The gods whom here in humble wise
Thou worshippedst with doubt and awe,
Shall there the impervious veil withdraw
Which hid their glory from thine eyes.
The good which thou on earth hast wrought,
Each sacrifice, each pious deed,
Shall there receive its ample meed :
No worthy act shall be forgot.
In those fair realms of cloudless day,
Where Yama every joy supplies,
And every longing satisfies,
Thy bliss shall never know decay.
CCLI. Nonentity, Entity, and the One.
There then was neither Aught nor Nought, no air nor sky beyond.
What covered all? Where rested all? In watery gulf
Nor death was there, nor deathlessness, nor change of
That One breathed calmly, self-sustained nor else
Gloom hid in gloom existed first-one sea eluding view. That One, a void in chaos wrapt, by inward fervour
Within It first arose desire, the primal germ of mind, Which nothing with existence links, as sages searching
The kindling ray that shot across the dark and drear
Was it beneath? Or high aloft? What bard can answer this ?
There fecundating powers were found, and mighty forces strove,
A self-supporting mass beneath, and energy above.
Who knows, whoe'er hath told, from whence this vast creation rose?
No gods had then been born, who then can e'er the truth disclose ?
Whence sprang this world, and whether framed by hand divine or no,
Its lord in heaven alone can tell, if even he can show.
CCLII. Aranyani, the Forest Goddess.
Thou seemest, goddess, here to stray
Forlorn among these trackless woods,
These dark and dreary solitudes.
Why dost thou not enquire the way
That leads to cheerful human haunts ?
Is there nought here thy spirit daunts?
Herself the goddess does not slay,
Although she nurtures murderous beasts.
On luscious fruits the traveller feasts,
Supplied by her, and goes his way.
Sweet-scented, fragrant, rich in flowers,
Her realm with various food is filled;
For though by hinds she is not tilled,
She drinks in sap from heavenly showers.
CCLIII. Men's various tastes.
Men's tastes and trades are multifarious;
And so their ends and aims are various.
The smith seeks something cracked to mend
The leech could fain have sick to tend;
The priest desires a devotee
From whom he may extract a fee.
Each craftsman makes and mends his ware,
And hopes the rich man's gold to share.
My sire's a leech, and I a bard;
Corn grinds my mother, toiling hard.
All craving wealth, we each pursue
By different means, the end in view,
Like people running after cows,
Which too far off have strayed to brouse.
The draught-horse seeks an easy yoke,
The merry dearly love a joke,
Of pretty maidens men are fond,
And thirsty frogs desire a pond.
These dice that roll upon the board
To me intense delight afford.
Sweet Soma-juice has not more power
To lure me in an evil hour.
To strife and wrangling disinclined,
My gentle wife was always kind;
But I, absorbed in maddening play,
Have chased this tender spouse away.
She now, in turn, my person spurns;
Her mother's wrath against me burns.
Distressed and vexed, in vain I plead,
For none will help me in my
need.
As wretched as a worn-out hack's,
A gamester's life all joyance lacks.
His means by play away are worn,
While gallants court his wife forlorn.
His father, mother, brothers shout,
"The madman bind, and drag him out."
At times, the scorn of every friend,-
I try my foolish ways to mend,
Resolve no more my means to waste
On this infatuated taste:
But all in vain :-when, coming near,
The rattle of the dice I hear,
I rush, attracted by their charms
Like lady to her lover's arms.
As to his game the gambler hies,
Once more his hopes of winning rise;
And loss but more his ardour fires;
To tries his luck he never tires.
The dice their victims hook and tear,
Disturbing, torturing, false though fair.
The transient gains they yield to-day,
To-morrow all are swept away.
These sportive dice, a potent band,
The destinies of men command.
They laugh to scorn the fierce man's frown;
Before them doughty kings bow down.
They downward roll, they upward bound,
And handless, men with hands confound.
They scorch the heart like brands, these dice,
Although themselves as cold as ice.
The gambler's hapless wife is sad;
His mother mourns her wayward lad.
In want, at night he seeks relief
By graceless shifts, a trembling thief.
He groans to see his wretched wife,
And then the happy wives, and life,
Of others, free from care and strife.
His bad career, with morning light
Begun, in ruin ends by night.
To him, the Chief who leads your bands,
Ye Dice, I lift my suppliant hands :
I hail thy gifts, when those art kind, But crave thy leave to speak my mind. Forgive me, King of all the Dice, If thus I give my friend advice; Abandon play, and till the soil; For this shall better pay thy toil. Well pleased with what thou hast, forbear To crave of wealth an ampler share.”
Thy wife, thy kine;-in these rejoice; Thus cries a god with warning voice. Be gracious, Dice, we now implore; Bewitch us with your spells no more. From us withdraw, to us be kind, And others with your fetters bind.
CCLV. Praise of liberality.
Rigveda x. 107. 8 ff.
The liberal does not mourn or die;
No care or pain his life annoys;
The world is his with all its joys,
And future bliss beyond the sky.
He owns a princely palace bright,
And dwells in godlike pomp and pride;
A richly decked and winning bride
Sits fair and blooming by his side,
And fills his heart with love's delight.
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