The Birth of the War-God

A Poem by Kalidasa

Ralph T.H. Griffith

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9780415245036
• eBook ISBN: 9781136385322
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Ethnic Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

This is Volume IV of fourteen in the Oriental series on India: Language and Literature. First published in 1879 and focuses on 'The Birth of the War-God', a poem in seven cantos, written by Kalidasa.

CANTO FIFTH.

Canto Fifth.

UMÁ'S REWARD.

Now woe to UMÁ, for young LOVE is slain,

Her Lord hath left her, and her hope is vain.

Woe, woe to UMÁ! how the Mountain-Maid

Cursed her bright beauty for its feeble aid!

'Tis Beauty's guerdon which she loves the best,

To bless her lover, and in turn be blest.

Penance must aid her now—or how can she

Win the cold heart of that stern deity?

Penance, long penance: for that power alone

Can make such love, so high a Lord, her own.

But, ah! how troubled was her mother's brow

At the sad tidings of the mourner's vow!

She threw her arms around her own dear maid,

Kissed, fondly kissed her, sighed, and wept, and prayed:

“Are there no Gods, my child, to love thee here?

Frail is thy body, yet thy vow severe.

The lily, by the wild bee scarcely stirred,

Bends, breaks, and dies beneath the weary bird.”

Fast fell her tears, her prayer was strong still

That prayer was weaker, than her daughter's will.

Who can recall the torrent's headlong force,

Or the bold spirit in its destined course?

She sent a maiden to her sire, and prayed

He for her sake would grant some bosky shade,

That she might dwell in solitude, and there

Give all her soul to penance, and to prayer.

In gracious love the great HIMÁLAYA smiled,

And did the bidding of his darling child.

Then to that hill which peacocks love she came,

Known to all ages by the lady's name.

Still to her purpose resolutely true,

Her string of noble pearls aside she threw,

Which, slipping here and there, had rubbed away

The sandal dust that on her bosom lay,

And clad her in a hermit coat of bark,

Rough to her gentle limbs, and gloomy dark,

Pressing too tightly, till her swelling breast

Broke into freedom through the unwonted vest.

Her matted hair was full as lovely now

As when 'twas braided o'er her polished brow.

Thus the sweet beauties of the lotus shine

When bees festoon it in a graceful line;

And, though the tangled weeds that crown the rill

Cling o'er it closely, it is lovely still.

With zone of grass the votaress was bound,

Which reddened the fair form it girdled round:

Never before the lady's waist had felt

The ceaseless torment of so rough a belt.

Alas! her weary vow has caused to fade

The lovely colours that adorned the maid.

Pale is her hand, and her long linger-tips

Steal no more splendour from her paler lips,

Or, from the ball which in her play would rest,

Made bright and fragrant, on her perfumed breast.

Rough with the sacred grass those hands must be,

And worn with resting on her rosary.

Cold earth her couch, her canopy the skies,

Pillowed upon her arm the lady lies:

She who before was wont to rest her head

In the soft luxury of a sumptuous bed,

Vext by no troubles as she slumbered there,

But sweet flowers slipping from her loosened hair.

The maid put off, but only for awhile,

Her passioned glances and her witching smile.

She lent the fawn her moving, melting gaze,

And the fond creeper all her winning ways.

The trees that blossomed on that lonely mount

She watered daily from the neighbouring fount:

If she had been their nursing mother, she

Could not have tended them more carefully.

Not e'en her boy—her own bright boy—shall stay

Her love for them: her first dear children they.

Her gentleness had made the fawns so tame,

To her kind hand for fresh sweet grain they came,

And let the maid before her friends compare

Her own with eyes that shone as softly there.

Then came the hermits of the holy wood

To see the votaress in her solitude;

Grey elders came; though young the maid might seem,

Her perfect virtue must command esteem.

They found her resting in that lonely spot,

The fire was kindled, and no rite forgot.

In hermit's mantle was she clad; her look

Fixt in deep thought upon the Holy Book.

So pure that grove: all war was made to cease,

And savage monsters lived in love and peace.

Pure was that grove: each newly built abode

Had leafy shrines where fires of worship glowed.

But far too mild her penance, UMÁ thought,

To win from heaven the lordly meed she sought.

She would not spare her form, so fair and frail,

If sterner penance could perchance prevail.

Oft had sweet pastime wearied her, and yet

Fain would she match in toil the anchoret.

Sure the soft lotus at her birth had lent

Dear UMÁS form its gentle element;

But gold, commingled with her being, gave

That will so strong, so beautifully brave.

Full in the centre of four blazing piles

Sate the fair lady of the winning smiles,

While on her head the mighty God of Day

Shot all the fury of his summer ray;

Yet her fixt gaze she turned upon the skies,

And quenched his splendour with her brighter eyes.

To that sweet face, though scorched by...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• INDIA: LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE
• Full Title
• Copyright
• PREFACE.
• PRELIMINARY NOTE.
• UMÁ'S NATIVITY.
• CANTO SECOND.
• CANTO THIRD.
• CANTO FOURTH.
• CANTO FIFTH.
• CANTO SIXTH.
• CANTO SEVENTH.
• NOTES.