Page:Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.djvu/59

Of every hope, whence will it fall?
For fall, by Narad's words, it must;
Persistent rising to appall
This thought its horrid presence thrust.

Sudden the noise is hushed,—a pause!
Satyavan lets the weapon drop—
Too well Savitri knows the cause,
He feels not well, the work must stop.
A pain is in his head,—a pain
As if he felt the cobra's fangs,
He tries to look around,—in vain,
A mist before his vision hangs;
The trees whirl dizzily around
In a fantastic fashion wild;
His throat and chest seem iron-bound,
He staggers, like a sleepy child.

"My head, my head!—Savitri, dear,
This pain is frightful. Let me lie
Here on the turf." Her voice was clear
And very calm was her reply,
As if her heart had banished fear:
"Lean, love, thy head upon my breast,"
And as she helped him, added—"here,
So shalt thou better breathe and rest."