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Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan
Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
148 pages, Paperback
Published March 15, 2007
About the author
Toru Dutt
37 books12 followersToru Dutt was born on March 4, 1856, in Calcutta, to father Govin Chunder Dutt and mother Kshetramoni.
Toru was the youngest child, arriving after sister Aru and brother Abju (who died in 1865). Their cousin was the poet and civil servant Romesh Chunder Dutt. Both girls honed their English and French during a four-year residence in England and France, starting in 1869 at the French School at Nice, then in London in 1870, where The Dutt Family Album was published, and last in Cambridge in 1871, where the sisters attended the "Higher Lectures for Women." The family returned in September 1873 to their city house in Rambagan and their garden residence at Baugmaree.
Toru produced her first volume of poetry, A Sheaf, in 1876: it held 165 translations from French writers, eight by her sister Aru and the rest by herself, including "My Vocation" by Jean-Pierre de Béranger. After her best friend and sister Aru died of consumption on July 23, 1874, Toru determined to make a "sheaf" of poems for her native culture and proceeded to acquire Sanskrit in 1875-76. Though ill herself, she wrote her Ancient Ballads and Legends at this time.
She died on August 30, 1877, also of consumption, and is buried at C. M. S. Cemetery in Calcutta. Her father ensured that her manuscripts -- two novels, one in English and one in French, as well as her new "sheaf" -- were published in London and Paris.
Toru was the youngest child, arriving after sister Aru and brother Abju (who died in 1865). Their cousin was the poet and civil servant Romesh Chunder Dutt. Both girls honed their English and French during a four-year residence in England and France, starting in 1869 at the French School at Nice, then in London in 1870, where The Dutt Family Album was published, and last in Cambridge in 1871, where the sisters attended the "Higher Lectures for Women." The family returned in September 1873 to their city house in Rambagan and their garden residence at Baugmaree.
Toru produced her first volume of poetry, A Sheaf, in 1876: it held 165 translations from French writers, eight by her sister Aru and the rest by herself, including "My Vocation" by Jean-Pierre de Béranger. After her best friend and sister Aru died of consumption on July 23, 1874, Toru determined to make a "sheaf" of poems for her native culture and proceeded to acquire Sanskrit in 1875-76. Though ill herself, she wrote her Ancient Ballads and Legends at this time.
She died on August 30, 1877, also of consumption, and is buried at C. M. S. Cemetery in Calcutta. Her father ensured that her manuscripts -- two novels, one in English and one in French, as well as her new "sheaf" -- were published in London and Paris.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
May 15, 2020
Synopsis:
Divided into nine parts, followed by some miscellaneous poems, Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan is an unfinished volume of original poems written by Toru Dutt in English. It contains a total of sixteen poems, some of which are Sanskrit translations of ancient Indian myths and legends.
Review:
It is important to mention 'in English' because these poems were written/translated way back in the years between 1873 and 1877. A period when very few Indians, and a woman at that, wrote in English. To have written in not one but two languages (Dutt was as adept at French) other than your own mother tongue (Bengali) at that time is certainly no mean feat. Especially when the said person didn't survive her twenty-first year. She died at a young age, an age where we just about start experiencing the full flavour of life, without even experiencing the phenomenon that she had created. But, it is sad, that this poetess, who has a certain way with words, isn't as well read as her works should be.
In the Introductory Memoir by Edmund W. Gosse (1881), he mentions her to be the youngest writer to have attained worldwide recognition. And yet, I'm afraid that had three of her poems (Sita, The Lotus, Our Casuarina Tree) not been a part of my university's MA English syllabus, I may have missed out on reading her creations. Such is the magic of her prose that I started hunting down all of her written works, some of which I found on Project Gutenberg.
Influenced from the ancient tales she heard from her mother, a testament to the oral tradition, Toru provides some strange insights in her poetry to those same old stories and the characters within. Her poems in this collection are quintessentially Indian. Her rhyming prose and melodious poetry in the form of ballads on the various legends of India captured my imagination.
It starts with the story of 'Savitri' and Satyavan (a tale from the Vana Parva of the Indian epic Mahabharata, a 995-line ballad in five parts. Most of us in India are aware of Savitri's story, whether it be through the popular medium of daily soaps, though it leaves a lot to be desired in the way it is told. The longest poem in this collection is Dutt's unique take on that age-old story. It is followed by a conversation between 'Lakshman' and Sita in the woods, from the Ramayana, just before he draws the rekha (line).
