor were the citizens
    Of his fair city lawless. All their wealth,
    And power, and works of righteousness, ne'er filled
    Their hearts with pride; in everlasting youth
    And loveliness the women passed their days.


    It so fell out, that while this mighty king
    Was hunting in the forest, that he heard
    The sound of female voices raised in cry
    Of supplication. Then he turned and said,
    Leaving the deer to fly unheeded: “Stop!
    Who art thou, full of tyranny and hate,
    That darest thus oppress the earth; while I,
    The tamer of all evil, live and rule?”
    Then, too, the fierce Ganesa,—he who blinds
    The eyes, and foils the wills of men,—he heard
    The cry, and thus within himself he thought:
    “This surely is the great ascetic's work,
    The mighty Visvamitra; he whose acts
    Display the fruits of penance hard and sore.
    Upon the sciences he shows his power,
    While they, in patience, discipline of mind,
    And silence perfected, cry out with fear,
    'What shall we do? The illustrious Kausika
    Is powerful; and we, compared with him,
    Are feeble.' Thus they cry. What shall I do?
    My mind is filled with doubt. Yet stay; a thought
    Has come across me: Lo! this king who cries
    Unceasingly, 'Fear not!' meeting with him,
    And entering his heart, I will fulfil
    All my desire.” Then filled with Rudra's son—
    Inspired with rage by Vigna Raj—the king
    Spake up and said: “What evil doer is here,
    Binding the fire on his garment's hem,
    While I, his king, in power and arms renowned,
    Resplendent in my glory, pass for nought?
    Surely the never-ending sleep of death
    Shall overtake him, and his limbs shall fail,
    Smitten with darts from my far-reaching bow,
    Whose fame this lower world may scarce contain.”
    Hearing the prince's words, the saint was filled
    With wrath o'erpow'ring, and the sciences
    Fell blasted in a moment at his glance.


    But when the king beheld the pious sage
    All-powerful, he quaked exceedingly,
    And trembled like the sacred fig-tree's leaves.
    Then Visvamitra cried: “Stop, miscreant!”
    And Harischandra, humbly falling down
    Before the saint, in accents low and meek:
    “O Lord! most holy! most adorable!
    Oh, blame me not! This is no fault of mine!
    My duty calls,” he said, “I must obey.”
    “Is it not written in the Holy Law,
    'Alms must be given by a virtuous king;
    His people must be fought for, and be kept
    From every ill'?” Then Visvamitra spoke
    And said: “To whom, O king, should'st thou give alms?
    For whom in battle should'st thou fight? and whom
    Should'st thou protect? Oh, tell me, nor delay,
    But quickly answer, if thou fearest sin.”
    “Alms should be given to Brahmans,” said the king:
    “Those who are weak should be protected: foes
    In battle should be met and overcome.”


    Then Visvamitra spoke and said: “O king!
    If thus indeed thou rightly dost perceive
    Thy royal duty, give thine alms to me;
    I am a holy Brahman, and I seek
    A dwelling-place; moreover I would gain
    A wife: therefore bestow on me thine alms.”
    The king, his heart filled with exceeding joy,
    Felt, as it were, his youth return, and said:
    “Fear not! but tell me, son of Kausika,
    Thy heart's desire; and be it hard to gain,
    Or be it easy, it shall still be thine.
    Say, shall I give thee gold, or wealth, or life?
    Or shall I give thee wife, or child, or land?
    Or my prosperity itself?” “O king!”
    The sage replied, “thy present I accept;
    But let thine alms, I pray, be granted first,—
    The offering for the kingly sacrifice.”
    “O Brahman!” said the king, “the alms are thine;
    Further than this, whatever be the gift
    Thou mayest desire, freely I give it thee.
    Ask what thou wilt.” Then Visvamitra spake:
    “Give me the earth, its mountains, seas, and towns,
    With all its kingdoms, chariots, horses, men;
    Its elephants, its treasure-houses too;
    Its treasures vast, and all whate'er beside
    Is recognized as thine: oh! give me all,
    I pray, except thyself, thy wife, thy son,
    And this thy righteousness, that follows close
    Beside thee. Sinless one! oh thou who art
    Perfect in righteousness! oh give me all—
    All beside these. What need of further words.”


    The king, with heart rejoicing, and unchanged
    In countenance, hearing the sage's words,
    Said, humbly bowing down before the saint,
    “So be thy wish fulfilled.” “O saintly king,”
    Said Visvamitra, “if the world is mine,
    And power, and wealth, I pray you who shall reign,
    Since in this kingdom as a devotee
    I dwell?” Then Harischandra said: “'Ere this,
    Before the world was thine by my free gift,
    Thou wast the lord of all; how much more now?
    Thy right is doubly sure.” Then said the sage:
    “If this indeed be so,—if the whole world
    Be truly mine, and all its sovereignty,
    Then should'st thou not remain, nor leave thyself
    Aught of that kingdom which thou hast renounced,
    But, casting off thy royal ornaments,
    Thou should'st depart, clothed in a dress of bark.”
