Canto CXIX. The Forest.

When Anasúyá, virtuous-souled,

Had heard the tale by Sítá told,

She kissed the lady’s brow and laced

Her loving arms around her waist.

“With sweet-toned words distinct and clear

Thy pleasant tale has charmed mine ear,

How the great king thy father held

That Maiden’s Choice unparalleled.

But now the sun has sunk from sight,

And left the world to holy Night.

Hark! how the leafy thickets sound

With gathering birds that twitter round:

They sought their food by day, and all

Flock homeward when the shadows fall.

See, hither comes the hermit band,

Each with his pitcher in his hand:

Fresh from the bath, their locks are wet,

Their coats of bark are dripping yet.

Here saints their fires of worship tend,

And curling wreaths of smoke ascend:

Borne on the flames they mount above,

Dark as the brown wings of the dove.

The distant trees, though well-nigh bare,

Gloom thickened by the evening air,

And in the faint uncertain light

Shut the horizon from our sight.

The beasts that prowl in darkness rove

On every side about the grove,

And the tame deer, at ease reclined

Their shelter near the altars find.

The night o’er all the sky is spread,

With lunar stars engarlanded,

And risen in his robes of light

The moon is beautifully bright.

Now to thy lord I bid thee go:

Thy pleasant tale has charmed me so:

One thing alone I needs must pray,

Before me first thyself array:

Here in thy heavenly raiment shine,

And glad, dear love, these eyes of mine.”

Then like a heavenly Goddess shone

Fair Sítá with that raiment on.

She bowed her to the matron’s feet,

Then turned away her lord to meet.

The hero prince with joy surveyed

His Sítá in her robes arrayed,

As glorious to his arms she came

With love-gifts of the saintly dame.

She told him how the saint to show

Her fond affection would bestow

That garland of celestial twine,

Those ornaments and robes divine.

Then Ráma’s heart, nor Lakshmaṇ’s less,

Was filled with pride and happiness,

For honours high had Sítá gained,

Which mortal dames have scarce obtained.

There honoured by each pious sage

Who dwelt within the hermitage,

Beside his darling well content

That sacred night the hero spent.

The princes, when the night had fled,

Farewell to all the hermits said,

Who gazed upon the distant shade,

Their lustral rites and offerings paid.

The saints who made their dwelling there

In words like these addressed the pair:

“O Princes, monsters fierce and fell

Around that distant forest dwell:

On blood from human veins they feed,

And various forms assume at need,

With savage beasts of fearful power

That human flesh and blood devour.

Our holy saints they rend and tear

When met alone or unaware,

And eat them in their cruel joy:

These chase, O Ráma, or destroy.

By this one path our hermits go

To fetch the fruits that yonder grow:

By this, O Prince, thy feet should stray

Through pathless forests far away.”

Thus by the reverent saints addressed,

And by their prayers auspicious blessed,

He left the holy crowd:

His wife and brother by his side,

Within the mighty wood he hied.

So sinks the Day-God in his pride

Beneath a bank of cloud.

BOOK III.

Canto I. The Hermitage.

When Ráma, valiant hero, stood

In the vast shade of Daṇḍak wood,

His eyes on every side he bent

And saw a hermit settlement,

Where coats of bark were hung around,

And holy grass bestrewed the ground.

Bright with Bráhmanic lustre glowed

That circle where the saints abode:

Like the hot sun in heaven it shone,

Too dazzling to be looked upon.

Wild creatures found a refuge where

The court, well-swept, was bright and fair,

And countless birds and roedeer made

Their dwelling in the friendly shade.

Beneath the boughs of well-loved trees

Oft danced the gay Apsarases.(401)

Around was many an ample shed

Wherein the holy fire was fed;

With sacred grass and skins of deer,

Ladles and sacrificial gear,

And roots and fruit, and wood to burn,

And many a brimming water-urn.

Tall trees their hallowed branches spread,

Laden with pleasant fruit, o’erhead;

And gifts which holy laws require,(402)

And solemn offerings burnt with fire,(403)

And Veda chants on every side

That home of hermits sanctified.

There many a flower its odour shed,

And lotus blooms the lake o’erspred.

There, clad in coats of bark and hide,—

Their food by roots and fruit supplied,—

Dwelt many an old and reverend sire

Bright as the sun or Lord of Fire,

All with each worldly sense subdued,

A pure and saintly multitude.

The Veda chants, the saints who trod

The sacred ground and mused on God,

Made that delightful grove appear

Like Brahmá’s own most glorious sphere.

As Raghu’s splendid son surveyed

That hermit home and tranquil shade,

He loosed his mighty bow-string, then

Drew nearer to the holy men.

With keen celestial sight endued

Those mighty saints the chieftain viewed,

With joy to meet the prince they came,

And gentle Sítá dear to fame.

They looked on virtuous Ráma, fair

As Soma(404) in the evening air,

And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side,

And Sítá long in duty tried,

And with glad blessings every sage

Received them in the hermitage.

Then Ráma’s form and stature tall

Entranced the wondering eyes of all,—

His youthful grace, his strength of limb,

And garb that nobly sat on him.

To Lakshmaṇ too their looks they raised,

And upon Sítá’s beauty gazed

With eyes that closed not lest their sight

Should miss the vision of delight.

Then the pure hermits of the wood,

Rejoicing in all creatures’ good,

Their guest, the glorious Ráma, led

Within a cot with leaves o’erhead.

With highest honour all the best

Of radiant saints received their guest,

With kind observance, as is meet,

And gave him water for his feet.

To highest pitch of rapture wrought

Their stores of roots and fruit they brought.

They poured their blessings on his head,

And “All we have is thine,” they said.

Then, reverent hand to hand applied,(405)

Each duty-loving hermit cried:

“The king is our protector, bright

In fame, maintainer of the right.

He bears the awful sword, and hence

Deserves an elder’s reverence.

One fourth of Indra’s essence, he

Preserves his realm from danger free,

Hence honoured by the world of right

The king enjoys each choice delight.

Thou shouldst to us protection give,

For in thy realm, dear lord, we live:

Whether in town or wood thou be,

Thou art our king, thy people we.

Our wordly aims are laid aside,

Our hearts are tamed and purified.

To thee our guardian, we who earn

Our only wealth by penance turn.”

Then the pure dwellers in the shade

To Raghu’s son due honour paid,

And Lakshmaṇ, bringing store of roots,

And many a flower, and woodland fruits.

And others strove the prince to please

With all attentive courtesies.

Canto II. Virádha.

Thus entertained he passed the night,

Then, with the morning’s early light,

To all the hermits bade adieu

And sought his onward way anew.

He pierced the mighty forest where

Roamed many a deer and pard and bear:

Its ruined pools he scarce could see.

For creeper rent and prostrate tree,

Where shrill cicada’s cries were heard,

And plaintive notes of many a bird.

Deep in the thickets of the wood

With Lakshmaṇ and his spouse he stood,

There in the horrid shade he saw

A giant passing nature’s law:

Vast as some mountain-peak in size,

With mighty voice and sunken eyes,

Huge, hideous, tall, with monstrous face,

Most ghastly of his giant race.