'Jogadhya Uma' is taken from Bengali folklore, while 'The Royal Ascetic and the Hind' as well as 'The Legend of Dhruva' are from the Vishnu Purana. The legend of Eklavya from the Mahabharata finds its place in 'Buttoo' and it is followed by 'Sindhu', a legend from the Ramayana.
'Prehlad' and 'Sita' round up the nine parts of the volume. While Prehlad is another famous legend from the Vishnu Purana, Sita is a poem of a more personal nature. The latter is also the shortest in the collection and is melancholic since she mentions her family and how they spent their time in the past when both her siblings were alive. But it is a part of the collection due to it being entwined with Sita's story from the Ramayana.
There are seven Miscellaneous poems at the end, all of which are either poetic renditions of Dutt's personal experiences or her views on historical events. The titles are as follows:
1. Near Hastings
2. France 1870
3. The Tree of Life
4. On the Fly-leaf of Erckmann-Chatrian's novel entitled "Madame Thérèse"
5. Sonnet – Baugmaree
6. Sonnet – The Lotus
7. Our Casuarina Tree
Among all the poems, The Lotus is my favourite.
Originally posted on:
Shaina's Musings
Divided into nine parts, followed by some miscellaneous poems, Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan is an unfinished volume of original poems written by Toru Dutt in English. It contains a total of sixteen poems, some of which are Sanskrit translations of ancient Indian myths and legends.
Review:
It is important to mention 'in English' because these poems were written/translated way back in the years between 1873 and 1877. A period when very few Indians, and a woman at that, wrote in English. To have written in not one but two languages (Dutt was as adept at French) other than your own mother tongue (Bengali) at that time is certainly no mean feat. Especially when the said person didn't survive her twenty-first year. She died at a young age, an age where we just about start experiencing the full flavour of life, without even experiencing the phenomenon that she had created. But, it is sad, that this poetess, who has a certain way with words, isn't as well read as her works should be.
In the Introductory Memoir by Edmund W. Gosse (1881), he mentions her to be the youngest writer to have attained worldwide recognition. And yet, I'm afraid that had three of her poems (Sita, The Lotus, Our Casuarina Tree) not been a part of my university's MA English syllabus, I may have missed out on reading her creations. Such is the magic of her prose that I started hunting down all of her written works, some of which I found on Project Gutenberg.
Influenced from the ancient tales she heard from her mother, a testament to the oral tradition, Toru provides some strange insights in her poetry to those same old stories and the characters within. Her poems in this collection are quintessentially Indian. Her rhyming prose and melodious poetry in the form of ballads on the various legends of India captured my imagination.
It starts with the story of 'Savitri' and Satyavan (a tale from the Vana Parva of the Indian epic Mahabharata, a 995-line ballad in five parts. Most of us in India are aware of Savitri's story, whether it be through the popular medium of daily soaps, though it leaves a lot to be desired in the way it is told. The longest poem in this collection is Dutt's unique take on that age-old story. It is followed by a conversation between 'Lakshman' and Sita in the woods, from the Ramayana, just before he draws the rekha (line).
'Jogadhya Uma' is taken from Bengali folklore, while 'The Royal Ascetic and the Hind' as well as 'The Legend of Dhruva' are from the Vishnu Purana. The legend of Eklavya from the Mahabharata finds its place in 'Buttoo' and it is followed by 'Sindhu', a legend from the Ramayana.
'Prehlad' and 'Sita' round up the nine parts of the volume. While Prehlad is another famous legend from the Vishnu Purana, Sita is a poem of a more personal nature. The latter is also the shortest in the collection and is melancholic since she mentions her family and how they spent their time in the past when both her siblings were alive. But it is a part of the collection due to it being entwined with Sita's story from the Ramayana.
There are seven Miscellaneous poems at the end, all of which are either poetic renditions of Dutt's personal experiences or her views on historical events. The titles are as follows:
1. Near Hastings
2. France 1870
3. The Tree of Life
4. On the Fly-leaf of Erckmann-Chatrian's novel entitled "Madame Thérèse"
5. Sonnet – Baugmaree
6. Sonnet – The Lotus
7. Our Casuarina Tree
Among all the poems, The Lotus is my favourite.