    The king, obedient to the sage's word,
    Stripped off his royal dress, and, with his wife
    And son, made haste to go. Then said the saint:
    “Stop, Harischandra! Hast thou then forgot
    The offering for the kingly sacrifice
    That thou hast promised us?” Replied the king:
    “O mighty saint! the kingdom now is _thine;
    All have I given to _thee: and as for me,
    What have I left?—nought! save myself,
    My wife, my son!” “Thou sayest the truth, indeed,”
    Answered the sage; “but yet there still remains
    The offering for the kingly sacrifice.
    And this know well: A vow to Brahmans made,
    If unfulfilled, works special woe to him
    Who made the vow. For in this sacrifice
    Must offerings of worth be freely made
    To Brahmans;—offerings until they cry
    Hold! that suffices for us! Therefore pay
    Thy promised vow, nor longer hesitate.
    'Alms are for Brahmans,' thou thyself hast said,
    'Those who are weak must be protected: foes
    In battle must be met and overcome.'“
    “O saintly priest!” answered the king, “my wealth
    Is all departed: nothing now remains
    For me to give: yet grant me time I pray,
    And I will pay the offering!” “Noble king,”
    Said Visvamitra, “speak I pray thee! Say
    What time dost thou appoint that I should wait?
    Speak! no delay! or else my curse of fire
    Shall burn thee up.” Then Harischandra said:
    “Most holy Brahman! when a month has past
    The money for the offering shall be thine.
    Now I have nothing. Oh! be pleased to grant
    Remission for the present.” Said the sage,
    “Go! go! most noble prince! maintain thy faith!
    And may'st thou prosper! may no enemies
    Harass thy road.” Commanded thus, the king
    Departed as an outcast;—he, the king
    Of all the earth, an exile with his wife
    Unused to go afoot, and with his son
    Went forth: while cries and lamentations rose
    On every side: “Our hearts are filled with pain,
    Why dost thou leave us thus? O virtuous king!
    Show mercy to thy subjects. Righteousness
    Indeed shines forth in thee; if thou art full
    Of mercy, may it overflow on us.
    Stay! Mighty Prince! one moment, while we gaze
    With lover's eyes upon thy beauteous form.
    Alas! our Prince! Shall we ne'er see thee more?
    How changed thy princely state! Thou, who did'st once
    Go forth, surrounded by attendant kings,
    Who marched on foot; while stately elephants
    Bore e'en thy ministers. Now, Lord of Kings!
    Thyself art driven forth on foot. Yet, stay!
    Think, Harischandra! how wilt thou endure
    The dust, the heat, the toil? Stay, mighty prince,
    Nor cast thy duty off. Oh, show to us
    Some mercy, for herein thy duty lies.
    Behold, we cast off all for thee! Our wives,
    Our wealth, our children, our possessions, all
    Have we relinquished; like thy shadow,
    We would follow thee. Oh leave us not!
    For wheresoe'er thou art is happiness,
    And heaven itself would be no heaven to us
    Without our prince.” Then, overwhelmed with grief
    At these laments, the king stayed on his course,
    In pity for his loving citizens.
    Then Visvamitra, filled with rage, his eyes
    Rolling with wrath, exclaimed: “Shame on thee! shame!
    O full of falsehood, and of wickedness.
    How! would'st thou, then, speaker of lies!
    Resume the gifts that thou hast freely made,
    And reinstate thee in thy kingdom?” “Sir!
    I go!” replied the king to these rude words,
    And trembling crept away in haste, his wife
    Holding him by the hand. And, as she went,
    Her fragile form o'ercome with weariness,
    The Brahman smote her fiercely with his stick.
    Then Harischandra, pained with inmost grief,
    Seeing the stroke, said meekly, “Sir! I go!”
    Nor further spoke. Filled with compassion then,
    The Visvadevas said: “What sin is this?
    What torments shall indeed suffice for him
    By whom this pious king—the offerer
    Of prayer, and sacrifice, has been cast forth.
    Who now will sanctify the Soma-juice
    With prayers and hymns, at the great sacrifice,
    That we may drink it with rejoicing hearts?”


    Then, having heard these words, the Brahman turned
    Upon the Visvedevas; and, in wrath
    Exceeding hot, he spake a fearful curse:
    “You shall be cast down from the height of heaven,
    And live as men.” The curse had hardly passed
    His lips, when filled with pity for their fate,
    The sage yet further added: “you shall live
    Indeed as men, but yet, there shall be born
    To you no son, nor shall you know the state
    Of marriage. Envy, love, and wrath shall ne'er
    Hold sway o'er you: and when the appointed time
    Has past, you shall re-enter once again
    The courts of heaven, and wear again the form
    Which you had lost.” The Visvedevas then
    Came down from heaven, and, clothed in human form,
    Were born as men, the sons of Pritha, wife
    Of Pa.n.du. Therefore those five Pa.n.davas—
    Mighty in war—by Visvamitra cursed,
    Knew not the state of marriage. Thou hast heard
    The tale of Pa.n.du's sons; thy question, too,
    Of fourfold import has been answered.
    I pray thee, say, what further would'st thou hear?






