For those she seems to favour most,
By fatal ills are often crossed.
The man who strongest seems to be,
Is vexed by some infirmity.
Oft rich men pine from lack of health,
And gain scant good from all their wealth.
A prosperous youth, whose hopeful mood
Foresees long years of coming good,
To sudden, early death a prey,
From all his joys is torn away:
While oft a poor man, frail and worn,
Lives out a hundred
years, forlorn.
The poor man's wife, son after son
Brings forth although he asks for none.
The rich man vainly seeks an heir;
No sons are granted to his prayer.
The leech who other men can cure,
Himself must sharp disease endure;
His skill, his learning, nought avail,
His vaunted drugs and potions fail
To ease his frame by pain oppressed,
Or Death's foredoomed approach arrest.
And men whom study, deep and long,
Has taught the rules of right and wrong,
By women lured, misled by knaves,
Of vice are often found the slaves.
No prayers, no rites, no drugs, no spells,
Can save the man whom death assails.
Disease and death like wolves devour,
None, strong or weak, elude their power;
Not even the king whose sway extends
Supreme, to earth's remotest ends.
* The original may mean that the poor man does not wish either for so many, or for any, sons.
Mahabharata iii. 13851 ff; xii. 12521 ff.
Men self-controlled, acute and wise,
Oft fail their aims to realize.
In vain they plan, in vain they strive;
Their schemes are foiled, they never thrive.
While others worthless, base, or weak,
Gain often all the good they seek.
A man the scoundrel's part who plays
Lives on in ease through all his days.
One favouring Fortune's gifts commands,
Although he sits and folds his hands.
Another, every nerve who strains,
Gains no return for all his pains.
A man who offspring lacks, adores
The gods, and humbly sons implores.
At length, in answer to his prayers,
His spouse the longed-for children bears;
But ah! they prove a wicked race,
Who on their parents bring disgrace.*
Bhartrihari, and Subhūshitārṇava 28, 313.
Hark! here the sound of lute so sweet,
And there the voice of wailing loud;
Here scholars grave in conclave meet,
There howls the brawling drunkard-crowd;
* Compare Ecclesiastes ix. 11, "I returned, and saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all."
Here charming maidens full of glee,
There tottering, withered dames, we see.
Such light! such shade! I cannot tell
If here we live in heaven or hell.*
LXI. Means do not always lead to the desired ends.
Mahābhārata xii. 831 (= xii. 6486" f).
Friends cannot always bring us bliss,
Nor foes suffice to bring us ill;
Wealth is not always won by skill,
And rich men oft enjoyment miss.
Mahabharata v. 1430 (compare xiii. 7597-7606).
The clever do not always wealth command,
Nor stupid fools for lack of fortune pine;
The wise the course of mundane things divine;
No other men the secret understand.
LXIII. Poverty lends a relish to food.
The poor man daintier fare enjoys
Than e'er his wealthy neighbours taste ;
For hunger lends his food a zest,
While plenty pampered palates cloys.
*The expressions in this line are stronger than the original employs. See prose translation in the Appendix.
LXIV. The Danity of Human Ambition.
Vishnu Purāṇa iv. 24, 48 ff.
How many kings—their little day
Of power gone by-have passed away,
While yet the stable earth abides,
And all the projects vain derides
Of men who deemed that She was theirs,
The destined portion of their heirs!
With bright autumnal colours gay,
She seems to smile from age to age,
And mock the fretting kings who wage
Fierce wars for Her,-for ampler sway.
Though doomed," She cries, "to disappear So soon, like foam that crests the wave, Vast schemes they cherish, madly brave, Nor see that death is lurking near.
"And kinsmen, brothers, sons and sires,
Whom selfish love of empire fires,
The holiest bands of nature rend,-
In bloody strife for Me contend.
"O! how can princes, well aware
How all their fathers, one by one,
Have left Me here behind, and gone,
For my possession greatly care?"
King Prithu strode across the world,
And all his foes to earth he hurled ;
Beneath his chariot wheels-a prey
For dogs and vultures-crushed they lay.
Yet snatched by time's resistless blast,
He long from hence away has past;
Like down the raging flames consume,
He, too, has met the common doom.
And Kârtavîrya, once so great,
Who ruled o'er all the isles, supreme,
Is but a shadow now, a theme
On which logicians subtly prate.
Those Lords of men, whose empire's sheen
Of yore the regions all illumed,
By death's destroying frown consumed,
Are gone; no ashes e'en are seen!
Mandhātri once was world-renowned :
What forms his substance now? A tale !
Who hearing this, if wise, can fail
This mundane life to scorn, so frail,
So dreamlike, transient, worthless found?
Of all the long and bright array
Of kings whose names tradition shows,
And now where are they? None can say.
LXV. The path of salvation.
Mahabharata i. 3176, and 3177; xii. 781-3; xii. 6508 ff.
That man with Brahma union wins,
The highest good by sages sought,—
Who ne'er in deed, or word, or thought,
'Gainst any living creature sins.
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