Originally posted on:
Shaina's Musings
June 27, 2021
What glorious trees! The sombre saul
On which the eye delights to rest,
The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,
With feathery branches for a crest…
What a little treasure I stumbled on in the www.Gutenberg.com files. If you haven’t heard of it, it is a site digitizing older manuscripts and classics, as well as a place to self publish. I was just looking for interesting older books of poetry and found this. I can feel the distance of centuries when I read older works, and many do not appeal or resonate with me, and to know there are treasures of literature like this written by a young woman in India, synthesizing the travels and lessons learned from Europe but adding her homeland imagery, well, I am near tears. I feel the time,and the space, and hope for future generations, women’s voices are found and celebrated.
BUTTOO.
What glorious trees! The sombre saul
On which the eye delights to rest,
The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,
With feathery branches for a crest,
The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,
The pale faint-scented bitter neem,
The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,
With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,
The Indian fig's pavilion tent
In which whole armies might repose,
With here and there a little rent,
The sunset's beauty to disclose,
The bamboo boughs that sway and swing
'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,
The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,
Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,
The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,
The nagessur with pendant flowers
Like ear-rings,—and the forest vine
That clinging over all, embowers,
The sirish famed in Sanscrit song
Which rural maidens love to wear,
The peepul giant-like and strong,
The bramble with its matted hair,
All these, and thousands, thousands more,
With helmet red, or golden crown,
Or green tiara, rose before
The youth in evening's shadows brown.
He passed into the forest,—there
New sights of wonder met his view,
A waving Pampas green and fair
All glistening with the evening dew.
How vivid was the breast-high grass!
Here waved in patches, forest corn,—
Here intervened a deep morass,—
Here arid spots of verdure shorn
Lay open,—rock or barren sand,—
And here again the trees arose
Thick clustering,—a glorious band
Their tops still bright with sunset glows.—
Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,
And seemed to welcome him with signs,
Onwards and on…
SAVITRI
And so she wandered where she pleased
In boyish freedom. Happy time!
No small vexations ever teased,
Nor crushing sorrows dimmed her prime.
What was the meaning—was it love?
Love at first sight, as poets sing,
Is then no fiction? Heaven above
Is witness, that the heart its king
Finds often like a lightning flash;
We play,—we jest,—we have no care,—
When hark a step,—there comes no crash,—
But life, or silent slow despair.
Their eyes just met,—Savitri past
Into the friendly Muni's hut,
Her heart-rose opened had at last—
Opened no flower can ever shut.
THE LEGEND OF DHRUVA.
Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieve
Or vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done,
The evil, haply, in some former life,
Long, long ago, who may alas! annul,
Or who the good works not done, supplement!
The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit.
The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold,
The best steed, and the royal elephant
Rich caparisoned, must be his by right
Who has deserved them by his virtuous acts
In times long past. Oh think on this, my son,
And be content. For glorious actions done.
…
Well kept the boy his promise made that day!
By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at last
The highest heavens, and there he shines a star!
Nightly men see him in the firmament.
SÎTA.
Three happy children in a darkened room!
What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?
A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,
And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloom
Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace
Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake
The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the
brake,"
The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;
There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;
There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,
There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.
But who is this fair lady? Not in vain
She weeps,—for lo! at every tear she sheds
Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,
And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.
It is an old, old story, and the lay
Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past
Is by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at last
And melts the picture from their sight away,
Yet shall they dream of it until the day.
NEAR HASTINGS.
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
We loitered at the time
When ripens on the wall the peach,
The autumn's lovely prime.
Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,
The day was wholly done,
The distant town its murmurs sent,
Strangers,—we were alone.
…
Sweet were the roses,—sweet and full,
And large as lotus flowers
That in our own wide tanks we cull
To deck our Indian bowers.
But sweeter was the love that gave
Those flowers to one unknown,
I think that He who came to save
The gift a debt will own
THE TREE OF LIFE.
Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!
Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,
My hand was in my father's, and I felt
His presence near me. Thus we often past
In silence, hour by hour. What was the need
Of interchanging words when every thought
That in our hearts arose, was known to each,
And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone
A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.