    BOOK VIII.



    Said Jaimini: An answer ye have found
    To all my questions; and indeed have filled
    Me full of deepest interest. Oh! I long
    To hear yet more! Alas! that saintly king!
    What grief he suffered! Did he e'er attain
    To any comfort answering to his woe?
    Noblest of Birds! Oh tell me this, I pray.


    The Holy Birds continued: Then the king,
    O'ercome with grief and pain, hearing the words
    Of Visvamitra, with his wife and son
    Journeyed along, dragging his weary steps.
    At length the holy place appeared in view—
    The shrine of Siva; thus within himself,
    He said: “Benares, sacred to the god,
    Lies now before me; there shall I find rest,
    For there man has no power.” The king approached
    The gates on foot: lo! at the entry stood
    The Brahman Visvamitra. Mighty Saint!
    The king, his hands in supplication joined,
    With humble reverence, said: “Here is my life,
    My wife, my son, I offer all to thee;
    Accept, I pray, the offering! or choose
    Whatever else thou wouldest!” But the sage
    Replied: “The month is past! most saintly king!
    Give me the present for the sacrifice—
    The offering thou hast promised.” “One half-day
    As yet remains before the month be past,
    Oh Brahman of surpassing piety,
    And penances unfading. Wait, I pray,
    A few short hours.” Then Visvamitra said:
    “So be it, king! once more I will return,
    But if the offering be not duly paid,
    Before the sinking of this evening's sun,
    My curse shall smite thee.” And the priest
    Departed, while the king, in anxious thought,
    Debated thus: “How shall I make the gift?
    The promised gift? where are my friends? my wealth?
    I may not beg for alms; how can I then
    Fulfil my vow? Nor even in the world
    Beyond shall I find rest. Destruction waits,
    If with my promise unfulfilled, I pass
    From hence. A robber of the holy saints;
    I shall become the lowest of the low.
    Nay, I will sell myself! and, as a slave,
    Redeem my promise.” Then the queen, in tears
    Bewildered, and afflicted, lost in thought,
    With face cast down, “Maintain thy truth,” she said,
    “Most mighty prince! Oh! let not doubt prevail!
    The man devoid of truth is to be shunned
    Like contact with the dead. The highest law
    Declares, that inward truth and faithfulness
    Must be maintained. Burnt sacrifices, alms,
    The study of the scriptures, penances,
    Are counted not for righteousness to him
    Whose word is faithless. Listen! noble prince!
    Is it not written in the sacred law:
    'The wise attain Salvation through the truth,
    While lies and falsehood are destruction's way
    To men of low and evil minds.' There lived,
    'Tis said, a king upon the earth, by whom
    The kingly sacrifice—burnt offerings too,
    Were offered in abundance. That same king
    Fell once from truthfulness, and by that fall,
    He lost his righteousness, and forfeited
    His place in heaven. Prince! I have borne a son”—
    Her utterance failed her, issuing forth in nought
    But sighs and lamentations. Then the king,
    With eyes o'erflowing, said, “Behold thy son!
    He stands beside thee! cast away thy grief!
    Tell me what presses on thee.” Said the queen,
    “Prince, I have borne a son; and sons are born
    To none but worthy women. This my son
    Shall take me—he shall offer me for sale—
    Then with the money gained, pay thou the priest
    The promised offering.” Hearing these words,
    He fell down fainting. When his sense returned,
    Filled with exceeding pain, the king burst forth,
    Lamenting: “This, alas! most loving one!
    Is hardly to be framed in words, much less
    Be carried out in deed. Alas! alas!”—
    His spirit fled again, and to the earth
    He fell unconscious. Overcome with grief,
    The queen exclaimed, filled with compassion: “King!
    How art thou fallen from thy high estate!
    The ground is now thy resting-place, whom once
    A gorgeous couch received. Lo! this my lord,
    By whom wealth, honour, power, are freely given
    An offering to the Brahman—see, he lies
    Insensate on the ground. Ye gods of heaven!
    Tell me, I pray you, has this noble king,
    Equal to gods in rank, committed sin
    Against you, that he lies thus overcome
    With woe?” Then fell the queen, bereft of sense
    Upon the earth, o'erwhelmed with grief and pain,
    Seeing her husband's misery. When the boy
    Beheld his parents lying on the ground,
    He cried in terror: “Father! give me food!
    Mother! my tongue is parched with thirst!” Meanwhile
    Upon the scene the mighty Brahman came;
    And when he saw the king lie senseless, “King!”—
    Sprinkling cold water on his face—he said,
    “Rise up! rise up! Pay me the promised vow;
    For this thy misery from day to day
    Increases, and will yet increase, until
    The debt be paid.” The water's cooling touch
    Refreshed the king; his consciousness returned;
    But when he saw the Brahman, faintness seized
    His limbs again. Then overpowering rage
    Seized Visvamitra; but before he left,
    The best of Brahmans said: “If what is just,
    Or right, or true, enters thy mind, O king!
    Give me the present. Lo! by truth divine
    The sun sends forth his vivifying rays
    Upon the earth. By truth this mighty world
    Stands firm and steadfast. Truth all law excels.
