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Chased by a hawk, there came a dove

With worn and weary wing,
And took her stand upon the hand

Of Kasi’s' noble king.
The monarch smoothed her ruffled plumes,

And laid her on his breast;

And cried, “No fear shall vex thee here,

Rest, pretty egg-born, rest! Fair Kasi's realm is rich and wide,

With golden harvests gay,
But all that's mine will I resign

Ere I my guest betray.
But, panting for his half-won spoil,

The hawk was close behind,

And with wild eye and eager cry

Came swooping down the wind : “This bird,” he cried, “my destined prize,

1 Benares

'Tis not for thee to shield :

'Tis mine by right and toilsome flight

O'er hill and dale and field.

Hunger and thirst oppress me sore,

And I am faint with toil :

Thou shouldst not stay a bird of prey

Who claims his rightful spoil. They say thou art a glorious king,

And justice is thy care ; Then justly reign in thy domain,

Nor rob the birds of air."

Then cried the king : “A cow' or deer

For thee shall straightway bleed,

Or let a ram or tender lamb

Be slain, for thee to feed.

Mine oath forbids me to betray

My little twice-born guest : See, how she clings, with trembling wings,

To her protector's breast."

“No flesh of lambs,” the hawk replied,

1 I have retained the cow at the risk of hurting the feelings of some sensitive Hindus. This apologue was composed before the cow was sanct.


No blood of deer for me ;

The falcon loves to feed on doves,

And such is Heaven's decree.

But if affection for the dove

Thy pitying heart has stirred, Let thine own flesh my maw refresh,

Weighed down against the bird.”

He carved the flesh from off bis side,

And threw it in the scale,

While women's cries smote on the skies

With loud lament and wail.

He hacked the flesh from side and arm,

From chest and back and thigh,

But still above the little dove

The monarch's scale stood high. He heaped the scale with piles of flesh,

With sinews, blood, and skin,

And when alone was left him bone

He threw himself therein,

Then thundered voices through the air;

The sky grew black as night; And fever took the earth that shook

To see that wondrous sight.
The blessed Gods, from every sphere,

By Indra led, came nigh;

While drum and flute and shell and lute

Made music in the sky.
They rained immortal chaplets down,

Which hands celestial twine,

And softly shed upon his head

Pure Amrit, drink divine.
Then God and Seraph, Bard and Nymph

Their heavenly voices raised,
And a glad throng with dance and song

The glorious monarch praised.
They set him on a golden car

That blazed with many a gem ;

Then swiftly through the air they flew,

And bore him home with them.

Thus Kasi's lord, by noble deed,

Won Heaven and deathless fame; And when the weak protection seek From thee, do thou the same.

Mahabharata. TRUE GLORY.

To whom is glory justly due?
To those who pride and hate subdue ;
Who, ’mid the joys that lure the sense,
Lead lives of holy abstinence;
Who, when reviled, their tongues restrain,
And, injured, injure not again ;
Who ask of none, but freely give
Most liberal to all that live ;
Who toil unresting through the day,
Their parents' joy and hope and stay;
Who welcome to their homes the guest,


And banish envy from their breast;
With reverent study love to pore
On precepts of our sacred lore ;
Who work not, speak not, think not sin,
In body pure and pure within ;

Whom avarice can ne'er mislead

To guilty thought or sinful deed;
Whose fancy never seeks to roam

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