I was awake:—It was an open plain
Illimitable,—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!
And o'er it that strange light,—a glorious light
Like that the stars shed over fields of snow
In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,
Only intenser in its brilliance calm.
And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,
For I was wide awake,—it was no dream,
A tree with spreading branches and with leaves
Of divers kinds,—dead silver and live gold,
Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!
SONNET.—BAUGMAREE.
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
MORNING SERENADE.
Still barred thy doors! The far east glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken also thee?
All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song,
Light in the sky deep red above,
Song, in the lark of pinions strong,
And in my heart, true Love.
Apart we miss our nature's goal,
Why strive to cheat our destinies?
Was not my love made for thy soul?
Thy beauty for mine eyes?
No longer sleep,
Oh, listen now!
I wait and weep,
But where art thou?
I happened to be in the office of that newspaper, and was upbraiding the whole body of publishers for issuing no books worth reviewing. At that moment the postman brought in a thin and sallow packet with a wonderful Indian postmark on it, and containing a most unattractive orange pamphlet of verse, printed at Bhowanipore, and entitled "A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields, by Toru Dutt." This shabby little book of some two hundred pages, without preface or introduction, seemed specially destined by its particular providence to find its way hastily into the waste-paper basket. I remember that Mr. Minto thrust it into my unwilling hands, and said "There! see whether you can't make something of that.”
It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honours which need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced so much of lasting worth.
EDMUND W. GOSSE.
1881
On which the eye delights to rest,
The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,
With feathery branches for a crest…
What a little treasure I stumbled on in the www.Gutenberg.com files. If you haven’t heard of it, it is a site digitizing older manuscripts and classics, as well as a place to self publish. I was just looking for interesting older books of poetry and found this. I can feel the distance of centuries when I read older works, and many do not appeal or resonate with me, and to know there are treasures of literature like this written by a young woman in India, synthesizing the travels and lessons learned from Europe but adding her homeland imagery, well, I am near tears. I feel the time,and the space, and hope for future generations, women’s voices are found and celebrated.
BUTTOO.
What glorious trees! The sombre saul
On which the eye delights to rest,
The betel-nut,—a pillar tall,
With feathery branches for a crest,
The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide,
The pale faint-scented bitter neem,
The seemul, gorgeous as a bride,
With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,
The Indian fig's pavilion tent
In which whole armies might repose,
With here and there a little rent,
The sunset's beauty to disclose,
The bamboo boughs that sway and swing
'Neath bulbuls as the south wind blows,
The mangoe-tope, a close dark ring,
Home of the rooks and clamorous crows,
The champac, bok, and South-sea pine,
The nagessur with pendant flowers
Like ear-rings,—and the forest vine
That clinging over all, embowers,
The sirish famed in Sanscrit song
Which rural maidens love to wear,
The peepul giant-like and strong,
The bramble with its matted hair,
All these, and thousands, thousands more,
With helmet red, or golden crown,
Or green tiara, rose before
The youth in evening's shadows brown.
He passed into the forest,—there
New sights of wonder met his view,
A waving Pampas green and fair
All glistening with the evening dew.
How vivid was the breast-high grass!
Here waved in patches, forest corn,—
Here intervened a deep morass,—
Here arid spots of verdure shorn
Lay open,—rock or barren sand,—
And here again the trees arose
Thick clustering,—a glorious band
Their tops still bright with sunset glows.—
Stirred in the breeze the crowding boughs,
And seemed to welcome him with signs,
Onwards and on…
SAVITRI
And so she wandered where she pleased
In boyish freedom. Happy time!
No small vexations ever teased,
Nor crushing sorrows dimmed her prime.
What was the meaning—was it love?
Love at first sight, as poets sing,
Is then no fiction? Heaven above
Is witness, that the heart its king
Finds often like a lightning flash;
We play,—we jest,—we have no care,—
When hark a step,—there comes no crash,—
But life, or silent slow despair.
Their eyes just met,—Savitri past
Into the friendly Muni's hut,
Her heart-rose opened had at last—
Opened no flower can ever shut.
THE LEGEND OF DHRUVA.