A tiger’s hide the Rákshas wore

Still reeking with the fat and gore:

Huge-faced, like Him who rules the dead,

All living things he struck with dread.

Three lions, tigers four, ten deer

He carried on his iron spear,

Two wolves, an elephant’s head beside

With mighty tusks which blood-drops dyed.

When on the three his fierce eye fell,

He charged them with a roar and yell

As furious as the grisly King

When stricken worlds are perishing.

Then with a mighty roar that shook

The earth beneath their feet, he took

The trembling Sítá to his side.

Withdrew a little space, and cried:

“Ha, short lived wretches, ye who dare,

In hermit dress with matted hair,

Armed each with arrows, sword, and bow,

Through Daṇḍak’s pathless wood to go:

How with one dame, I bid you tell,

Can you among ascetics dwell?

Who are ye, sinners, who despise

The right, in holy men’s disguise?

The great Virádha, day by day

Through this deep-tangled wood I stray,

And ever, armed with trusty steel,

I seize a saint to make my meal.

This woman young and fair of frame

Shall be the conquering giant’s dame:

Your blood, ye things of evil life,

My lips shall quaff in battle strife.”

He spoke: and Janak’s hapless child,

Scared by his speech so fierce and wild,

Trembled for terror, as a frail

Young plantain shivers in the gale.

When Ráma saw Virádha clasp

Fair Sítá in his mighty grasp,

Thus with pale lips that terror dried

The hero to his brother cried:

“O see Virádha’s arm enfold

My darling in its cursed hold,—

The child of Janak best of kings,

My spouse whose soul to virtue clings,

Sweet princess, with pure glory bright,

Nursed in the lap of soft delight.

Now falls the blow Kaikeyí meant,

Successful in her dark intent:

This day her cruel soul will be

Triumphant over thee and me.

Though Bharat on the throne is set,

Her greedy eyes look farther yet:

Me from my home she dared expel,

Me whom all creatures loved so well.

This fatal day at length, I ween,

Brings triumph to the younger queen.

I see with bitterest grief and shame

Another touch the Maithil dame.

Not loss of sire and royal power

So grieves me as this mournful hour.”

Thus in his anguish cried the chief:

Then drowned in tears, o’erwhelmed by grief,

Thus Lakshmaṇ in his anger spake,

Quick panting like a spell-bound snake:

“Canst thou, my brother, Indra’s peer,

When I thy minister am near,

Thus grieve like some forsaken thing,

Thou, every creature’s lord and king?

My vengeful shaft the fiend shall slay,

And earth shall drink his blood to-day.

The fury which my soul at first

Upon usurping Bharat nursed,

On this Virádha will I wreak

As Indra splits the mountain peak.

Winged by this arm’s impetuous might

My shaft with deadly force

The monster in the chest shall smite,

And fell his shattered corse.”

Canto III. Virádha Attacked.

Virádha with a fearful shout

That echoed through the wood, cried out:

“What men are ye, I bid you say,

And whither would ye bend your way?”

To him whose mouth shot fiery flame

The hero told his race and name:

“Two Warriors, nobly bred, are we,

And through this wood we wander free.

But who art thou, how born and styled,

Who roamest here in Daṇḍak’s wild?”

To Ráma, bravest of the brave,

His answer thus Virádha gave:

“Hear, Raghu’s son, and mark me well,

And I my name and race will tell.

Of Śatahradá born, I spring

From Java as my sire, O King:

Me, of this lofty lineage, all

Giants on earth Virádha call.

The rites austere I long maintained

From Brahmá’s grace the boon have gained

To bear a charmed frame which ne’er

Weapon or shaft may pierce or tear.

Go as ye came, untouched by fear,

And leave with me this woman here:

Go, swiftly from my presence fly,

Or by this hand ye both shall die.”

Then Ráma with his fierce eyes red

With fury to the giant said:

“Woe to thee, sinner, fond and weak,

Who madly thus thy death wilt seek!

Stand, for it waits thee in the fray:

With life thou ne’er shalt flee away.”

He spoke, and raised the cord whereon

A pointed arrow flashed and shone,

Then, wild with anger, from his bow,

He launched the weapon on the foe.

Seven times the fatal cord he drew,

And forth seven rapid arrows flew,

Shafts winged with gold that left the wind

And e’en Suparṇa’s(406) self behind.

Full on the giant’s breast they smote,

And purpled like the peacock’s throat,

Passed through his mighty bulk and came

To earth again like flakes of flame.

The fiend the Maithil dame unclasped;

In his fierce hand his spear he grasped,

And wild with rage, pierced through and through,

At Ráma and his brother flew.

So loud the roar which chilled with fear,

So massy was the monster’s spear,

He seemed, like Indra’s flagstaff, dread

As the dark God who rules the dead.

On huge Virádha fierce as He(407)

Who smites, and worlds have ceased to be,

The princely brothers poured amain

Their fiery flood of arrowy rain.

Unmoved he stood, and opening wide

His dire mouth laughed unterrified,

And ever as the monster gaped

Those arrows from his jaws escaped.

Preserving still his life unharmed,

By Brahmá’s saving promise charmed,

His mighty spear aloft in air

He raised, and rushed upon the pair.

From Ráma’s bow two arrows flew

And cleft that massive spear in two,

Dire as the flaming levin sent

From out the cloudy firmament.

Cut by the shafts he guided well

To earth the giant’s weapon fell:

As when from Meru’s summit, riven

By fiery bolts, a rock is driven.

Then swift his sword each warrior drew,

Like a dread serpent black of hue,

And gathering fury for the blow

Rushed fiercely on the giant foe.

Around each prince an arm he cast,

And held the dauntless heroes fast:

Then, though his gashes gaped and bled,

Bearing the twain he turned and fled.

Then Ráma saw the giant’s plan,

And to his brother thus began:

“O Lakshmaṇ, let Virádha still

Hurry us onward as he will,

For look, Sumitrá’s son, he goes

Along the path we freely chose.”

He spoke: the rover of the night

Upraised them with terrific might,

Till, to his lofty shoulders swung,

Like children to his neck they clung.

Then sending far his fearful roar,

The princes through the wood he bore,—

A wood like some vast cloud to view,

Where birds of every plumage flew,

And mighty trees o’erarching threw

Dark shadows on the ground;

Where snakes and silvan creatures made

Their dwelling, and the jackal strayed

Through tangled brakes around.

Canto IV. Virádha’s Death.

But Sítá viewed with wild affright

The heroes hurried from her sight.

She tossed her shapely arms on high,

And shrieked aloud her bitter cry:

“Ah, the dread giant bears away

The princely Ráma as his prey,

Truthful and pure, and good and great,

And Lakshmaṇ shares his brother’s fate.

The brindled tiger and the bear

My mangled limbs for food will tear.

Take me, O best of giants, me,

And leave the sons of Raghu free.”

Then, by avenging fury spurred,

Her mournful cry the heroes heard,

And hastened, for the lady’s sake,

The wicked monster’s life to take.

Then Lakshmaṇ with resistless stroke

The foe’s left arm that held him broke,

And Ráma too, as swift to smite,

Smashed with his heavy hand the right.

With broken arms and tortured frame

To earth the fainting giant came,

Like a huge cloud, or mighty rock

Rent, sundered by the levin’s shock.

