The Song celestial; or, Bhagabad-gîtâ (from the Mahâbhârata) being a discourse between Arjuna, prince of India, and the Supreme Being under the form of Krishna

CHAPTER I

Dhri­ti­rash­tra: Ranged thus for bat­tle on the sa­cred plain– On Ku­ruk­shetra–say, San­jaya! say What wrought my peo­ple, and the Pan­davas?

San­jaya: When he be­held the host of Pan­davas, Ra­ja Dury­od­hana to Drona drew, And spake these words: “Ah, Gu­ru! see this line, How vast it is of Pan­du fight­ing-​men, Em­bat­tled by the son of Dru­pa­da, Thy schol­ar in the war! There­in stand ranked Chiefs like Ar­ju­na, like to Bhi­ma chiefs, Ben­ders of bows; Vi­ra­ta, Yuyud­han, Dru­pa­da, em­inent up­on his car, Dhrish­taket, Chek­itan, Kasi’s stout lord, Pu­ru­jit, Kun­tib­hoj, and Saivya, With Yud­hamanyu, and Ut­ta­mauj Sub­hadra’s child; and Dru­pa­di’s;-all famed! All mount­ed on their shin­ing char­iots! On our side, too,–thou best of Brah­mans! see Ex­cel­lent chiefs, com­man­ders of my line, Whose names I joy to count: thy­self the first, Then Bhish­ma, Kar­na, Kri­pa fierce in fight, Vikar­na, Aswatthaman; next to these Strong Sauma­dat­ti, with full many more Valiant and tried, ready this day to die For me their king, each with his weapon grasped, Each skil­ful in the field. Weak­est-​meseems- Our bat­tle shows where Bhish­ma holds com­mand, And Bhi­ma, fronting him, some­thing too strong! Have care our cap­tains nigh to Bhish­ma’s ranks Pre­pare what help they may! Now, blow my shell!”

Then, at the sig­nal of the aged king, With blare to wake the blood, rolling around Like to a li­on’s roar, the trum­peter Blew the great Conch; and, at the noise of it, Trum­pets and drums, cym­bals and gongs and horns Burst in­to sud­den clam­our; as the blasts Of loos­ened tem­pest, such the tu­mult seemed! Then might be seen, up­on their car of gold Yoked with white steeds, blow­ing their bat­tle-​shells, Kr­ish­na the God, Ar­ju­na at his side: Kr­ish­na, with knot­ted locks, blew his great conch Carved of the “Gi­ant’s bone;” Ar­ju­na blew In­dra’s loud gift; Bhi­ma the ter­ri­ble– Wolf-​bel­lied Bhi­ma-​blew a long reed-​conch; And Yud­histhi­ra, Kun­ti’s blame­less son, Wind­ed a mighty shell, “Vic­to­ry’s Voice;” And Naku­la blew shrill up­on his conch Named the “Sweet-​sound­ing,” Sa­hadev on his Called”Gem-​be­decked,” and Kasi’s Prince on his. Sikhan­di on his car, Dhrish­tadyumn, Vi­ra­ta, Satya­ki the Un­sub­dued, Dru­pa­da, with his sons, (O Lord of Earth!) Long-​armed Sub­hadra’s chil­dren, all blew loud, So that the clan­gour shook their foe­men’s hearts, With quak­ing earth and thun­der­ing heav’n.

Then ’twas- Be­hold­ing Dhri­ti­rash­tra’s bat­tle set, Weapons un­sheath­ing, bows drawn forth, the war In­stant to break-​Ar­jun, whose en­sign-​badge Was Hanu­man the mon­key, spake this thing To Kr­ish­na the Di­vine, his char­io­teer: “Drive, Daunt­less One! to yon­der open ground Be­twixt the armies; I would see more nigh These who will fight with us, those we must slay To-​day, in war’s ar­bitra­ment; for, sure, On blood­shed all are bent who throng this plain, Obey­ing Dhri­ti­rash­tra’s sin­ful son.”

Thus, by Ar­ju­na prayed, (O Bhara­ta!) Be­tween the hosts that heav­en­ly Char­io­teer Drove the bright car, rein­ing its milk-​white steeds Where Bhish­ma led,and Drona,and their Lords. “See!” spake he to Ar­ju­na, “where they stand, Thy kin­dred of the Ku­rus:” and the Prince Marked on each hand the kins­men of his house, Grand­sires and sires, un­cles and broth­ers and sons, Cousins and sons-​in-​law and nephews, mixed With friends and hon­oured el­ders; some this side, Some that side ranged: and, see­ing those op­posed, Such kith grown en­emies-​Ar­ju­na’s heart Melt­ed with pity, while he ut­tered this:

Ar­ju­na. Kr­ish­na! as I be­hold, come here to shed Their com­mon blood, yon con­course of our kin, My mem­bers fail, my tongue dries in my mouth, A shud­der thrills my body, and my hair Bris­tles with hor­ror; from my weak hand slips Gan­div, the good­ly bow; a fever burns My skin to parch­ing; hard­ly may I stand; The life with­in me seems to swim and faint; Noth­ing do I fore­see save woe and wail! It is not good, O Ke­shav! nought of good Can spring from mu­tu­al slaugh­ter! Lo, I hate Tri­umph and dom­ina­tion, wealth and ease, Thus sad­ly won! Aho! what vic­to­ry Can bring de­light, Govin­da! what rich spoils Could prof­it; what rule rec­om­pense; what span Of life it­self seem sweet, bought with such blood? See­ing that these stand here, ready to die, For whose sake life was fair, and plea­sure pleased, And pow­er grew pre­cious:-grand­sires, sires, and sons, Broth­ers, and fa­thers-​in-​law, and sons-​in-​law, El­ders and friends! Shall I deal death on these Even though they seek to slay us? Not one blow, O Mad­husu­dan! will I strike to gain

The rule of all Three Worlds; then, how much less To seize an earth­ly king­dom! Killing these Must breed but an­guish, Kr­ish­na! If they be Guilty, we shall grow guilty by their deaths; Their sins will light on us, if we shall slay Those sons of Dhri­ti­rash­tra, and our kin; What peace could come of that, O Mad­ha­va? For if in­deed, blind­ed by lust and wrath, These can­not see, or will not see, the sin Of king­ly lines o’erthrown and kins­men slain, How should not we, who see, shun such a crime– We who per­ceive the guilt and feel the shame– O thou De­light of Men, Ja­nar­dana? By over­throw of hous­es per­isheth Their sweet con­tin­uous house­hold piety, And-​rites ne­glect­ed, piety ex­tinct– En­ters impi­ety up­on that home; Its wom­en grow un­wom­aned, whence there spring Mad pas­sions, and the min­gling-​up of castes, Send­ing a Hell-​ward road that fam­ily, And whoso wrought its doom by wicked wrath. Nay, and the souls of hon­oured an­ces­tors Fall from their place of peace, be­ing bereft Of fu­ner­al-​cakes and the wan death-​wa­ter.[FN#1] So teach our holy hymns. Thus, if we slay Kins­folk and friends for love of earth­ly pow­er, Aho­vat! what an evil fault it were! Bet­ter I deem it, if my kins­men strike, To face them weapon­less, and bare my breast To shaft and spear, than an­swer blow with blow.

So speak­ing, in the face of those two hosts, Ar­ju­na sank up­on his char­iot-​seat, And let fall bow and ar­rows, sick at heart.

HERE EN­DETH CHAP­TER I. OF THE BHA­GAVAD-​GI­TA, En­ti­tled “Ar­jun-​Vishad,” Or “The Book of the Dis­tress of Ar­ju­na.”