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

Rh 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."