As still Savitri sat beside Her husband dying,--dying fast, She saw a stranger slowly glide Beneath the boughs that shrunk aghast. Upon his head he wore a crown That shimmered in the doubtful light; His vestment scarlet reached low down, His waist, a golden girdle dight. His skin was dark as bronze; his face Irradiate, and yet severe; His eyes had much of love and grace, But glowed so bright, they filled with fear.
A string was in the stranger's hand Noosed at its end. Her terrors now Savitri scarcely could command. Upon the sod beneath a bough, She gently laid her husband's head, And in obeisance bent her brow. "No mortal form is thine,"--she said, "Beseech thee say what god art thou? And what can be thine errand here?" "Savitri, for thy prayers, thy faith, Thy frequent vows, thy fasts severe, I answer,--list,--my name is Death.
"And I am come myself to take Thy husband from this earth away, And he shall cross the doleful lake In my own charge, and let me say To few such honours I accord, But his pure life and thine require No less from me." The dreadful sword Like lightning glanced one moment dire; And then the inner man was tied, The soul no bigger than the thumb, To be borne onwards by his side:-- Savitri all the while stood dumb.
But when the god moved slowly on To gain his own dominions dim, Leaving the body there--anon Savitri meekly followed him, Hoping against all hope; he turned And looked surprised. "Go back, my child!" Pale, pale the stars above them burned, More weird the scene had grown and wild; "It is not for the living--hear! To follow where the dead must go, Thy duty lies before thee clear, What thou shouldst do, the Shasters show.
"The funeral rites that they ordain And sacrifices must take up Thy first sad moments; not in vain Is held to thee this bitter cup; Its lessons thou shall learn in time! All that thou _canst_ do, thou hast done For thy dear lord. Thy love sublime My deepest sympathy hath won. Return, for thou hast come as far As living creature may. Adieu! Let duty be thy guiding star, As ever. To thyself be true!"
"Where'er my husband dear is led, Or journeys of his own free will, I too must go, though darkness spread Across my path, portending ill, 'Tis thus my duty I have read! If I am wrong, oh! with me bear; But do not bid me backward tread My way forlorn,--for I can dare All things but that; ah! pity me, A woman frail, too sorely tried! And let me, let me follow thee, O gracious god,--whate'er betide.