The Royal Ascetic and the Hind

Maitreya. Of old thou gav'st a promise to relateThe deeds of Bharat, that great hermit-king:Beloved Master, now the occasion suits,And I am all attention.Parasara.Brahman, hear.With a mind fixed intently on his godsLong reigned in Saligram of ancient fame,The mighty monarch of the wide, wide world.Chief of the virtuous, never in his lifeHarmed he, or strove to harm, his fellow-man,Or any creature sentient. But he leftHis kingdom in the forest-shades to dwell,And changed his sceptre for a hermit's staff,And with ascetic rites, privations rude,And constant prayers, endeavoured to attain

Perfect dominion on his soul. At morn,Fuel, and flowers, and fruit, and holy grass,He gathered for oblations; and he passedIn stern devotions all his other hours;Of the world heedless, and its myriad cares,And heedless too of wealth, and love, and fame.

Once on a time, while living thus, he wentTo bathe where through the wood the river flows:And his ablutions done, he sat him downUpon the shelving bank to muse and pray.Thither impelled by thirst a graceful hind,Big with its young, came fearlessly to drink.Sudden, while yet she drank, the lion's roar,Feared by all creatures, like a thunder-clapBurst in that solitude from a thicket nigh.Startled, the hind leapt up, and from her wombHer offspring tumbled in the rushing stream.Whelmed by the hissing waves and carried farBy the strong current swoln by recent rain,The tiny thing still straggled for its life,While its poor mother, in her fright and pain,Fell down upon the bank, and breathed her last.Up rose the hermit-monarch at the sightFull of keen anguish; with his pilgrim staff

He drew the new-born creature from the wave;'Twas panting fast, but life was in it still.Now, as he saw its luckless mother dead,He would not leave it in the woods alone,But with the tenderest pity brought it home.

There, in his leafy hut, he gave it food,And daily nourished it with patient care,Until it grew in stature and in strength,And to the forest skirts could venture forthIn search of sustenance. At early mornThenceforth it used to leave the hermitageAnd with the shades of evening come again,And in the little courtyard of the hutLie down in peace, unless the tigers fierce,Prowling about, compelled it to returnEarlier at noon. But whether near or far,Wandering abroad, or resting in its home,The monarch-hermit's heart was with it still,Bound by affection's ties; nor could he thinkOf anything besides this little hind,His nursling. Though a kingdom he had left,And children, and a host of loving friends,Almost without a tear, the fount of loveSprang out anew within his blighted heart,

To greet this dumb, weak, helpless foster-child.And so, whene'er it lingered in the wilds,Or at the 'customed hour could not return,His thoughts went with it; "And alas!" he cried,"Who knows, perhaps some lion or some wolf,Or ravenous tiger with relentless jawsAlready hath devoured it,—timid thing!Lo, how the earth is dinted with its hoofs,And variegated. Surely for my joyIt was created. When will it come back,And rub its budding antlers on my armsIn token of its love and deep delightTo see my face? The shaven stalks of grass,Kusha and kasha, by its new teeth clipped,Remind me of it, as they stand in linesLike pious boys who chant the Samga VedsShorn by their vows of all their wealth of hair."Thus passed the monarch-hermit's time; in joy,With smiles upon his lips, whenever nearHis little favourite; in bitter griefAnd fear, and trouble, when it wandered far.And be who had abandoned ease and wealth,And friends and dearest ties, and kingly power,Found his devotions broken by the love

He had bestowed upon a little hindThrown in his way by chance. Years glided on. . . . .And Death, who spareth none, approached at lastThe hermit-king to summon him away;The hind was at his side, with tearful eyesWatching his last sad moments, like a childBeside a father. He too, watched and watchedHis favourite through a blinding film of tears,And could not think of the Beyond at hand,So keen he felt the parting, such deep griefO'erwhelmed him for the creature he had reared.To it devoted was his last, last thought,Reckless of present and of future both!

Thus far the pious chronicle, writ of oldBy Brahman sage; but we, who happier, liveUnder the holiest dispensation, knowThat God is Love, and not to be adoredBy a devotion born of stoic pride,Or with ascetic rites, or penance hard,But with a love, in character akinTo His unselfish, all-including love.And therefore little can we sympathizeWith what the Brahman sage would fain imply

As the concluding moral of his tale,That for the hermit-king it was a sinTo love his nursling. What! A sin to love!A sin to pity! Rather should we deemWhatever Brahmans wise, or monks may hold,That he had sinned in casting off all loveBy his retirement to the forest-shades;For that was to abandon duties high,And, like a recreant soldier, leave the postWhere God had placed him as a sentinel.

This little hind brought strangely on his path,This love engendered in his withered heart,This hindrance to his rituals,—might these notHave been ordained to teach him? Call him backTo ways marked out for him by Love divine?And with a mind less self-willed to adore?

Not in seclusion, not apart from all,Not in a place elected for its peace,But in the heat and bustle of the world,'Mid sorrow, sickness, suffering and sin,Must he still labour with a loving soulWho strives to enter through the narrow gate.