TALES OF IND


AND OTHER POEMS

BY

T. RAMAKRISHNA

1896





TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY DEAR DAUGHTER
KAMALA.



The star that rose to cheer our humble life,

And make a little heaven of our home,

Shall rise again—yes, surely rise again

To give us everlasting joy divine.







CONTENTS.



TO MY DAUGHTER

LORD TENNYSON

SEETA AND RAMA—A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE

THE STORY OF PRINCE DÉSING

THE STORY OF RUDRA

THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS

CHANDRA—A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIKÓTA

THE KORATHY'S LULLABY







LORD TENNYSON.



A poet of my native land has said—

The life the good and virtuous lead on earth

Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East,

Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair.

The eyes may smart and water, but withal

She loves to please them that behold her face.

E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been.

Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine

Have purified, likewise ennobled man.

And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine,

But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep

In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page?

To please and teach the world for two dear ones

You mourned—a friend in youth, a son in age

'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy

To one lone mortal is not lived in vain;

But lives like thine God grants as shining lights

That we in darkness Him aright may see.

Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset

Do shine the more and better teach His ways.

Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one

Obscure—a stranger in a distant land.

Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words

Which do but half express the grief he feels.






SEETA AND RAMA.

A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE.



It was by far the loveliest scene in Ind:—

A deep sunk lonely vale, 'tween verdant hills

That, in eternal friendship, seemed to hold

Communion with the changing skies above;

Dark shady groves the haunts of shepherd boys

And wearied peasants in the midday noon;

A lake that shone in lustre clear and bright

Like a pure Indian diamond set amidst

Green emeralds, where every morn, with songs

Of parted lovers that tempted blooming maids

With pitchers on their heads to stay and hear

Those songs, the busy villagers of the vale

Their green fields watered that gave them sure hopes

Of future plenty and of future joys.

Oh, how uncertain man's sure hopes and joys!

In this enchanted hollow that was scooped—

For so it seemed—by God's own mighty hand,

Where Nature shower'd

...

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