Page:Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.djvu/132

96 A child lay dying on the grass,
 * A pitcher by his side,

Poor Sindhu was the child, alas!
 * His parents' stay and pride.

His bow and quiver down to fling,
 * And lift the wounded boy,

A moment's work was with the king.
 * Not dead,—that was a joy!

He placed the child's head on his lap,
 * And ranged the blinding hair,

The blood welled fearful from the gap
 * On neck and bosom fair.

He dashed cold water on the face,
 * He chafed the hands, with sighs,

Till sense revived, and he could trace
 * Expression in the eyes.

Then mingled with his pity, fear—
 * In all this universe

What is so dreadful as to hear
 * A Bramin's dying curse!