Deep in the forest shades there dwelt A Muni and his wife, Blind, gray-haired, weak, they hourly felt Their slender hold on life. No friends had they, no help or stay, Except an only boy, A bright-eyed child, his laughter gay, Their leaf-hut filled with joy. Attentive, duteous, loving, kind, Thoughtful, sedate, and calm, He waited on his parents blind, Whose days were like a psalm. He roamed the woods for luscious fruits, He brought them water pure, He cooked their simple mess of roots, Content to live obscure. To fretful questions, answers mild He meekly ever gave, If they reproved, he only smiled, He loved to be their slave. Not that to him they were austere, But age is peevish still, Dear to their hearts he was,--so dear, That none his place might fill. They called him Sindhu, and his name Was ever on their tongue, And he, nor cared for wealth nor fame, Who dwelt his own among. A belt of Bela trees hemmed round The cottage small and rude, If peace on earth was ever found 'Twas in that solitude.