Yet, son, it is not meet that thou shouldst grieve
Or vex thy soul. The deeds that thou hast done,
The evil, haply, in some former life,
Long, long ago, who may alas! annul,
Or who the good works not done, supplement!
The sins of previous lives must bear their fruit.
The ivory throne, the umbrella of gold,
The best steed, and the royal elephant
Rich caparisoned, must be his by right
Who has deserved them by his virtuous acts
In times long past. Oh think on this, my son,
And be content. For glorious actions done.
…
Well kept the boy his promise made that day!
By prayer and penance Dhruva gained at last
The highest heavens, and there he shines a star!
Nightly men see him in the firmament.
SÎTA.
Three happy children in a darkened room!
What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes?
A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries,
And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloom
Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace
Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake
The white swans glide; there, "whirring from the
brake,"
The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race;
There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain;
There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light,
There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite.
But who is this fair lady? Not in vain
She weeps,—for lo! at every tear she sheds
Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain,
And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads.
It is an old, old story, and the lay
Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past
Is by a mother sung.... 'Tis hushed at last
And melts the picture from their sight away,
Yet shall they dream of it until the day.
NEAR HASTINGS.
Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
We loitered at the time
When ripens on the wall the peach,
The autumn's lovely prime.
Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,
The day was wholly done,
The distant town its murmurs sent,
Strangers,—we were alone.
…
Sweet were the roses,—sweet and full,
And large as lotus flowers
That in our own wide tanks we cull
To deck our Indian bowers.
But sweeter was the love that gave
Those flowers to one unknown,
I think that He who came to save
The gift a debt will own
THE TREE OF LIFE.
Broad daylight, with a sense of weariness!
Mine eyes were closed, but I was not asleep,
My hand was in my father's, and I felt
His presence near me. Thus we often past
In silence, hour by hour. What was the need
Of interchanging words when every thought
That in our hearts arose, was known to each,
And every pulse kept time? Suddenly there shone
A strange light, and the scene as sudden changed.
I was awake:—It was an open plain
Illimitable,—stretching, stretching—oh, so far!
And o'er it that strange light,—a glorious light
Like that the stars shed over fields of snow
In a clear, cloudless, frosty winter night,
Only intenser in its brilliance calm.
And in the midst of that vast plain, I saw,
For I was wide awake,—it was no dream,
A tree with spreading branches and with leaves
Of divers kinds,—dead silver and live gold,
Shimmering in radiance that no words may tell!
SONNET.—BAUGMAREE.
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red,—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
But not because of its magnificence
Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:
Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,
For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear!
Blent with your images, it shall arise
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!
MORNING SERENADE.
Still barred thy doors! The far east glows,
The morning wind blows fresh and free
Should not the hour that wakes the rose
Awaken also thee?
All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song,
Light in the sky deep red above,
Song, in the lark of pinions strong,
And in my heart, true Love.
Apart we miss our nature's goal,
Why strive to cheat our destinies?
Was not my love made for thy soul?
Thy beauty for mine eyes?
No longer sleep,
Oh, listen now!
I wait and weep,
But where art thou?
I happened to be in the office of that newspaper, and was upbraiding the whole body of publishers for issuing no books worth reviewing. At that moment the postman brought in a thin and sallow packet with a wonderful Indian postmark on it, and containing a most unattractive orange pamphlet of verse, printed at Bhowanipore, and entitled "A Sheaf gleaned in French Fields, by Toru Dutt." This shabby little book of some two hundred pages, without preface or introduction, seemed specially destined by its particular providence to find its way hastily into the waste-paper basket. I remember that Mr. Minto thrust it into my unwilling hands, and said "There! see whether you can't make something of that.”
It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honours which need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced so much of lasting worth.
EDMUND W. GOSSE.
1881
June 27, 2022
I would recommend this to anyone who wants a short and traditional journey told with beautiful writing, but it wasn't very memorable for me.
January 6, 2023
I did feel some of it was generic, but it's definitely great work for such a young writer. Terrible what happened to her.
March 29, 2023
Solo lo que podría haber sido
"Absurd may be the tale i tell,
Ill-suited to the marching times,
I loved the lips from which it fell,
So let it stand among my rhymes"
"Absurd may be the tale i tell,
Ill-suited to the marching times,
I loved the lips from which it fell,
So let it stand among my rhymes"
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews