Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MAHABHARATA: NIGHT OF SLAUGHTER, by ANONYMOUS



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MAHABHARATA: NIGHT OF SLAUGHTER, by                    
First Line: "to narayen, best of lords, be glory given"
Last Line: Kripa and kritavarman
Subject(s): Hinduism;india;religion; Theology


To Narayen, Best of Lords, be glory given,
To great Saraswati, the Queen in heaven;
Unto Vyása, too, be paid his meed,
So shall this story worthily proceed.

"Those vanquished warriors, then," Sanjaya said,
"Fled southwards; and near sunset, past the tents
Unyoked; abiding close in fear and rage.
There was a wood beyond the camp,—untrod,
Quiet.—and in its leafy harbor lay
The Princes, some among them bleeding still
From spear and arrow-gashes; all sore-spent,
Fetching faint breath, and fighting o'er again
In thought that battle. But there came the noise
Of Pandavas pursuing,—fierce and loud
Outcries of victory—whereat those chiefs
Sullenly rose, and yoked their steeds again,
Driving due east; and eastward still they drave
Under the night, till drouth and desperate toil
Stayed horse and man; then took they lair again,
The panting horses, and the Warriors, wroth
With chilled wounds, and the death-stroke of their King

"Now were the come, my Prince," Sanjaya said,
"Unto a jungle thick with stems, whereon
The tangled creepers coiled; here entered they—
Watering their horses at a stream—and pushed
Deep in the thicket. Many a beast and bird
Sprang startled at their feet; the long grass stirred,
With serpents creeping off; the woodland flowers
Shook where the pea-fowl hid, and where frogs plunged
The swamp rocked all its reeds and lotus-buds.
A banian-tree, with countless dropping boughs
Earth-rooted, spied they, and beneath its aisles
A pool; hereby they stayed, tethering their steeds,
And dipping water, made the evening-prayer.

"But when the 'Day-maker' sank in the west
And Night descended—gentle, soothing Night,
Who comforts all, with silver splendor decked
Of stars and constellations, and soft folds
Of velvet darkness drawn—then those wild things,
Which roam in darkness, woke, wandering afoot
Under the gloom. Horrid the forest grew
With roar, and yelp, and yell, around that place
Where Kripa, Kritavarman, and the son
Of Drona lay, beneath the banian-tree;
Full many a piteous passage instancing
In their lost battle-day of dreadful blood;
Till sleep fell heavy on the wearied lids
Of Bhoja's child and Kripa. Then these Lords—
To princely life and silken couches used—
Sought on the bare earth slumber, spent and sad,
As houseless outcasts lodge.

"But, oh, my King!
There came no sleep to Drona's angry son,
Great Aswatthâman. As a snake lies coiled
And hisses, breathing, so his panting breath
Hissed rage and hatred round him, while he lay
Chin upper most, arm-pillowed, with fierce eyes
Roving the wood, and seeing sightlessly.
Thus chanced it that his wandering glances turned
Into the fig-tree's shadows, where there perched
A thousand crows, thick-roosting, on its limbs;
Some nested, some on branchlets, deep asleep,
Heads under wings—all fearless; nor, oh, Prince!
Had Aswatthâman more than marked the birds—
Save that there fell out of the velvet night,
Silent and terrible, an eagle-owl
With wide, soft, deadly, dusky wings, and eyes
Flame-colored, and long claws and dreadful beak;
Like a winged sprite, or great Garood himself.
Offspring of Bhârata! it lighted there
Upon the banian's bough; hooted,—but low
The fury smothering in its throat;—then fell
With murd'rous beak and claws upon those crows,
Rending the wings from this, the legs from that,
From some the heads, of some ripping the crops;
Till, tens and scores, the fowl rained down to earth
Bloody and plucked, and all the ground waxed black
With piled crow-carcases; whilst the great owl
Hooted for joy of vengeance, and again
Spread the wide, deadly, dusky wings.

"Up sprang
The son of Drona, 'Lo! this owl' quoth he,
'Teacheth me wisdom, lo! one slayoth so
Insolent foes asleep. The Pandu Lords
Are all too strong in arms by day to kill;
They triumph, being many. Yet I swore
Before the King, my Father, I would "kill"
And "kill"—even as a foolish fly should swear
To quench a flame. It scorched, and I shall die
If I dare open battle; but by art
Men vanquish fortune and the mightiest odds,
If there be two ways to a wise man's wish,
But only one way sure, he taketh this;
And if it be an evil way, condemned
For Brahman's, yet the Kshattriya may do
What vengeance bids against his foes. Our foes,
The Pandavas, are furious, treacherous, base,
Halting at nothing; and how say the wise
In holy Shasters?—"Wounded, wearied, fed,
Or fasting; sleeping, waking, setting forth,
Or new arriving; slay thine enemies;"
And so again, "At midnight when they sleep,
Dawn when they watch not; noon if leaders fall;
Eve, should they scatter; all the times and hours
Are times and hours good for killing foes.'"

"So did the son of Drona steel his soul
To break upon the sleeping Pandu chiefs
And slay them in the darkness. Being set
On this unlordly deed, and clear in scheme,
He from their slumber roused the warriors twain,
Kripa and Kritavarman."





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