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JANUARY, 1876.] METRICAL TRANSLATION OF THE VAIRAGYA SATAKAM.
Of evil men and oppressors.
I have not wasted life, but life hath wasted me, I have not chosen pain, but pain hath been my lot,
My drink is of the crystal brook, of fruits my banquet's spread,
Some men make Time their fool, but here My frame is swathed in strips of bark, the Time's fool you see, earth's my sumptuous bed,
I've long been dead to joy, but passion dieth
Thus happier far, than forced to bear the upstart insolence
not.
Insults I've borne, but not with patient mind, Pleasures forborne, to which my heart inclined; Put up with hunger, nakedness, and cold, Not for the love of God, but love of gold; Thought much on wealth, but not on Śiva's feet, And broke my slumbers not to pray, but cheat; I've lived a hermit's life without his creed, Made earth a hell, but gained no heavenly meed.
Wrinkles deform my face,
And hoary hairs my head, Withered my youthful grace, But avarice blooms instead.
The joys of sense will vanish soon, what do we gain thereby?
Those only store up merit who in all themselves deny;
When pleasures flee, they leave behind a neverending smart,
But he who hurls them from him fills with heavenly peace his heart.
As knowledge grows, content expands, and fell desire abates;
But worldly joys, if long embraced, a baneful influence gain;
Thus Indra, like a mortal king, hopes, trembles, loves, and hates,
From having held through endless years an undisputed reign.
Of worldly enjoyments.
I'm forced to beg my loathsome daily mess, My couch the earth, myself my only guard, Of filthy patched unseemly clouts my dress, And yet these worldly longings press me hard. Against the love of beauty. The moth unwitting rushes on the fire, Through ignorance the fish devours the bait, We men know well the foes that lie in wait, Yet cannot shun the meshes of desire.
Of those the new strong wine of wealth hath robbed of every sense. Of vain-glory.
By mighty sages' will this world first saw its natal day,
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Others have conquered it, and thrown with scorn its wealth away,
Others rule fourteen higher worlds all happier than ours,
Why then should lords of some few towns thus vaant their petty powers?
Of indifference to worlilly things. Thou art a king, I grant, but we are famed for boundless lore,
Thy wealth's renowned, our skill by bards proclaimed on every shore, Between us no vast gulf is set: what though thou scorn our name,
Yet we, to all indifferent, heed not thy praise or blame.
This world still groans 'neath many hundred kings
All emulous to snatch their neighbour's share, Each paltry gain some fresh enjoyment brings To fools whose greed should fill them with despair.
This earth is but a lump of clay girt with a briny ditch,
Where hosts of squabbling kings contend, all striving to be rich,
One cannot blame these grovelling slaves for clinging to their store,
But out on those who stoop to beg at any royal door!
The misery of a courtier's life. What can I do in princely courts, Unskilled in vice, and idle sports, Nor singer, actor, rogue, nor clown, Nor bent on pulling others down ?||
Of old time learning courted saintly bliss, Then stooped to be the slave of base desire, But now that kings 'gainst intellect conspire Each day she plunges deeper in th' abyss.
|| Cf. Burke, vol. II. p. 106, 1. 33 (Bohn's ed.): "Kings are naturally lovers of low company," &c.
