VIII. THE SACRIFICE.
1.
Dost thou tremble, O Indra, O God of the Sky,
Why slumber those thunders of thine?
Dost thou tremble on high, . . .
Wilt thou tamely the Swerga resign, . . .
Art thou smitten, O Indra, with dread?
Or seest thou not, seest thou not, Monarch divine,
How many a day to Seeva’s shrine
Kehama his victim hath led?
Nine and ninety days are fled,
Nine and ninety steeds have bled;
One more, the rite will be complete,
One victim more; and this the dreadful day!
Then will the impious Rajah seize thy seat,
And wrest the thunder-sceptre from thy sway.
Along the mead the hallowed steed
Yet bends at liberty his way;
At noon his consummating blood will flow.
O day of woe! above, below,
That blood confirms the Almighty Tyrant’s reign!
Thou tremblest, O Indra, O God of the Sky,
Thy thunder is vain!
Thou tremblest on high for thy power!
But where is Veeshnoo at this hour?
But where is Seeva’s eye?
Is the Destroyer blind?
Is the Preserver careless for mankind?
2.
Along the mead the hallowed Steed
Still wanders wheresoever he will,
O’er hill, or dale, or plain;
No human hand hath trick’d that mane
From which he shakes the morning dew;
His mouth has never felt the rein,
His lips have never froth’d the chain;
For pure of blemish and of stain,
His neck unbroke to mortal yoke,
Like Nature free the Steed must be,
Fit offering for the Immortals he.
A year and day the Steed must stray
Wherever chance may guide his way,
Before he fall at Seeva’s shrine;
The year and day have past away,
Nor touch of man hath marr’d the rite divine.
And now at noon the Steed must bleed;
The perfect rite to-day must force the meed
Which Fate reluctant shudders to bestow;
Then must the Swerga-God
Yield to the Tyrant of the World below;
Then must the Devetas obey
The Rajah’s rod, and groan beneath his hateful sway.
3.
The Sun rides high; the hour is nigh;
The multitude who long,
Lest aught should mar the rite,
In circle wide on every side,
Have kept the Steed in sight,
Contract their circle now, and drive him on.
Drawn in long files before the Temple-court,
The Rajah’s archers flank an ample space;
Here, moving onward still, they drive him near,
Then, opening, give him way to enter here.
4.
Behold him, how he starts and flings his head!
On either side in glittering order spread,
The archers ranged in narrowing lines appear;
The multitude behind close up the rear
With moon-like bend, and silently await
The awful end,
The rite that shall from Indra wrest his power.
In front, with far-stretch’d walls, and many a tower
Turret and dome and pinnacle elate,
The huge Pagoda seems to load the land:
And there before the gate
The Bramin band expectant stand,
The axe is ready for Kehama’s hand.
5.
Hark! at the Golden Palaces
The Bramin strikes the time!
One, two, three, four, a thrice-told chime,
And then again, one, two.
The bowl that in its vessel floats, anew
Must fill and sink again,
Then will the final stroke be due.
The Sun rides high, the noon is nigh,
And silently, as if spell-bound,
The multitude expect the sound.
6.
Lo! how the Steed, with sudden start,
Turns his quick head to every part;
Long files of men on every side appear.
The sight might well his heart affright,
And yet the silence that is here
Inspires a stranger fear;
For not a murmur, not a sound
Of breath or motion rises round,
No stir is heard in all that mighty crowd;
He neighs, and from the temple-wall
The voice re-echoes loud,
Loud and distinct, as from a hill
Across a lonely vale, when all is still.
7.
Within the temple, on his golden throne
Reclin’d, Kehama lies,
Watching with steady eyes
The perfum’d light that, burning bright,
Metes out the passing hours.
On either hand his eunuchs stand,
Freshening with fans of peacock-plumes the air,
Which, redolent of all rich gums and flowers,
Seems, overcharged with sweets, to stagnate there.
Lo! the time-taper’s flame ascending slow
Creeps up its coil toward the fated line;
Kehama rises and goes forth,
And from the altar, ready where it lies,
He takes the axe of sacrifice.
8.
That, instant from the crowd, with sudden shout,
A man sprang out
To lay upon the Steed his hand profane.
A thousand archers, with unerring eye,
At once let fly,
And with their hurtling arrows fill the sky.
In vain they fall upon him fast as rain;
He bears a charmed life, which may defy
All weapons, . . . and the darts that whizz around,
As from an adamantine panoply
Repell’d, fall idly to the ground.
Kehama clasp’d his hands in agony,
And saw him grasp the hallowed courser’s mane,
Spring up with sudden bound,
And with a frantic cry,
And madman’s gesture, gallop round and round.
9.
They seize, they drag him to the Rajah’s feet.
What doom will now be his, . . what vengeance meet
Will he, who knows no mercy, now require?
The obsequious guards around, with blood-hound eye,
Look for the word, in slow-consuming fire,
By piece-meal death, to make the wretch expire,
Or hoist his living carcase, hook’d on high,
To feed the fowls and insects of the sky;
Or if aught worse inventive cruelty
To that remorseless heart of royalty
Might prompt, accursed instruments they stand
To work the wicked will with wicked hand.
Far other thoughts were in the multitude;
Pity, and human feelings, held them still;
And stifled sighs and groans supprest were there,
And many a secret curse and inward prayer
Call’d on the insulted Gods to save mankind.
Expecting some new crime in fear they stood,
Some horror which would make the natural blood
Start, with cold shudderings thrill the sinking heart,
Whiten the lip, and make the abhorrent eye
Roll back and close, prest in for agony.
10.
How then fared he for whom the mighty crowd
Suffered in spirit thus, . . . how then fared he?
A ghastly smile was on his lip, his eye
Glared with a ghastly hope, as he drew nigh,
And cried aloud, Yes, Rajah! it is I!
And wilt thou kill me now?
The countenance of the Almighty Man
Fell when he knew Ladurlad, and his brow
Was clouded with despite, as one ashamed.
That wretch again! indignant he exclaim’d,
And smote his forehead, and stood silently
Awhile in wrath: then, with ferocious smile,
And eyes which seem’d to darken his dark cheek,
Let him go free! he cried; he hath his Curse,
And Vengeance upon him can wreak no worse . . .
But ye who did not seize him . . . tremble ye!
11.
He bade the archers pile their weapons there:
No manly courage fill’d the slavish band,
No sweetening vengeance rous’d a brave despair.
He call’d his horsemen then, and gave command
To hem the offenders in, and hew them down.
Ten thousand scymitars at once uprear’d,
Flash up, like waters sparkling to the sun;
A second time the fatal brands appear’d
Lifted aloft, . . . they glitter’d then no more,
Their light was gone, their splendour quenched in gore.
At noon the massacre begun,
And night clos’d in before the work of death was done.
