“If I am Master, now thou hast
    Finished thy course, give me my due. 
    Let all the past, be dead and past,
    Henceforth be ties between us new.” 
    “All that I have, O Master mine,
    All I shall conquer by my skill,
    Gladly shall I to thee resign,
    Let me but know thy gracious will,”

    “Is it a promise?” “Yea, I swear
    So long as I have breath and life
    To give thee all thou wilt,” “Beware! 
    Rash promise ever ends in strife.” 
    “Thou art my Master—­ask! oh ask! 
    From thee my inspiration came,
    Thou canst not set too hard a task,
    Nor aught refuse I, free from blame.”

    “If it be so—­Arjuna hear!”
    Arjuna and the youth were dumb,
    “For thy sake, loud I ask and clear,
    Give me, O youth, thy right-hand thumb. 
    I promised in my faithfulness
    No equal ever shall there be
    To thee, Arjuna—­and I press
    For this sad recompense—­for thee.”

    Glanced the sharp knife one moment high,
    The severed thumb was on the sod,
    There was no tear in Buttoo’s eye,
    He left the matter with his God. 
    “For this”—­said Dronacharjya—­“Fame
    Shall sound thy praise from sea to sea,
    And men shall ever link thy name
    With Self-help, Truth, and Modesty.”

SINDHU

PART I

    Deep in the forest shades there dwelt
      A Muni and his wife,
    Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly felt
      Their slender hold on life.

    No friends had they, no help or stay,
      Except an only boy,
    A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay,
      Their leaf-hut filled with joy.

    Attentive, duteous, loving, kind,
      Thoughtful, sedate, and calm,
    He waited on his parents blind,
      Whose days were like a psalm.

    He roamed the woods for luscious fruits,
      He brought them water pure,
    He cooked their simple mess of roots,
      Content to live obscure.

    To fretful questions, answers mild
      He meekly ever gave,
    If they reproved, he only smiled,
      He loved to be their slave.

    Not that to him they were austere,
      But age is peevish still,
    Dear to their hearts he was—­so dear,
      That none his place might fill. 
    They called him Sindhu, and his name
      Was ever on their tongue,
    And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame,
      Who dwelt his own among.

    A belt of Bela-trees hemmed round
      The cottage small and rude,
    If peace on earth was ever found
      ’Twas in that solitude.

PART II

    Great Dasarath, the King of Oudh,
      Whom all men love and fear,
    With elephants and horses proud
      Went forth to hunt the deer.