The Birth of the War-God: A Poem by Kálidása

Willst du die Blüthe des frühen, die Früchte des späteren Jahres, Willst du was reizt and entzückt, willst du was sättigt and nährt, Willst du den Himmel, die Erde, mit einem Namen begreifen; Nenn' ich Sakontalá, Dich, und so ist Alles gesagt.

See also Schlegel's Dramatic Literature, Lect. II., and Humboldt's Kosmos, Vol. II. p. 40, and note.

That the poem which is now for the first time offered to the general reader, in an English dress, will not diminish this reputation is the translator's earnest hope, yet my admiration of the grace and beauty that pervade so much of the work must not allow me to deny that occasionally, even in the noble Sanskrit, if we judge him by an European standard, KÁLIDÁSA is bald and prosaic. Nor is this a defence of the translator at the expense of the poet. Fully am I conscious how far I am from being able adequately to reproduce the fanciful creation of the sweet singer of OUJEIN; that numerous beauties of thought and expression I may have passed by, mistaken, marred; that in many of the more elaborate descriptions my own versification is 'harsh as the jarring of a tuneless chord' compared with the melody of KÁLIDÁSA'S rhythm, to rival whose sweetness and purity of language, so admirably adapted to the soft repose and celestial rosy hue of his pictures, would have tried all the fertility of resource, the artistic skill, and the exquisite ear of the author of LALLA ROOKH himself. I do not think this poem deserves, and I am sure it will not obtain, that admiration which the author's masterpieces already made known at once commanded; at all events, if the work itself is not inferior, it has not enjoyed the good fortune of having a JONES or a WILSON for translator.

It may be as well to inform the reader, before he wonder at the misnomer, that the BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD was either left unfinished by its author, or time has robbed us of the conclusion; the latter is the more probable supposition, tradition informing us that the poem originally consisted of twenty-two cantos, of which only seven now remain.[C]

[C] [Ten more cantos, of very inferior merit, have been published since this was written.]

I have derived great assistance in the work of translation from the Calcutta printed edition of the poem in the Library of the East-India House; but although the Sanskrit commentaries accompanying the text are sometimes of the greatest use in unravelling the author's meaning, they can scarcely claim infallibility; and, not unfrequently, are so matter-of-fact and prosaic, that I have not scrupled to think, or rather to feel, for myself. It is, however, PROFESSOR STENZLER'S edition,[D] published under the auspices of the Oriental Translation Fund (a society that has liberally encouraged my own undertaking), that I have chiefly used. Valuable as this work is (and I will not disown my great obligations to it), it is much to be regretted that the extracts from the native commentators are so scanty, and the annotations so few and brief.

[D] [With a Latin translation.]

And now one word as to the manner in which I have endeavoured to perform my task. Though there is much, I think, that might be struck out, to the advantage of the poem, this I have in no instance ventured to do, my aim having been to give the English reader as faithful a cast of the original as my own power and the nature of things would permit, and, without attempting to give word for word or line for line, to produce upon the imagination impressions similar to those which one who studies the work in Sanskrit would experience.

I will not seek to anticipate the critics, nor to deprecate their animadversions, by pointing out the beauties of the poet, or particularising the defects of him and his translator. That the former will be appreciated, and the latter kindly dealt with, late experience makes me confident; so that now, in the words of the Manager in the Prelude to the HERO AND THE NYMPH, "I have only to request the audience that they will listen to this work of KÁLIDÁSA with attention and kindness, in consideration of its subject and respect for the Author."

ADDERLEY LIBRARY, MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE, April, 1853.

PRELIMINARY NOTE.

PRONUNCIATION.

As a general rule, the Sanskrit vowels are to be sounded like those of the Italian alphabet, except the short or unaccented a, which has the sound of that letter in the word America: "_pandit_," a learned man, being pronounced pundit.

á, long or accented like a in father. e like e in they. i, short or unaccented, like i in pick. í, long or accented like i in pique. o like o in go. u, short or unaccented, like u in full. ú, long or accented like u in rule.

The diphthongs ai and au are pronounced severally like i in rise and ou in our.

The consonants are sounded as in English. In the aspirates, however, the sound of h is kept distinct; dh, th, ph, bh, &c., being pronounced as in red-hot, pent-house, up-hill, abhor, &c. G is always hard, whatever vowel follows.

In HIMÁLAYA the accent is on the second syllable.

THE BIRTH OF THE WAR-GOD.

Canto First.

UMÁ'S NATIVITY.

