Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PARIAH, by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PARIAH, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hear me, bramha, bending lowly!
Last Line: Look in mercy on repentance!
Subject(s): Alienation (social Psychology); Legends; Prayer; Rivers; Estrangement; Outcasts


I

HEAR me, Bramha, bending lowly!
All from thee derive their being;
Therefore art thou just and holy!
Is it, Lord, of thy decreeing.
That the Brahmins, high-estated,
Only should thy bounty gather,
Only dare to call thee, Father,
When us too thou hast created?

We are noble, Lord, in nothing!
Woe, and want, and labour pain us;
What all others shun with loathing,
Is the food that must sustain us.
When the scorn of caste is loudest,
All we'd bear without repining,
Were thy face toward us shining,
For thou canst rebuke the proudest.

Therefore, Lord, hear my entreaty!
Raise me from this foul defilement,
Or a Saviour send, in pity,
For the work of reconcilement.
Didst thou not a Bayadere
Lift from wretchedness to glory?
Yea, we Pariahs have a story,
Giving comfort to the weary.

II

THE PARIAH'S LEGEND.

Water from the sacred Ganges,
To bring water from the river,
Goes the noble Brahmin's wife.
She was chaste, and pure, and lovely;
High, immaculate, and honour'd,
And of sternest justice he.
Daily from the sacred river
Does she fetch the pleasant water;
Not in pitcher nor in vessel,
For she hath no need of these.
Rises of itself the water,
Rolled into a ball of crystal,
To the stainless heart and hand
(Such the power of perfect virtue,
Innocence without a shadow),
And she bears it to her home.

This day comes she in the morning,
Praying, to the flood of Ganges,
Bending lightly o'er the stream;
There she sees, as in a mirror,
From the heaven above reflected,
Floating in the liquid ether,
Such a glorious apparition!
Image of a youth, created
By the thought of the Almighty,
As a form of perfect beauty.
On the wondrous vision gazing,
Feels she straight a new sensation
Thrill throughout her inmost being;
Fascinated still she lingers,
Lingers with a secret longing;
Wishes it would pass, but ever
Floats the image back again.
In amazement, in confusion,
Stoops she to the flowing Ganges,
Trying, with her trembling fingers,
From the stream a ball to fashion.
But alas, the spell is broken!
For the holy water shuns her,
Seems to shrink as she approaches,
Whirling swiftly from her hands.

Nerveless drop her arms, she totters;
Scarce her fainting limbs can bear her,
Scarce she knows the pathway homewards;
Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
Thought forsakes her; help and counsel
Are to her that day denied.

So she comes before her husband.
And he looks -- his look is judgement!
Silently the sword he seizes,
Leads her to the hill of terrors,
Where adulterers meet their doom.
How can she, the wife, resist him?
What extenuation offer,
Guilty, knowing not her crime?

With the bloody sword yet dripping,
Homeward to his silent dwelling
Went the inexorable man.
Then his son came forth to meet him --
'Whose that blood? O father, father!'
'Blood of an adulteress!' 'Never!
On the blade it has not stiffened,
As adulterous blood would do.
Fresh as from the wound 'tis running.
Mother, mother! O come hither!
Unjust was my father never,
What is this that he hath done?'

'Boy, be silent! hers the blood is!'
'Whose?' 'Be silent!' 'O my mother!
Is it then my mother's blood?
What's her crime? I will be answer'd!
Say, what evil hath she done?
Here -- the sword! -- Lo, now I grasp it!
Thou mightst slay thy wife unchalleng'd,
But my mother shalt thou not!
Wives through fire their husbands follow,
Children must avenge their mothers!
As the flames unto the widow,
Is the sword unto the son!'

'Hold thy hand!' exclaim'd the father,
'Yet there's time; O hasten, hasten;
Join the head unto the body,
Touch it with the sword of vengeance,
And she'll follow thee alive!'

Rushing, breathless -- what beholds he,
Stretch'd upon the hill of terror?
Bodies of two slaughter'd women,
And their heads are lying near.

Half distracted, blind, and dizzy,
His dear mother's head he seizes,
Does not even stay to kiss it,
Joins it to the nearest body:
Pointing then the sword of vengeance,
Piously completes the spell.

Riseth straight a ghastly figure!
From the dear lips of his mother,
Sweet as ever, nowise alter'd,
Comes this terrible bewail:

'Son, O son! what fatal rashness!
Yonder lies thy mother's body,
Near it is the head polluted
Of a wretched woman, victim
To the just avenging sword.
Me hast thou in hideous union
Blent for ever with her body!
Wise in will, but wild in doing,
Must I move among the spirits.
Yea, that godlike apparition,
Which the eye might blameless look on,
Which the brain might blameless think on,
To the heart becomes a torment,
Stirring passionate desire!

'Still that image must beset me!
Sometimes rising, sometimes falling,
Sometimes bright, and sometimes darken'd,
Such is mighty Brama's will.
He it was who sent the vision,
Floating on its angel pinions,
Radiant face and form so graceful,
God-created in its beauty,
For my trial and temptation;
Since from heaven we may be tempted,
If the Gods decree it so.
So must I, a sad Brahmina,
With my head to heaven pertaining,
Feel the gross and earthly passion
Of the Pariah evermore!

'Go, my son, unto thy father!
Be of comfort! Let no penance,
Dull remorse, or hope of merit,
Through a weary expiation,
Drive him to the wilderness.
Go ye forth among the people,
And, so long as speech remaineth,
Tell, O tell the meanest creature,
That him also Brama hears!

'For with Him there is no meanness,
In his sight are all men equal.
Be he leper, be he outcast,
Be he sunk in want and sorrow,
Be he desolate, heart-broken,
Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah --
Whosoever prays for mercy,
He shall have it, he shall find it,
When he turns his face to heaven.
Thousand eyes are watching yonder,
Thousand ears are ever listening,
Everything to God is known.

'When I pass before his footstool,
Me beholding, thus distorted
By a vile transfiguration,
Surely will the Father pity.
Yet my curse may be a blessing,
Unto you, my son, and many.
For, in humble adoration,
Meekly shall I strive to utter,
What the higher sense inspires;
Then, in frenzied adjuration,
Shall I tell him all the passion,
That is raging in this bosom.
Thought and impulse, will and weakness --
Mystery of mysteries!'

III

THE PARIAH'S THANKSGIVING.

Mighty Brama! I adore thee,
Maker thou of all creation;
And I dare to come before thee,
With my lowly supplication.

No respect for race thou showest,
Giving unto each a token,
E'en to us, the meanest, lowest,
Are the words of comfort spoken.

Thou hast heard that woman's story,
Thou hast heard her cruel sentence.
Lord! that art enshrin'd in glory,
Look in mercy on repentance!





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