: Tales of Ind and Other Poems by Ramakrishna Pillai T Thottakadu - Indic poetry (English)

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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TO MY DAUGHTER

LORD TENNYSON

SEETA AND RAMA--A TALE OF THE INDIAN FAMINE

THE STORY OF PRINCE D?SING

THE STORY OF RUDRA

THE STORY OF THE ROYAL HUNTRESS

CHANDRA--A TALE OF THE FIELD OF TELLIK?TA

THE KORATHY'S LULLABY

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.

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 her richest gifts to make Another paradise, stood Krishnapore With her two score and seven huts reared by The patient labour of her simple men.

Hither a monster came, that slowly sucked The vigour, the very life of Krishnapore. The brilliant lustre of the diamond lake, The emerald greenness of the waving fields, The shady groves and pleasant cottage grounds, And all the beauties of the happy vale Soon vanished imperceptibly, as if Some unconsuming furnace underneath Had baked the earth and rendered it all bare, Until its inmates wandered desolate, With hollow cheeks, sunk eyes, and haggard faces, Like walking skeletons pasted o'er with skin. No more would blooming girls with pitchers laden Repair to the clear lake while curling smoke Rose from their cottage roofs; no more at morn Would Rama be the first at school to see His Seeta deck her father's house with flowers; No more at eve the village master pour From Hindu lore the mighty deeds of gods To the delighted ears of simple men; For these have left their lands and their dear homes. And Seeta with her father left her cot, And cast behind, with a deep, heavy sigh, One ling'ring look upon that vale where she Was born and fondly nursed,--where glided on Her days in pleasure and pure innocence,-- Where Rama lived and loved her tenderly. Her father died of hunger on the way, And the lone creature wandered in the streets Of towns from door to door, and vainly begged For food, till some, deep moved by the sad tales Of the lone straggler, safely lodged her in A famine camp, where, heavy laden with A double sorrow , her tedious life she spent. And days and weeks and months thus rolled away, Until at last her love for the dead youth Mysterious waned, and, like a shallow lamp, Burnt in her breast with nothing to feed it.

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