Far in the north HIMÁLAYA, lifting high His towery summits till they cleave the sky, Spans the wide land from east to western sea, Lord of the hills, instinct with deity. For him, when PRITHU ruled in days of old The rich earth, teeming with her gems and gold, The vassal hills and MERU drained her breast, To deck HIMÁLAYA, for they loved him best; And earth, the mother, gave her store to fill With herbs and sparkling ores the royal hill. Proud mountain-king! his diadem of snow Dims not the beauty of his gems below. For who can gaze upon the moon, and dare To mark one spot less brightly glorious there? Who, 'mid a thousand virtues, dares to blame One shade of weakness in a hero's fame? Oft, when the gleamings of his mountain brass Flash through the clouds and tint them as they pass, Those glories mock the hues of closing day, And heaven's bright wantons hail their hour of play; Try, ere the time, the magic of their glance, And deck their beauty for the twilight dance. Dear to the sylphs are the cool shadows thrown By dark clouds wandering round the mountain's zone, Till frightened by the storm and rain they seek Eternal sunshine on each loftier peak. Far spread the wilds where eager hunters roam, Tracking the lion to his dreary home. For though the melting snow has washed away The crimson blood-drops of the wounded prey, Still the fair pearls that graced his forehead tell Where the strong elephant, o'ermastered, fell, And clinging to the lion's claws, betray, Falling at every step, the mighty conqueror's way. There birch-trees wave, that lend their friendly aid To tell the passion of the love-lorn maid, So quick to learn in metal tints to mark Her hopes and fears upon the tender bark.

List! breathing from each cave, HIMÁLAYA leads The glorious hymn with all his whispering reeds, Till heavenly minstrels raise their voice in song, And swell his music as it floats along. There the fierce elephant wounds the scented bough To ease the torment of his burning brow; And bleeding pines their odorous gum distil To breathe rare fragrance o'er the sacred hill. There magic herbs pour forth their streaming light From mossy caverns through the darksome night, And lend a torch to guide the trembling maid Where waits her lover in the leafy shade. Yet hath he caves within whose inmost cells In tranquil rest the murky darkness dwells, And, like the night-bird, spreads the brooding wing Safe in the shelter of the mountain-king, Unscorned, uninjured; for the good and great Spurn not the suppliant for his lowly state.

Why lingers yet the heavenly minstrel's bride On the wild path that skirts HIMÁLAYA'S side? Cold to her tender feet--oh, cold--the snow, Why should her steps--her homeward steps--be slow? 'Tis that her slender ankles scarce can bear The weight of beauty that impedes her there; Each rounded limb, and all her peerless charms, That broad full bosom, those voluptuous arms. E'en the wild kine that roam his forests bring The royal symbols to the mountain-king. With tails outspread, their bushy streaming hair Flashes like moonlight through the parted air. What monarch's fan more glorious might there be, More meet to grace a king as proud as he? There, when the nymphs, within the cave's recess, In modest fear their gentle limbs undress, Thick clouds descending yield a friendly screen, And blushing beauty bares her breast unseen. With pearly dewdrops GANGÁ loads the gale That waves the dark pines towering o'er the vale, And breathes in welcome freshness o'er the face Of wearied hunters when they quit the chase. So far aloft, amid Himálayan steeps, Crouched on the tranquil pool the lotus sleeps, That the bright SEVEN who star the northern sky Cull the fair blossoms from their seats on high; And when the sun pours forth his morning glow In streams of glory from his path below, They gain new beauty as his kisses break His darlings' slumber on the mountain lake.

Well might that ancient hill by merit claim The power and glory of a monarch's name; Nurse of pure herbs that grace each holy rite, Earth's meetest bearer of unyielding might. The Lord of Life for this ordained him king, And bade him share the sacred offering. Gladly obedient to the law divine, He chose a consort to prolong his line. No child of earth, born of the Sage's will, The fair nymph MENÁ pleased the sovran hill. To her he sued, nor was his prayer denied, The Saints' beloved was the mountain's bride. Crowned with all bliss and beauty were the pair, He passing glorious, she was heavenly fair. Swiftly the seasons, winged with love, flew on, And made her mother of a noble son, The great MAINÁKA, who in triumph led His Serpent beauties to the bridal bed; And once when INDRA'S might those pinions rent That bare the swift hills through the firmament, (So fierce his rage, no mountain could withstand The wild bolt flashing from his red right hand,) He fled to Ocean, powerful to save, And hid his glory 'neath the friendly wave.

A gentle daughter came at length to bless The royal mother with her loveliness; Born once again, for in an earlier life High fame was hers, as ['S]IVA'S faithful wife. But her proud sire had dared the God to scorn; Then was her tender soul with anguish torn, And jealous for the lord she loved so well, Her angered spirit left its mortal cell. Now deigned the maid, a lovely boon, to spring From that pure lady and the mountain-king. When Industry and Virtue meet and kiss, Holy their union, and the fruit is bliss. Blest was that hour, and all the world was gay, When MENÁ'S daughter saw the light of day. A rosy glow suffused the brightening sky; An odorous breeze came sweeping softly by. Breathed round the hill a sweet unearthly strain, And the glad heavens poured down their flowery rain. That fair young maiden diademmed with light Made her dear mother's fame more sparkling bright. As the blue offspring of the Turquois Hills The parent mount with richer glory fills, When the cloud's voice has caused the gem to spring, Responsive to its gentle thundering. Then was it sweet, as days flew by, to trace The dawning charm of every infant grace, Even as the crescent moons their glory pour More full, more lovely than the eve before.