    By truth the very heaven itself exists.
    Wert thou to weigh the truth, and in the scale
    Opposing, wert to place burnt-offerings,
    And sacrifices countless, still the truth
    Would far outweigh them all. Why need I waste
    My words of loving-kindness upon thee—
    An ill-intentioned, false, ignoble man.
    Thou art a king,—so should the truth prevail
    With thee. Yet hear me;—if the offering
    Be still unpaid when th' evening's sun has sunk
    Behind the western mountain to his rest,
    My curse shall smite thee.” Speaking words like these
    The Brahman left him; and the king, o'ercome
    With fear—a fugitive—robbed of his wealth—
    Degraded to unfathomable depths—
    The victim of his evil creditor—
    Heard once again the counsel of his wife:
    “O king! sell _me! nor let the fiery curse
    Dissolve thy being!” Urged repeatedly,
    The king at length replied: “Most loving one!
    What the most wicked man could hardly do,
    That same will I:—and I will sell my wife.
    Alas! that I should utter such a word!”
    And going with his wife into the town—
    Eyes dimmed with tears, voice choked with grief—he cried:
    “Come hither, townsmen! hearken unto me!
    A wretch! inhuman! savage as a fiend!
    I offer here my wife for sale, and yet
    I live! Here is a female slave! Who buys?
    Make haste and speak.” “The female slave is mine!”
    (So spake an ancient Brahman to the king.)
    “Money I have in heaps, and I will pay
    You well for her. My wife is delicate;
    Her household duties are beyond her strength;
    I want a slave, and therefore I will give
    A price proportioned to the woman's skill
    And temper; nor will I o'erlook her youth
    And beauty. What you think is fair and right,
    That will I pay.” Struck dumb with grief, the king
    Stood mute, nor answered aught. And then the priest,
    Tying the price in the king's garment-hem—
    His bark-cloth garment—roughly grasped the queen,
    And dragged her off. But when the loving child
    Beheld his mother led away, he seized
    Her by her garment. And the queen exclaimed:
    “If only for a moment, noble sir!
    Oh! let me go! that I may gaze once more
    Upon my child, whom I shall never see,
    And never touch again! My child, behold
    Thy mother, now a slave! And thou—a prince!
    Oh, touch me not! My lot of servitude
    Forbids that thou should'st touch me.” But the child,
    His eyes bedewed with tears, ran after her,
    Calling her “Mother!” As the boy came near,
    The Brahman spurned him with his foot; but he
    Still following close would not be torn from her,
    Calling her “Mother!” “Oh, my lord! I pray,
    Be gracious to me!” said the queen. “Oh, buy
    My son with me; divide us not! For I
    Without him shall be nought of use to you.
    Be gracious, O my lord!” Then said the priest:
    “Here! take the money! give the boy to me!
    The saints, who know the scriptures, have ordained
    The right and lawful sum. Take it!” He tied
    The money in the king's bark dress, and led
    Them both away—the mother and the child—
    Together bound. But when the king beheld
    Himself bereft of both his wife and son,
    He burst forth: “Ah! my wife! whom neither sun,
    Nor moon, nor air have ever seen I who hast
    Been kept from vulgar gaze! Alas I a slave
    Hast thou become! Alas! thou, too, my son!—
    A scion of the noble dynasty,
    Sprung from the sun! disgrace has seized on thee,
    And—shame upon me!—thou too art a slave!
    Ye have become a sacrifice; ye, through my fault,
    Have fallen. Would that I were dead!” Thus spoke
    The king. Meanwhile the Brahman hastily
    Entered the grove wherein his dwelling stood,
    And vanished with his slaves. Then met the king
    The Brahman Visvamitra. “Prince!” he said,
    Pay me the offering!” Harischandra gave
    The money gained by the shameful sale
    Of wife and child. And when the priest beheld
    The money, overcome with wrath, he said:
    “How canst thou mock me with this paltry sum!
    Base Kshatriya! And thinkest thou that this
    Suffices for a sacrificial gift
    Such as I would accept? But if thy mind
    Thus far misleads thee, thou shalt feel my power—
    Power transcendant, gained by penances,
    And scripture meditation. Yes! the power
    Of my pure Brahmanhood shall show itself
    On thee.” “More will I give thee,” said the king,
    “But wait, most noble saint! Nought have I left!
    Even my wife and child are sold.” Replied
    The Brahman: “Hold! be silent! Further time
    Than the remaining fourth part of to-day
    I grant thee not.” Enraged, he turned away,
    Departing with the money. And the king,
    Immersed in grief and fear, with face cast down,
    Cried out: “If there be any one of you
    Who wants a slave, let him make haste and speak
    While day remains.” Then Dharma, putting on
    The form of a Cha.n.dala, hastily
    Came forward, taking pity on the king.
    His countenance was fearful,—black, with tusks
    Projecting; savage in his words; his smell
    Was foul and horrible; a crowd of dogs
    Came after him. “Tell me thy price,” he said;
    “Be quick; and whether it be large or small
    I care not, so I have thee as my slave:"
    The king, beholding such a loathsome form,
    Of mien revolting—“What art thou?” he said.
    “Men call me a Cha.n.dala,” he replied.
    I dwell in this same city—in a part
    Of evil fame. As of a murderer
    Condemned to death, such is my infamy.
    My calling is a robber of the dead.”
    “I will not be a slave,” exclaimed the king,
    “To thee, a base Cha.n.dala. Better far
    That I should perish by the fiery curse.”
    The words were scarcely uttered, when the saint
    Returned, his countenance with rage
    Distorted; and he thus addressed the king:
    “The sum is fair; why dost thou not accept
    The offer? Then indeed thou mightest pay
    The gift thou owest for the sacrifice.”
    “O son of Kusika!” replied the king,
    “Consider this, I pray!—my noble race!
    Truly am I descended from the sun!
    How can I then become, though sore in want,
    Lowest of creatures—a Cha.n.dala's slave?”
    “Delay no more,” the Brahman said, “but pay
    The gift at once, and sell thyself a slave
    To the Cha.n.dala—or assuredly
    I curse thee.” “Saintly priest, be merciful!”
    The king entreated; and, immersed in care,
    He seized the Brahman's feet, exclaiming thus:
    “What am I but a slave, o'erwhelmed with grief!
    Fear holds me! Saintly priest, be merciful!
    Protect me, mighty saint! Save me, I pray,
    From this most horrible Cha.n.dala. Sir!
    Most noble saint! hereafter shall thy will
    Be all the object of my life! To serve
    Thy lightest wish shall be my highest joy!
    Thus will I make the offering—I will be
    Thy _slave!” Replied the Brahman: “If thou art
    My slave, then will I sell thee as a slave
    To the Cha.n.dala.” Then, filled with delight,
    Paying the money, the Svapaka bound
    His lately-purchased slave, and striking him,
    Led hill away. Parted from all his friends;
    In utmost grief; in the Cha.n.dala's house
    Abiding—morning, noon, and eventide,
    And night, the king thus made lament:
    “Alas! my tender wife, overwhelmed with pain,
    Looking upon her son in misery,
    Bewails her lot. But yet she says: 'The king
    Will surely ransom us, for he has gained
    By now more money than the Brahman paid
    For us;' and all the time she little knows
    My fate—worse than her own. For I have passed
    From woe to woe—kingdom and friends—my wife,
    My son, have passed from me, and now the state
    Of a Cha.n.dala holds me.” While he dwelt
    A slave in the Cha.n.dala's house, the forms
    Of those he loved were still before his eyes—
    Were ever in his mind. Meanwhile the king,
    Obedient to his master's will, became
    A robber of the dead; and night and day
    He watched for plunder. “One part of the spoil
    Is for the king, three for thy master, two
    For thee. Go to the city's southern part,
    Where is the dwelling of the dead, there wait.”
    Obeying the Cha.n.dala, to the place
    Of burial he went;—an awful place,
    Filled full of fearful sounds and loathsome sights—
    Of evil smells, and smoke, and locks of hair
    Fallen from the dead; while troops of fiends and ghouls,
    Vampires and demons, wandered to and fro.
    Vultures and jackals prowled, and spirit forms'
    Of evil hovered o'er. The ground was strewn
    With heaps of bones; and wailing, sharp and shrill,
    Re-echoed from the mourners of the dead.
    The bodies on the funeral piles, half burnt,
    Crackled and hissed; showing their shining teeth,
    They grinned, as if in sport; while all the time
    The howl of demons and the wail of fiends
    Were mingled with the roar of flames—a sound
    Of fearful import, such as ushers in
    The day of doom. The sights, and sounds, and smells—
    The heaps of ashes, and the piles of bones,
    Blackened with filth—the smoke, the shouts,
    The yells—struck fear on fear into the heart.
    The burial-place resembled nought but hell.
    Such was the place appointed for the king.
    “Priests! Brahmans! Counsellors! how have I fallen
    From all my royal state! Alas! my queen!
    Alas! my son! Oh! miserable fate!
    We have been torn asunder by the power
    Of Visvamitra.” Thoughts like these possessed
    His inmost mind; while foul, unshorn, unwashed,
    He served his master. Running here and there,
    Armed with a jagged club, he sought the dead,
    From whom he gained his wages. So he lived,
    Degraded from his caste. Old knotted rags
    Served as his dress; his face and arms and feet
    With dust and ashes from the funeral piles
    Begrimed; his hands defiled with putrid flesh
    From contact with the bodies of the dead.
    So neither day nor night he ceased from toil.
    And twelve months passed—twelve weary months, which seemed
    To his grief-stricken mind a hundred years;
    And then at last, worn out, the best of kings
    Lay down to rest; and as upon his couch
    All motionless in sleep he lay, he saw
    A wondrous vision. By the power divine
    He seemed to wear another form,—a form
    Both new and strange,—and in that form to pay
    The vow. Twelve years of expiation passed
    With difficulty. Then within himself
    King Harischandra thought: “So too will I,
    When I am freed from hence, perform my vows
    With generous freedom.” Forthwith he was born
    As a Pukkasa; while a place was found
    For him among the dead, and funeral rites
    Were ordered as his task. Thus seven years
    Were passed; then to the burying-place was brought
    A Brahman seeking sepulture: in life
    He had been poor, but honest; and the king,
    Though he knew this—the dead man's poverty
    And his uprightness—pressed his friends to pay
    The funeral dues. “Enforce thy right,” they said,
    “And do this evil deed; yet know thou this:
    Once upon earth there was a mighty king
    Named Harischandra; though he but disturbed
    A Brahman's sleep, through that offence he lost
    His merit, and by Visvamitra's curse
    Became a base Pukkasa.” “Yet the king
    Spared not the dead man's friends, but still required
    His fee. Therefore they cursed him in their rage—
    “Go!—go!—thou most degraded of mankind—
    Go to the lowest hell!” Then in his dream
    The king beheld the messengers of death.
    Fearful to look at, armed with heavy chains,
    They seized him, and they bound him hand and foot,
    And bore him off. And then, in fear and pain,
    Headlong he fell into the bath of oil
    In Naraka. There, torn with instruments
    Sharp-edged as razors, fed on putrid blood,
    He saw himself. For seven years in hell—
    Now burnt from day to day, now tossed and torn,
    Now cut by knives, and now by icy winds
    Frozen and numbed—a dead Pukkasa's fate
    He underwent. Each day in Naraka,
    A hundred years of mortal reckoning—
    So count the demons who inhabit hell.
    Then he beheld himself cast up to earth,
    His spirit entering a filthy dog;
    Feeding on things all foul and horrible—
    Consumed by cold. A month thus passed away.
    His spirit changed its dwelling, and he saw
    Himself an ass; and after that an ox,
    A cow, a goat, a sheep, a bird, a worm.
    So day by day he saw his spirit change
    Its outward shape. A multitude of forms—
    Some moving, others rooted to the ground—
    Received his soul. And when the hundred years
    Were passed and gone, he saw himself again
    Re-occupy his pristine human form—
    Once more a king. And then he seemed to lose
    His kingdom, casting it away in games
    Of chance. Turned from his home a wanderer
    Into the forest with his wife and child:
    Devoured by a ravening beast, but raised
    To life again on earth, he sore bewailed
    His wife: “Alas! why hast thou left me thus?
    Alas! O Saivya! where hast thou gone?”
    Then in his dream he seemed to see his wife
    And son lamenting: “What hast thou to do
    With gambling? Oh protect us, mighty king!”
    The vision faded, and he saw no more
    The cherished forms. And then the dream returned
    By power divine. And Harischandra stood
    In heaven, and he beheld his wife on earth,
    With flowing hair, dragged forcibly along—
    Stripped of her clothes: the cry came to his ear,
    “Protect us, king of men!” Then, snatched away,
    The demons hurried him before the judge;
    And Harischandra seemed to hear the words:
    “Go forth! return once more to earth! Thy grief
    Is well nigh past and ended; joy ere long
    Shall come to thee. The sorrows that remain
    Endure.” The king, then driven from the sky
    By Yama's messengers, falling through space—
    Senseless in fear and terror, filled with pain
    Yet more exceeding—thought within himself,
    “How shall I suffer all these torments sore!—
    The changes manifold of form—the pain
    In Naraka.” Then Harischandra sought
    Aid from the gods: “O mighty lords,” he said,
    “Protect me! O protect my wife and child!
    O mighty Dharma, thee I worship! Thee,
    O Krish.na, the Creator! Faultless ones,
    Both far and near, before you now I come,
    A suppliant. On thee, O lord of prayer,
    I call! on thee, O Indra too! to thee
    O ancient one! I pray—immutable!”
    The vision fled, the king arose from sleep.
    His tangled hair, his body black and grimed,
    Recalled to him his state—the plunderer
    Of dead men's clothes. His recollection gone,
    He thought not of his sorrowing wife and child,
    For reason failed. The loss of kingdom, wealth,
    And friends, his dwelling-place among the tombs,
    Had overthrown his senses, and destroyed
    His mind. Then to the burying-place the queen
    Came, bearing the dead body of her son—
    Pale and distracted. “My beloved son!
    My child!” she kept exclaiming, while she threw
    Dust on her head. “Alas! alas! O king!
    O that thou could'st behold thy child,” she said—
    “Thy child now lying dead upon the earth,
    Killed by a serpent's bite. Alas! my son!
    So lovely! so delightful!” Then the king,
    Rearing the sounds of mourning, went in haste
    To rob the dead: nor did he recognize
    His wife, in that sad mourner, changed by grief
    As if into another. And the queen
    Knew not the form that stood before her, clothed
    In rags, with matted hair, withered and foul.
    Then recollection dawned upon the king,
    Seeing the dead child's princely form, the thought
    Of his own son came o'er him. “Ah! my child!
    What evil chance,” he said, “has brought thee here!
    A child of princely race thou seemest. He, my son,
    Long lost to me through my accursed fate,
    Would have been even such as thou in age.”
    Then raised the queen her voice, and thus she spoke:
    “Alas! has some unexpiated crime
    Brought upon us, my child! this endless woe.
    My absent lord! since thou did'st not console
    My grief in times gone by, how can the pain
    I suffer now assuage? Did'st thou not lose
    Thy kingdom? did'st thou not desert thy friends?
    Did'st thou not sell thy wife and child?” The king
    Heard her lament, and as he heard, the wail
    Fell from his eyes,—he recognized again
    His wife and son—and saying but the words,
    “Ah! Saivya! Ah! my beloved child!”
    He fainting fell to earth. Then, too, the queen,
    Hearing her husband's voice, o'ercome with grief,
    Insensate fell. Returning consciousness
    Brought to them both affliction's heaviest weight
    And mutual lamentations. “Ah! my son!”
    Thus mourned the king, “my inmost heart is torn,
    When I behold thy form so delicate:
    My child! embracing thee in tend'rest love,
    Words of affection I will speak, that rise
    Unbidden to my lips. Alas! thy limbs
    Will be defiled by my embrace; the dust
    That clings about my garments will pollute
    Thy lovely form! Alas! my child, thou had'st
    An evil father! He who should have kept
    All dangers from thee, he it was who sold
    Thee as a slave! and yet in heart and mind
    First of all things I love thee. Ah! my child!
    Thy father's realm—my heaped-up wealth—all this
    By lawful right was thine inheritance,
    And now thou liest slain! Ah me! the tears
    Rise to my eyes in blinding force: thy form,
    In grace and beauty like the lotus flower,
    Fades from my sight.” He spoke, and faltering
    With grief embraced his son. The queen exclaimed:
    “This is indeed my lord—I know his voice!
    I know his form! this is the mighty king.
    The wisest of all beings. But how changed!
    What fate is this? Ah what a dreadful place
    For him, the lord of men. This grief yet more
    Is added to the mourning for my son—
    My husband's fate—for as a slave he serves
    A base Cha.n.dala. Cursed be that god,
    Or demon foul, through whom a godlike king
    Has fallen to this degraded state; the lot
    Of a Svapaka. Ah! most noble prince,
    My mind is filled with grief, when I recall
    Thy regal state, thy past magnificence.
    No kingly ensigns go before thee now,
    No captive kings, brought down to slavery,
    Humbly precede thee, casting in the way
    Their garments, lest the dust should soil thy feet.
    But now! O king! alas, thyself a slave,
    Thou livest in this fearful place, begrimed
    With filth; thy sacred cord concealed, thy hair
    Tangled and long, plunder of dead men's clothes
    Thy livelihood. Ah! king! and is thy life
    Spent in this awful wise?” So spake the queen,
    And falling on his neck, embraced her lord:
    While she, sprung from a king herself, bewailed
    Her sorrows endless. “King! I pray thee speak!
    Is this a dream? If it be real and true,
    Then justice, truth, and righteousness have fled
    And gone from earth: nor aught avails mankind,
    Of sacrifice, or reverence, to gods
    Or priests! 'Tis vain to follow innocence
    If thou, most perfect, purest of mankind,
    Art brought to such a depth of infamy.”
    Then spoke the king, and told his sorrowing wife
    How he had fallen to this wretched state,—
    The state of a Cha.n.dala. She, in turn,
    Weeping, with many sighs, poured out her tale,
    Telling him how the serpent's bite had killed
    Their child. “Beloved one! I suffer not
    These evils,” said the king, “by mine own will—
    Thou seest what I endure; my evil fate
    Depends not on myself. I am a slave,
    And if I fly from the Cha.n.dala's bonds,
    The fiery torment in the depths of hell
    Will overtake me, and I shall become
    A slave again. My doom is fixed! lo! hell
    Is my abode hereafter; and in forms,
    Creeping and loathsome, shall my soul abide.
    Yet from this miserable life on earth
    There is one only refuge. He! my son!
    My hope! my stay! is dead; drowned by the sea
    Of my misfortunes. But I am a slave!
    I am dependent on another's will!
    Can I give up my wife? Yes! even so!
    For know thou this: one who is steeped in woe
    Cares not for evil chances; not the state
    Of the most loathsome beast, nor yet the wood
    Of sword-leaved plants, nor even hell's dread stream,
    Could add the smallest fraction to the pain
    I have already borne. My son is dead!
    Who then will make atonement for my sins?
    Yet listen to my words, beloved one,
    If I have offered sacrifice, and paid
    Due reverence to the saints; if I have given
    Alms to the needy—may we meet again
    Hereafter, in the world to come, and find
    The refuge for our woes denied us here.
    Let us together follow in the path
    By which our son has gone. Our hopeless fate
    Can never alter here. Whatever words
    I may have uttered, thoughtlessly, in jest,
    These, when I pray for pardon, shall receive
    Fullest forgiveness. Thou must not despise
    Thy lord: nor pride thee on thy queenly state
    Now passed and gone.” The prince's wife replied:
    “I am prepared to tread that path with thee,
    O king, most saintly! and with thee that world
    To enter.” While she spoke these words, the king
    Made up the funeral pile, and placed thereon
    His son, himself ascending with his wife.
    And then, in meditation wrapt, he thought
    Upon Narayana, the lord supreme,
    And Vasudeva, lord of deities,
    Siva, and Brahma the eternal god,
    And Krish.na clothed in glory. As the king
    Was meditating, all the gods from heaven
    Came down headed by Dharma. And they said:
    “Hear us, O king! hear us, O lord! The gods—
    Even the mighty gods have come to earth,
    And at their head is Dharma. Gods, and saints,
    And heroes—yea, and Visvamitra too,
    The sage implacable,—all summon thee—
    Ascend! to heaven: receive the due reward,
    That thou hast gained. O king! slay not thyself!
    I, perfect Righteousness, I summon thee
    To enter now the heaven that thou hast gained
    By thy transcendant virtues, self-control,
    Patience, and truth.” Then Indra spoke, and said:—
    “O Harischandra! King, most eminent!
    In virtue! lo! before you Indra stands—
    For I am he. The everlasting world
    Thou hast attained: together with thy wife,
    And son, ascend to heaven;—to that third heav'n—
    So difficult to be attained by men—
    The heav'n that thou hast won.” Then Indra rained
    Life-giving am.rit from the sky, and flowers
    That blossomed in the heavenly courts: while sounds
    Of music filled the air, and round him stood
    The gods, a vast assembly. Then the son
    Of Harischandra rose, restored to life,
    And health, his mind and senses whole, his form
    More beautiful than ever: and the king
    Embraced his wife and son, with perfect joy
    Filled to o'erflowing, crowned with heavenly wreaths.
    Then Indra said: “Thou, with thy wife, and son,
    Shalt dwell in bliss supreme: bliss that thyself
    Hast purchased, by thy virtues and thy toils.”
    Then spoke the king: “Hear me! most holy gods!
    Unbidden by my master, will I not
    To heaven itself ascend.” Then Dharma spoke:
    “I am thy master. I assumed the form
    Of a Cha.n.dala. All thy pain and woe
    Was brought upon thee by my magic power,
    And thou wast made a slave! I have beheld
    Thy truth, and thy uprightness. Saintly king!
    The highest place that heaven accords to men,
    Whose virtue has been tried and proved:—to that
    Ascend!” But Harischandra answering, said:
    “Receive, most mighty lord! my words of praise
    And thanksgiving. I offer them to thee
    Full of affection. Lo! my people stand
    With grieving hearts, longing for my return.
    Can I ascend to heav'n while they on earth
    Lament for me? If they have ever slain,
    Brahmans, or teachers of the holy law,—
    If lust or avarice have ruled their hearts,—
    Then may my labours and my toils atone,
    For these their sins. I may not leave my friends.
    For neither here, nor in the world to come,
    Can there be peace to one who casts aside
    The friend whose love is pure and true—the friend
    Who serves him from the heart. Return!
    Return! to heaven! O Indra! If thou grant
    My friends to rise with me, to heav'n will I
    Ascend; if not, with them will I descend
    To Naraka.” “O king! thy prayer is heard!
    Thy people's sins are pardoned: even for them,
    Hard though it be, thy toils and pains have gained
    A place in heaven.” Thus mighty Indra spoke.
    Replied the king: “Indra! I will not leave
    My kinsmen. By his kinsmen's help a king
    His kingdom rules; by them he offers up
    The kingly sacrifice, and for himself
    Lays up a store of meritorious deeds.
    So have my kinsmen too enabled me
    To work whate'er I may of righteousness.
    My actions virtuous, my granted prayers,
    Truly I owe to them, for by their aid
    Have these been possible. May the reward
    Thou grantest me, I pray, be shared with them.
    My kinsmen, though I should ascend to heaven,
    I will not leave.” “So be it!” Indra said;
    “So be it!” said the Brahman; Dharma, too,
    Gave his assent; and then, in countless hosts,
    Appeared the heavenly chariots. Indra said:
    “Men of Ayodhya, ascend to heaven.”
    The saintly Brahman, having heard with joy
    The words of Indra, poured the sacred oil
    Upon the prince, and with the perfect ones,
    The sages, and the gods, anointed him
    “Son of the mighty king.” Then all the throng—
    The king, his wife, his son, his followers—
    Filled with rejoicing and delight, ascend
    To heaven, surrounding, as they go, the king
    Borne in his chariot. He, too, filled with joy—
    The mighty father, who eternal bliss
    Both for his people and himself had gained,
    Once more in form and mien a king—reposed,
    Resting from all his toils, his faithful friends
    Surrounding him with a protecting wall.
    And Indra spoke and said: “Upon this earth
    Great Harischandra's equal has not been
    Nor shall be. Whosoe'er may hear his life,
    His toils, his sorrows, and in sympathy
    For him lament, transcendant happiness
    Shall he attain, and all his heart's desire
    Shall be accomplished. Is his prayer a wife,
    Or son, or kingdom, he shall gain them all,
    E'en heaven itself. And he who imitates
    The truth, and steadfastness, of that great king,
    Like him shall enter everlasting rest.