Then rushed they on, and crushed and beat

Their foe with arms and fists and feet,

And nerved each mighty limb to pound

And bray him on the level ground.

Keen arrows and each biting blade

Wide rents in breast and side had made;

But crushed and torn and mangled, still

The monster lived they could not kill.

When Ráma saw no arms might slay

The fiend who like a mountain lay,

The glorious hero, swift to save

In danger, thus his counsel gave:

“O Prince of men, his charmed life

No arms may take in battle strife:

Now dig we in this grove a pit

His elephantine bulk to fit,

And let the hollowed earth enfold

The monster of gigantic mould.”

This said, the son of Raghu pressed

His foot upon the giant’s breast.

With joy the prostrate monster heard

Victorious Ráma’s welcome word,

And straight Kakutstha’s son, the best

Of men, in words like these addressed:

“I yield, O chieftain, overthrown

By might that vies with Indra’s own.

Till now my folly-blinded eyes

Thee, hero, failed to recognize.

Happy Kauśalyá! blest to be

The mother of a son like thee!

I know thee well, O chieftain, now:

Ráma, the prince of men, art thou.

There stands the high-born Maithil dame,

There Lakshmaṇ, lord of mighty fame.

My name was Tumburu,(408) for song

Renowned among the minstrel throng:

Cursed by Kuvera’s stern decree

I wear the hideous shape you see.

But when I sued, his grace to crave,

The glorious God this answer gave:

“When Ráma, Daśaratha’s son,

Destroys thee and the fight is won,

Thy proper shape once more assume,

And heaven again shall give thee room.”

When thus the angry God replied,

No prayers could turn his wrath aside,

And thus on me his fury fell

For loving Rambhá’s(409) charms too well.

Now through thy favour am I freed

From the stern fate the God decreed,

And saved, O tamer of the foe,

By thee, to heaven again shall go.

A league, O Prince, beyond this spot

Stands holy Śarabhanga’s cot:

The very sun is not more bright

Than that most glorious anchorite:

To him, O Ráma, quickly turn,

And blessings from the hermit earn.

First under earth my body throw,

Then on thy way rejoicing go.

Such is the law ordained of old

For giants when their days are told:

Their bodies laid in earth, they rise

To homes eternal in the skies.”

Thus, by the rankling dart oppressed,

Kakutstha’s offspring he addressed:

In earth his mighty body lay,

His spirit fled to heaven away.

Thus spake Virádha ere he died;

And Ráma to his brother cried:

“Now dig we in this grove a pit

His elephantine bulk to fit.

And let the hollowed earth enfold

This mighty giant fierce and bold.”

This said, the valiant hero put

Upon the giant’s neck his foot.

His spade obedient Lakshmaṇ plied,

And dug a pit both deep and wide

By lofty souled Virádha’s side.

Then Raghu’s son his foot withdrew,

And down the mighty form they threw;

One awful shout of joy he gave

And sank into the open grave.

The heroes, to their purpose true,

In fight the cruel demon slew,

And radiant with delight

Deep in the hollowed earth they cast

The monster roaring to the last,

In their resistless might.

Thus when they saw the warrior’s steel

No life-destroying blow might deal,

The pair, for lore renowned,

Deep in the pit their hands had made

The unresisting giant laid,

And killed him neath the ground.

Upon himself the monster brought

From Ráma’s hand the death he sought

With strong desire to gain:

And thus the rover of the night

Told Ráma, as they strove in fight,

That swords might rend and arrows smite

Upon his breast in vain.

Thus Ráma, when his speech he heard,

The giant’s mighty form interred,

Which mortal arms defied.

With thundering crash the giant fell,

And rock and cave and forest dell

With echoing roar replied.

The princes, when their task was done

And freedom from the peril won,

Rejoiced to see him die.

Then in the boundless wood they strayed,

Like the great sun and moon displayed

Triumphant in the sky.(410)

Canto V. Sarabhanga.

Then Ráma, having slain in fight

Virádha of terrific might,

With gentle words his spouse consoled,

And clasped her in his loving hold.

Then to his brother nobly brave

The valiant prince his counsel gave:

“Wild are these woods around us spread;

And hard and rough the ground to tread:

We, O my brother, ne’er have viewed

So dark and drear a solitude:

To Śarabhanga let us haste,

Whom wealth of holy works has graced.”

Thus Ráma spoke, and took the road

To Śarabhanga’s pure abode.

But near that saint whose lustre vied

With Gods, by penance purified,

With startled eyes the prince beheld

A wondrous sight unparalleled.

In splendour like the fire and sun

He saw a great and glorious one.

Upon a noble car he rode,

And many a God behind him glowed:

And earth beneath his feet unpressed(411)

The monarch of the skies confessed.

Ablaze with gems, no dust might dim

The bright attire that covered him.

Arrayed like him, on every side

High saints their master glorified.

Near, borne in air, appeared in view

His car which tawny coursers drew,

Like silver cloud, the moon, or sun

Ere yet the day is well begun.

Wreathed with gay garlands, o’er his head

A pure white canopy was spread,

And lovely nymphs stood nigh to hold

Fair chouris with their sticks of gold,

Which, waving in each gentle hand,

The forehead of their monarch fanned.

God, saint, and bard, a radiant ring,

Sang glory to their heavenly King:

Forth into joyful lauds they burst

As Indra with the sage conversed.

Then Ráma, when his wondering eyes

Beheld the monarch of the skies,

To Lakshmaṇ quickly called, and showed

The car wherein Lord Indra rode:

“See, brother, see that air-borne car,

Whose wondrous glory shines afar:

Wherefrom so bright a lustre streams

That like a falling sun it seems:

These are the steeds whose fame we know,

Of heavenly race through heaven they go:

These are the steeds who bear the yoke

Of Śakra,(412) Him whom all invoke.

Behold these youths, a glorious band,

Toward every wind a hundred stand:

A sword in each right hand is borne,

And rings of gold their arms adorn.

What might in every broad deep chest

And club-like arm is manifest!

Clothed in attire of crimson hue

They show like tigers fierce to view.

Great chains of gold each warder deck,

Gleaming like fire beneath his neck.

The age of each fair youth appears

Some score and five of human years:

The ever-blooming prime which they

Who live in heaven retain for aye:

Such mien these lordly beings wear,

Heroic youths, most bright and fair.

Now, brother, in this spot, I pray,

With the Videhan lady stay,

Till I have certain knowledge who

This being is, so bright to view.”

He spoke, and turning from the spot

Sought Śarabhanga’s hermit cot.

But when the lord of Śachí(413) saw

The son of Raghu near him draw,

He hastened of the sage to take

His leave, and to his followers spake:

“See, Ráma bends his steps this way,

But ere he yet a word can say,

Come, fly to our celestial sphere;

It is not meet he see me here.

Soon victor and triumphant he

In fitter time shall look on me.

Before him still a great emprise,

A task too hard for others, lies.”

Then with all marks of honour high

The Thunderer bade the saint good-bye,

And in his car which coursers drew

Away to heaven the conqueror flew.

Then Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and the dame,

To Śarabhanga nearer came,

Who sat beside the holy flame.

Before the ancient sage they bent,

And clasped his feet most reverent;

Then at his invitation found

A seat beside him on the ground.

Then Ráma prayed the sage would deign

Lord Indra’s visit to explain;

And thus at length the holy man

In answer to his prayer began:

“This Lord of boons has sought me here

To waft me hence to Brahmá’s sphere,

Won by my penance long and stern,—

A home the lawless ne’er can earn.

But when I knew that thou wast nigh,

To Brahmá’s world I could not fly

Until these longing eyes were blest

With seeing thee, mine honoured guest.

Since thou, O Prince, hast cheered my sight,

Great-hearted lover of the right,

To heavenly spheres will I repair

And bliss supreme that waits me there.

For I have won, dear Prince, my way

To those fair worlds which ne’er decay,

Celestial seat of Brahmá’s reign:

Be thine, with me, those worlds to gain.”

Then master of all sacred lore,

Spake Ráma to the saint once more:

“I, even I, illustrious sage,

Will make those worlds mine heritage:

But now, I pray, some home assign

Within this holy grove of thine.”

Thus Ráma, Indra’s peer in might,

Addressed the aged anchorite:

And he, with wisdom well endued,

To Raghu’s son his speech renewed:

“Sutíkshṇa’s woodland home is near,

A glorious saint of life austere,

True to the path of duty; he

With highest bliss will prosper thee.

Against the stream thy course must be

Of this fair brook Mandákiní,

Whereon light rafts like blossoms glide;

Then to his cottage turn aside.

There lies thy path: but ere thou go,

Look on me, dear one, till I throw

Aside this mould that girds me in,

As casts the snake his withered skin.”

He spoke, the fire in order laid

With holy oil due offerings made,

And Śarabhanga, glorious sire,

Laid down his body in the fire.

Then rose the flame above his head,

On skin, blood, flesh, and bones it fed,

Till forth, transformed, with radiant hue

Of tender youth, he rose anew,

Far-shining in his bright attire

Came Śarabhanga from the pyre:

Above the home of saints, and those

Who feed the quenchless flame,(414) he rose:

Beyond the seat of Gods he passed,

And Brahmá’s sphere was gained at last.

The noblest of the twice-born race,

For holy works supreme in place,

The Mighty Father there beheld

Girt round by hosts unparalleled;

And Brahmá joying at the sight

Welcomed the glorious anchorite.

Canto VI. Ráma’s Promise.

When he his heavenly home had found,

The holy men who dwelt around

To Ráma flocked, whose martial fame

Shone glorious as the kindled flame:

Vaikhánasas(415) who love the wild,

Pure hermits Bálakhilyas(416) styled,

Good Samprakshálas,(417) saints who live

On rays which moon and daystar give:

Those who with leaves their lives sustain

And those who pound with stones their grain:

And they who lie in pools, and those

Whose corn, save teeth, no winnow knows:

Those who for beds the cold earth use,

And those who every couch refuse:

And those condemned to ceaseless pains,

Whose single foot their weight sustains:

And those who sleep neath open skies,

Whose food the wave or air supplies,

And hermits pure who spend their nights

On ground prepared for sacred rites;

Those who on hills their vigil hold,

Or dripping clothes around them fold:

The devotees who live for prayer,

Or the five fires(418) unflinching bear.

On contemplation all intent,

With light that heavenly knowledge lent,

They came to Ráma, saint and sage,

In Śarabhanga’s hermitage.

The hermit crowd around him pressed,

And thus the virtuous chief addressed:

“The lordship of the earth is thine,

O Prince of old Ikshváku’s line.

Lord of the Gods is Indra, so

Thou art our lord and guide below.

Thy name, the glory of thy might,

Throughout the triple world are bright:

Thy filial love so nobly shown,

Thy truth and virtue well are known.

To thee, O lord, for help we fly,

And on thy love of right rely:

With kindly patience hear us speak,

And grant the boon we humbly seek.

That lord of earth were most unjust,

Foul traitor to his solemn trust,

Who should a sixth of all(419) require,

Nor guard his people like a sire.

But he who ever watchful strives

To guard his subjects’ wealth and lives,

Dear as himself or, dearer still,

His sons, with earnest heart and will,—

That king, O Raghu’s son, secures

High fame that endless years endures,

And he to Brahmá’s world shall rise,

Made glorious in the eternal skies.

Whate’er, by duty won, the meed

Of saints whom roots and berries feed,

One fourth thereof, for tender care

Of subjects, is the monarch’s share.

These, mostly of the Bráhman race,

Who make the wood their dwelling-place,

Although a friend in thee they view,

Fall friendless neath the giant crew.

Come, Ráma, come, and see hard by

The holy hermits’ corpses lie,

Where many a tangled pathway shows

The murderous work of cruel foes.

These wicked fiends the hermits kill—

Who live on Chitrakúṭa’s hill,

And blood of slaughtered saints has dyed

Mandákiní and Pampá’s side.

No longer can we bear to see

The death of saint and devotee

Whom through the forest day by day

These Rákshasas unpitying slay.

To thee, O Prince, we flee, and crave

Thy guardian help our lives to save.

From these fierce rovers of the night

Defend each stricken anchorite.

Throughout the world ’twere vain to seek

An arm like thine to aid the weak.

O Prince, we pray thee hear our call,

And from these fiends preserve us all.”

The son of Raghu heard the plaint

Of penance-loving sage and saint,

And the good prince his speech renewed

To all the hermit multitude:

“To me, O saints, ye need not sue:

I wait the hests of all of you.

I by mine own occasion led

This mighty forest needs must tread,

And while I keep my sire’s decree

Your lives from threatening foes will free.

I hither came of free accord

To lend the aid by you implored,

And richest meed my toil shall pay,

While here in forest shades I stay.

I long in battle strife to close.

And slay these fiends, the hermits’ foes,

That saint and sage may learn aright

My prowess and my brother’s might.”

Thus to the saints his promise gave

That prince who still to virtue clave

With never-wandering thought:

And then with Lakshmaṇ by his side,

With penance-wealthy men to guide,

Sutíkshṇa’s home he sought.

Canto VII. Sutíkshna.

So Raghu’s son, his foemen’s dread,

With Sítá and his brother sped,

Girt round by many a twice-born sage,

To good Sutíkshṇa’s hermitage.(420)

Through woods for many a league he passed,

O’er rushing rivers full and fast,

Until a mountain fair and bright

As lofty Meru rose in sight.

Within its belt of varied wood

Ikshváku’s sons and Sítá stood,

Where trees of every foliage bore

Blossom and fruit in endless store.

There coats of bark, like garlands strung,

Before a lonely cottage hung,

And there a hermit, dust-besmeared,

A lotus on his breast, appeared.

Then Ráma with obeisance due

Addressed the sage, as near he drew:

“My name is Ráma, lord; I seek

Thy presence, saint, with thee to speak.

O sage, whose merits ne’er decay,

Some word unto thy servant say.”

The sage his eyes on Ráma bent,

Of virtue’s friends preëminent;

Then words like these he spoke, and pressed

The son of Raghu to his breast:

“Welcome to thee, illustrious youth,

Best champion of the rights of truth!

By thine approach this holy ground

A worthy lord this day has found.

I could not quit this mortal frame

Till thou shouldst come, O dear to fame:

To heavenly spheres I would not rise,

Expecting thee with eager eyes.

I knew that thou, unkinged, hadst made

Thy home in Chitrakúṭa’s shade.

E’en now, O Ráma, Indra, lord

Supreme by all the Gods adored,

King of the Hundred Offerings,(421) said,

When he my dwelling visited,

That the good works that I have done

My choice of all the worlds have won.

Accept this meed of holy vows,

And with thy brother and thy spouse,

Roam, through my favour, in the sky

Which saints celestial glorify.”

To that bright sage, of penance stern,

The high-souled Ráma spake in turn,

As Vásava(422) who rules the skies

To Brahmá’s gracious speech replies:

“I of myself those worlds will win,

O mighty hermit pure from sin:

But now, O saint, I pray thee tell

Where I within this wood may dwell:

For I by Śarabhanga old,

The son of Gautama, was told

That thou in every lore art wise,

And seest all with loving eyes.”

Thus to the saint, whose glories high

Filled all the world, he made reply:

And thus again the holy man

His pleasant speech with joy began:

“This calm retreat, O Prince, is blest

With many a charm: here take thy rest.

Here roots and kindly fruits abound,

And hermits love the holy ground.

Fair silvan beasts and gentle deer

In herds unnumbered wander here:

And as they roam, secure from harm,

Our eyes with grace and beauty charm:

Except the beasts in thickets bred,

This grove of ours has naught to dread.”

The hermit’s speech when Ráma heard,—

The hero ne’er by terror stirred,—

On his great bow his hand he laid,

And thus in turn his answer made:

“O saint, my darts of keenest steel,

Armed with their murderous barbs, would deal

Destruction mid the silvan race

That flocks around thy dwelling-place.

Most wretched then my fate would be

For such dishonour shown to thee:

And only for the briefest stay

Would I within this grove delay.”

He spoke and ceased. With pious care

He turned him to his evening prayer,

Performed each customary rite,

And sought his lodging for the night,

With Sítá and his brother laid

Beneath the grove’s delightful shade,

First good Sutíkshṇa, as elsewhere, when he saw

The shades of night around them draw,

With hospitable care

The princely chieftains entertained

With store of choicest food ordained

For holy hermit’s fare.

Canto VIII. The Hermitage.

So Ráma and Sumitrá’s son,

When every honour due was done,

Slept through the night. When morning broke,

The heroes from their rest awoke.

Betimes the son of Raghu rose,

With gentle Sítá, from repose,

And sipped the cool delicious wave

Sweet with the scent the lotus gave,

Then to the Gods and sacred flame

The heroes and the lady came,

And bent their heads in honour meet

Within the hermit’s pure retreat.

When every stain was purged away,

They saw the rising Lord of Day:

Then to Sutíkshṇa’s side they went,

And softly spoke, most reverent:

“Well have we slept, O holy lord,

Honoured of thee by all adored:

Now leave to journey forth we pray:

These hermits urge us on our way.

We haste to visit, wandering by,

The ascetics’ homes that round you lie,

And roaming Daṇḍak’s mighty wood

To view each saintly brotherhood,

For thy permission now we sue,

With these high saints to duty true,

By penance taught each sense to tame,—

In lustre like the smokeless flame.

Ere on our brows the sun can beat

With fierce intolerable heat.

Like some unworthy lord who wins

His power by tyranny and sins,

O saint, we fain would part.” The three

Bent humbly to the devotee.

He raised the princes as they pressed

His feet, and strained them to his breast;

And then the chief of devotees

Bespake them both in words like these:

“Go with thy brother, Ráma, go,

Pursue thy path untouched by woe:

Go with thy faithful Sítá, she

Still like a shadow follows thee.

Roam Daṇḍak wood observing well

The pleasant homes where hermits dwell,—

Pure saints whose ordered souls adhere

To penance rites and vows austere.

There plenteous roots and berries grow,

And noble trees their blossoms show,

And gentle deer and birds of air

In peaceful troops are gathered there.

There see the full-blown lotus stud

The bosom of the lucid flood,

And watch the joyous mallard shake

The reeds that fringe the pool and lake.

See with delighted eye the rill

Leap sparkling from her parent hill,

And hear the woods that round thee lie

Reëcho to the peacock’s cry.

And as I bid thy brother, so,

Sumitrá’s child, I bid thee go.

Go forth, these varied beauties see,

And then once more return to me.”

Thus spake the sage Sutíkshṇa: both

The chiefs assented, nothing loth,

Round him with circling steps they paced,

Then for the road prepared with haste.

There Sítá stood, the dame long-eyed,

Fair quivers round their waists she tied,

And gave each prince his trusty bow,

And sword which ne’er a spot might know.

Each took his quiver from her hand.

And clanging bow and gleaming brand:

Then from the hermits’ home the two

Went forth each woodland scene to view.

Each beauteous in the bloom of age,

Dismissed by that illustrious sage,

With bow and sword accoutred, hied

Away, and Sítá by their side.

Canto IX. Sítá’s Speech.

Blest by the sage, when Raghu’s son

His onward journey had begun,

Thus in her soft tone Sítá, meek

With modest fear, began to speak:

“One little slip the great may lead

To shame that follows lawless deed:

Such shame, my lord, as still must cling

To faults from low desire that spring.

Three several sins defile the soul,

Born of desire that spurns control:

First, utterance of a lying word,

Then, viler both, the next, and third:

The lawless love of other’s wife,

The thirst of blood uncaused by strife.

The first, O Raghu’s son, in thee

None yet has found, none e’er shall see.

Love of another’s dame destroys

All merit, lost for guilty joys:

Ráma, such crime in thee, I ween,

Has ne’er been found, shall ne’er be seen:

The very thought, my princely lord,

Is in thy secret soul abhorred.

For thou hast ever been the same

Fond lover of thine own dear dame,

Content with faithful heart to do

Thy father’s will, most just and true:

Justice, and faith, and many a grace

In thee have found a resting-place.

Such virtues, Prince, the good may gain

Who empire o’er each sense retain;

And well canst thou, with loving view

Regarding all, each sense subdue.

But for the third, the lust that strives,

Insatiate still, for others’ lives,—

Fond thirst of blood where hate is none,—

This, O my lord, thou wilt not shun.

Thou hast but now a promise made,

The saints of Daṇḍak wood to aid:

And to protect their lives from ill

The giants’ blood in tight wilt spill:

And from thy promise lasting fame

Will glorify the forest’s name.

Armed with thy bow and arrows thou

Forth with thy brother journeyest now,

While as I think how true thou art

Fears for thy bliss assail my heart,

And all my spirit at the sight

Is troubled with a strange affright.

I like it not—it seems not good—

Thy going thus to Daṇḍak wood:

And I, if thou wilt mark me well,

The reason of my fear will tell.

Thou with thy brother, bow in hand,

Beneath those ancient trees wilt stand,

And thy keen arrows will not spare

Wood-rovers who will meet thee there.

For as the fuel food supplies

That bids the dormant flame arise,

Thus when the warrior grasps his bow

He feels his breast with ardour glow.

Deep in a holy grove, of yore,

Where bird and beast from strife forbore,

Śuchi beneath the sheltering boughs,

A truthful hermit kept his vows.

Then Indra, Śachí’s heavenly lord,

Armed like a warrior with a sword,

Came to his tranquil home to spoil

The hermit of his holy toil,

And left the glorious weapon there

Entrusted to the hermit’s care,

A pledge for him to keep, whose mind

To fervent zeal was all resigned.

He took the brand: with utmost heed

He kept it for the warrior’s need:

To keep his trust he fondly strove

When roaming in the neighbouring grove:

Whene’er for roots and fruit he strayed

Still by his side he bore the blade:

Still on his sacred charge intent,

He took his treasure when he went.

As day by day that brand he wore,

The hermit, rich in merit’s store

From penance rites each thought withdrew,

And fierce and wild his spirit grew.

With heedless soul he spurned the right,

And found in cruel deeds delight.

So, living with the sword, he fell,

A ruined hermit, down to hell.

This tale applies to those who deal

Too closely with the warrior’s steel:

The steel to warriors is the same

As fuel to the smouldering flame.

Sincere affection prompts my speech:

I honour where I fain would teach.

Mayst thou, thus armed with shaft and bow,

So dire a longing never know

As, when no hatred prompts the fray,

These giants of the wood to slay:

For he who kills without offence

Shall win but little glory thence.

The bow the warrior joys to bend

Is lent him for a nobler end,

That he may save and succour those

Who watch in woods when pressed by foes.

What, matched with woods, is bow or steel?

What, warrior’s arm with hermit’s zeal?

We with such might have naught to do:

The forest rule should guide us too.

But when Ayodhyá hails thee lord,

Be then thy warrior life restored:

So shall thy sire(423) and mother joy

In bliss that naught may e’er destroy.

And if, resigning empire, thou

Submit thee to the hermit’s vow,

The noblest gain from virtue springs,

And virtue joy unending brings.

All earthly blessings virtue sends:

On virtue all the world depends.

Those who with vow and fasting tame

To due restraint the mind and frame,

Win by their labour, nobly wise,

The highest virtue for their prize.

Pure in the hermit’s grove remain,

True to thy duty, free from stain.

But the three worlds are open thrown

To thee, by whom all things are known.

Who gave me power that I should dare

His duty to my lord declare?

’Tis woman’s fancy, light as air,

That moves my foolish breast.

Now with thy brother counsel take,

Reflect, thy choice with judgment make,

And do what seems the best.”

Canto X. Ráma’s Reply.

The words that Sítá uttered, spurred

By truest love, the hero heard:

Then he who ne’er from virtue strayed

To Janak’s child his answer made:

“In thy wise speech, sweet love, I find

True impress of thy gentle mind,

Well skilled the warrior’s path to trace,

Thou pride of Janak’s ancient race.

What fitting answer shall I frame

To thy good words, my honoured dame?

Thou sayst the warrior bears the bow

That misery’s tears may cease to flow;

And those pure saints who love the shade

Of Daṇḍak wood are sore dismayed.

They sought me of their own accord,

With suppliant prayers my aid implored:

They, fed on roots and fruit, who spend

Their lives where bosky wilds extend,

My timid love, enjoy no rest

By these malignant fiends distressed.

These make the flesh of man their meat:

The helpless saints they kill and eat.

The hermits sought my side, the chief

Of Bráhman race declared their grief.

I heard, and from my lips there fell

The words which thou rememberest well:

I listened as the hermits cried,

And to their prayers I thus replied:

“Your favour, gracious lords, I claim,

O’erwhelmed with this enormous shame

That Bráhmans, great and pure as you,

Who should be sought, to me should sue.”

And then before the saintly crowd,

“What can I do?” I cried aloud.

Then from the trembling hermits broke

One long sad cry, and thus they spoke:

“Fiends of the wood, who wear at will

Each varied shape, afflict us still.

To thee in our distress we fly:

O help us, Ráma, or we die.

When sacred rites of fire are due,

When changing moons are full or new,

These fiends who bleeding flesh devour

Assail us with resistless power.

They with their cruel might torment

The hermits on their vows intent:

We look around for help and see

Our surest refuge, Prince, in thee.

We, armed with powers of penance, might

Destroy the rovers of the night:

But loth were we to bring to naught

The merit years of toil have bought.

Our penance rites are grown too hard,

By many a check and trouble barred,

But though our saints for food are slain

The withering curse we yet restrain.

Thus many a weary day distressed

By giants who this wood infest,

We see at length deliverance, thou

With Lakshmaṇ art our guardian now.”

As thus the troubled hermits prayed,

I promised, dame, my ready aid,

And now—for truth I hold most dear—

Still to my word must I adhere.

My love, I might endure to be

Deprived of Lakshmaṇ, life, and thee,

But ne’er deny my promise, ne’er

To Bráhmans break the oath I sware.

I must, enforced by high constraint,

Protect them all. Each suffering saint

In me, unasked, his help had found;

Still more in one by promise bound.

I know thy words, mine own dear dame,

From thy sweet heart’s affection came:

I thank thee for thy gentle speech,

For those we love are those we teach.

’Tis like thyself, O fair of face,

’Tis worthy of thy noble race:

Dearer than life, thy feet are set

In righteous paths they ne’er forget.”

Thus to the Maithil monarch’s child,

His own dear wife, in accents mild

The high-souled hero said:

Then to the holy groves which lay

Beyond them fair to see, their way

The bow-armed chieftain led.

Canto XI. Agastya.

Ráma went foremost of the three,

Next Sítá, followed, fair to see,

And Lakshmaṇ with his bow in hand

Walked hindmost of the little band.

As onward through the wood they went,

With great delight their eyes were bent

On rocky heights beside the way

And lofty trees with blossoms gay;

And streamlets running fair and fast

The royal youths with Sítá passed.

They watched the sáras and the drake

On islets of the stream and lake,

And gazed delighted on the floods

Bright with gay birds and lotus buds.

They saw in startled herds the roes,

The passion-frenzied buffaloes,

Wild elephants who fiercely tore

The tender trees, and many a boar.

A length of woodland way they passed,

And when the sun was low at last

A lovely stream-fed lake they spied,

Two leagues across from side to side.

Tall elephants fresh beauty gave

To grassy bank and lilied wave,

By many a swan and sáras stirred,

Mallard, and gay-winged water-bird.

From those sweet waters, loud and long,

Though none was seen to wake the song,

Swelled high the singer’s music blent

With each melodious instrument.

Ráma and car-borne Lakshmaṇ heard

The charming strain, with wonder stirred,

Turned on the margent of the lake

To Dharmabhrit(424) the sage, and spake:

“Our longing souls, O hermit, burn

This music of the lake to learn:

We pray thee, noblest sage, explain

The cause of the mysterious strain.”

He, as the son of Raghu prayed,

With swift accord his answer made,

And thus the hermit, virtuous-souled,

The story of the fair lake told:

“Through every age ’tis known to fame,

Panchápsaras(425) its glorious name,

By holy Máṇḍakarṇi wrought

With power his rites austere had bought.

For he, great votarist, intent

On strictest rule his stern life spent.

Ten thousand years the stream his bed,

Ten thousand years on air he fed.

Then on the blessed Gods who dwell

In heavenly homes great terror fell:

They gathered all, by Agni led,

And counselled thus disquieted:

“The hermit by ascetic pain

The seat of one of us would gain.”

Thus with their hearts by fear oppressed

In full assembly spoke the Blest,

And bade five loveliest nymphs, as fair

As lightning in the evening air,

Armed with their winning wiles, seduce

From his stern vows the great recluse.

Though lore of earth and heaven he knew,

The hermit from his task they drew,

And made the great ascetic slave

To conquering love, the Gods to save.

Each of the heavenly five became,

Bound to the sage, his wedded dame;

And he, for his beloved’s sake,

Formed a fair palace neath the lake.

Under the flood the ladies live,

To joy and ease their days they give,

And lap in bliss the hermit wooed

From penance rites to youth renewed.

So when the sportive nymphs within

Those secret bowers their play begin,

You hear the singers’ dulcet tones

Blend sweetly with their tinkling zones.”

“How wondrous are these words of thine!”

Cried the famed chiefs of Raghu’s line,

As thus they heard the sage unfold

The marvels of the tale he told.

As Ráma spake, his eyes were bent

Upon a hermit settlement

With light of heavenly lore endued,

With sacred grass and vesture strewed.

His wife and brother by his side,

Within the holy bounds he hied,

And there, with honour entertained

By all the saints, a while remained.

In time, by due succession led,

Each votary’s cot he visited,

And then the lord of martial lore,

Returned where he had lodged before.

Here for the months, content, he stayed,

There for a year his visit paid:

Here for four months his home would fix,

There, as it chanced, for five or six.

Here for eight months and there for three

The son of Raghu’s stay would be:

Here weeks, there fortnights, more or less,

He spent in tranquil happiness.

As there the hero dwelt at ease

Among those holy devotees,

In days untroubled o’er his head

Ten circling years of pleasure fled.

So Raghu’s son in duty trained

A while in every cot remained,

Then with his dame retraced the road

To good Sutíkshṇa’s calm abode.

Hailed by the saints with honours due

Near to the hermit’s home he drew,

And there the tamer of his foes

Dwelt for a time in sweet repose.

One day within that holy wood

By saint Sutíkshṇa Ráma stood,

And thus the prince with reverence meek

To that high sage began to speak:

“In the wide woodlands that extend

Around us, lord most reverend,

As frequent voice of rumour tells,

Agastya, saintliest hermit, dwells.

So vast the wood, I cannot trace

The path to reach his dwelling place,

Nor, searching unassisted, find

That hermit of the thoughtful mind.

I with my wife and brother fain

Would go, his favour to obtain,

Would seek him in his lone retreat

And the great saint with reverence greet.

This one desire, O Master, long

Cherished within my heart, is strong,

That I may pay of free accord

My duty to that hermit lord.”

As thus the prince whose heart was bent

On virtue told his firm intent,

The good Sutíkshṇa’s joy rose high,

And thus in turn he made reply:

“The very thing, O Prince, which thou

Hast sought, I wished to urge but now,

Bid thee with wife and brother see

Agastya, glorious devotee.

I count this thing an omen fair

That thou shouldst thus thy wish declare,

And I, my Prince, will gladly teach

The way Agastya’s home to reach.

Southward, dear son, direct thy feet

Eight leagues beyond this still retreat:

Agastya’s hermit brother there

Dwells in a home most bright and fair.

’Tis on a knoll of woody ground,

With many a branching Pippal(426) crowned:

There sweet birds’ voices ne’er are mute,

And trees are gay with flower and fruit.

There many a lake gleams bright and cool,

And lilies deck each pleasant pool,

While swan, and crane, and mallard’s wings

Are lovely in the water-springs.

There for one night, O Ráma, stay,

And with the dawn pursue thy way.

Still farther, bending southward, by

The thicket’s edge the course must lie,

And thou wilt see, two leagues from thence

Agastya’s lovely residence,

Set in the woodland’s fairest spot,

All varied foliage decks the cot:

There Sítá, Lakshmaṇ thou, at ease

May spend sweet hours neath shady trees,

For all of noblest growth are found

Luxuriant on that bosky ground.

If it be still thy firm intent

To see that saint preëminent,

O mighty counsellor, this day

Depart upon thine onward way.”

The hermit spake, and Ráma bent

His head, with Lakshmaṇ, reverent,

And then with him and Janak’s child

Set out to trace the forest wild.

He saw dark woods that fringed the road,

And distant hills like clouds that showed,

And, as the way he followed, met

With many a lake and rivulet.

So passing on with ease where led

The path Sutíkshṇa bade him tread,

The hero with exulting breast

His brother in these words addressed:

“Here, surely, is the home, in sight,

Of that illustrious anchorite:

Here great Agastya’s brother leads

A life intent on holy deeds.

Warned of each guiding mark and sign,

I see them all herein combine:

I see the branches bending low

Beneath the flowers and fruit they show.

A soft air from the forest springs,

Fresh from the odorous grass, and brings

A spicy fragrance as it flees

O’er the ripe fruit of Pippal trees.

See, here and there around us high

Piled up in heaps cleft billets lie,

And holy grass is gathered, bright

As strips of shining lazulite.

Full in the centre of the shade

The hermits’ holy fire is laid:

I see its smoke the pure heaven streak

Dense as a big cloud’s dusky peak.

The twice-born men their steps retrace

From each sequestered bathing-place,

And each his sacred gift has brought

Of blossoms which his hands have sought.

Of all these signs, dear brother, each

Agrees with good Sutíkshṇa’s speech,

And doubtless in this holy bound

Agastya’s brother will be found.

Agastya once, the worlds who viewed

With love, a Deathlike fiend subdued,

And armed with mighty power, obtained

By holy works, this grove ordained

To be a refuge and defence

From all oppressors’ violence.

In days of yore within this place

Two brothers fierce of demon race,

Vátápi dire and Ilval, dwelt,

And slaughter mid the Bráhmans dealt.

A Bráhman’s form, the fiend to cloak,

Fierce Ilval wore, and Sanskrit spoke,

And twice-born sages would invite

To solemnize some funeral rite.

His brother’s flesh, concealed within

A ram’s false shape and borrowed skin,—

As men are wont at funeral feasts,—

He dressed and fed those gathered priests.

The holy men, unweeting ill,

Took of the food and ate their fill.

Then Ilval with a mighty shout

Exclaimed “Vátápi, issue out.”

Soon as his brother’s voice he heard,

The fiend with ram-like bleating stirred:

Rending in pieces every frame,

Forth from the dying priests he came.

So they who changed their forms at will

Thousands of Bráhmans dared to kill,—

Fierce fiends who loved each cruel deed,

And joyed on bleeding flesh to feed.

Agastya, mighty hermit, pressed

To funeral banquet like the rest,

Obedient to the Gods’ appeal

Ate up the monster at a meal.

“’Tis done, ’tis done,” fierce Ilval cried,

And water for his hands supplied:

Then lifting up his voice he spake:

“Forth, brother, from thy prison break.”

Then him who called the fiend, who long

Had wrought the suffering Bráhmans wrong,

Thus thoughtful-souled Agastya, best

Of hermits, with a smile addressed:

“How, Rákshas, is the fiend empowered

To issue forth whom I devoured?

Thy brother in a ram’s disguise

Is gone where Yáma’s kingdom lies.”

When from the words Agastya said

He knew his brother fiend was dead,

His soul on fire with vengeful rage,

Rushed the night-rover at the sage.

One lightning glance of fury, hot

As fire, the glorious hermit shot,

As the fiend neared him in his stride,

And straight, consumed to dust, he died.

In pity for the Bráhmans’ plight

Agastya wrought this deed of might:

This grove which lakes and fair trees grace

In his great brother’s dwelling place.”

As Ráma thus the tale rehearsed,

And with Sumitrá’s son conversed,

The setting sun his last rays shed,

And evening o’er the land was spread.

A while the princely brothers stayed

And even rites in order paid,

Then to the holy grove they drew

And hailed the saint with honour due.

With courtesy was Ráma met

By that illustrious anchoret,

And for one night he rested there

Regaled with fruit and hermit fare.

But when the night had reached its close,

And the sun’s glorious circle rose,

The son of Raghu left his bed

And to the hermit’s brother said:

“Well rested in thy hermit cell,

I stand, O saint, to bid farewell;

For with thy leave I journey hence

Thy brother saint to reverence.”

“Go, Ráma go,” the sage replied:

Then from the cot the chieftain hied.

And while the pleasant grove he viewed,

The path the hermit showed, pursued.

Of every leaf, of changing hue.

Plants, trees by hundreds round him grew,

With joyous eyes he looked on all,

Then Jak,(427) the wild rice, and Sál;(428)

He saw the red Hibiscus glow,

He saw the flower-tipped creeper throw

The glory of her clusters o’er

Tall trees that loads of blossom bore.

Some, elephants had prostrate laid,

In some the monkeys leapt and played,

And through the whole wide forest rang

The charm of gay birds as they sang.

Then Ráma of the lotus eye

To Lakshmaṇ turned who followed nigh,

And thus the hero youth impressed

With Fortune’s favouring signs, addressed:

“How soft the leaves of every tree,

How tame each bird and beast we see!

Soon the fair home shall we behold

Of that great hermit tranquil-souled.

The deed the good Agastya wrought

High fame throughout the world has bought:

I see, I see his calm retreat

That balms the pain of weary feet.

Where white clouds rise from flames beneath,

Where bark-coats lie with many a wreath,

Where silvan things, made gentle, throng,

And every bird is loud in song.

With ruth for suffering creatures filled,

A deathlike fiend with might he killed,

And gave this southern realm to be

A refuge, from oppression free.

There stands his home, whose dreaded might

Has put the giant crew to flight,

Who view with envious eyes afar

The peaceful shades they cannot mar.

Since that most holy saint has made

His dwelling in this lovely shade,

Checked by his might the giant brood

Have dwelt in peace with souls subdued.

And all this southern realm, within

Whose bounds no fiend may entrance win,

Now bears a name which naught may dim,

Made glorious through the worlds by him.

When Vindhya, best of hills, would stay

The journey of the Lord of Day,

Obedient to the saint’s behest

He bowed for aye his humbled crest.

That hoary hermit, world-renowned

For holy deeds, within this ground

Has set his pure and blessed home,

Where gentle silvan creatures roam.

Agastya, whom the worlds revere,

Pure saint to whom the good are dear,

To us his guests all grace will show,

Enriched with blessings ere we go.

I to this aim each thought will turn,

The favour of the saint to earn,

That here in comfort may be spent

The last years of our banishment.

Here sanctities and high saints stand,

Gods, minstrels of the heavenly band;

Upon Agastya’s will they wait,

And serve him, pure and temperate.

The liar’s tongue, the tyrant’s mind

Within these bounds no home may find:

No cheat, no sinner here can be:

So holy and so good is he.

Here birds and lords of serpent race,

Spirits and Gods who haunt the place,

Content with scanty fare remain,

As merit’s meed they strive to gain.

Made perfect here, the saints supreme,

On cars that mock the Day-God’s gleam,—

Their mortal bodies cast aside,—

Sought heaven transformed and glorified,

Here Gods to living things, who win

Their favour, pure from cruel sin,

Give royal rule and many a good,

Immortal life and spirithood.

Now, Lakshmaṇ, we are near the place:

Do thou precede a little space,

And tell the mighty saint that I

With Sítá at my side am nigh.”

Canto XII. The Heavenly Bow.

He spoke: the younger prince obeyed:

Within the bounds his way he made,

And thus addressed, whom first he met,

A pupil of the anchoret:

“Brave Ráma, eldest born, who springs,

From Daśaratha, hither brings

His wife the lady Sítá: he

Would fain the holy hermit see.

Lakshmaṇ am I—if happy fame

E’er to thine ears has brought the name—

His younger brother, prompt to do

His will, devoted, fond, and true.

We, through our royal sire’s decree,

To the dread woods were forced to flee.

Tell the great Master, I entreat,

Our earnest wish our lord to greet.”

He spoke: the hermit rich in store

Of fervid zeal and sacred lore,

Sought the pure shrine which held the fire,

To bear his message to the sire.

Soon as he reached the saint most bright

In sanctity’s surpassing might,

He cried, uplifting reverent hands:

“Lord Ráma near thy cottage stands.”

Then spoke Agastya’s pupil dear

The message for his lord to hear:

“Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, chiefs who spring

From Daśaratha, glorious king,

Thy hermitage e’en now have sought,

And lady Sítá with them brought.

The tamers of the foe are here

To see thee, Master, and revere.

’Tis thine thy further will to say:

Deign to command, and we obey.”

When from his pupil’s lips he knew

The presence of the princely two,

And Sítá born to fortune high.

The glorious hermit made reply:

“Great joy at last is mine this day

That Ráma hither finds his way,

For long my soul has yearned to see

The prince who comes to visit me.

Go forth, go forth, and hither bring

The royal three with welcoming:

Lead Ráma in and place him near:

Why stands he not already here?”

Thus ordered by the hermit, who,

Lord of his thought, all duty knew,

His reverent hands together laid,

The pupil answered and obeyed.

Forth from the place with speed he ran,

To Lakshmaṇ came and thus began:

“Where is he? let not Ráma wait,

But speed, the sage to venerate.”

Then with the pupil Lakshmaṇ went

Across the hermit settlement,

And showed him Ráma where he stood

With Janak’s daughter in the wood.

The pupil then his message spake

Which the kind hermit bade him take;

Then led the honoured Ráma thence

And brought him in with reverence.

As nigh the royal Ráma came

With Lakshmaṇ and the Maithil dame,

He viewed the herds of gentle deer

Roaming the garden free from fear.

As through the sacred grove he trod

He viewed the seat of many a God,

Brahmá and Agni,(429) Sun and Moon,

And His who sends each golden boon;(430)

Here Vishṇu’s stood, there Bhaga’s(431) shrine,

And there Mahendra’s, Lord divine;

Here His who formed this earthly frame,(432)

His there from whom all beings came.(433)

Váyu’s,(434) and His who loves to hold

The great noose, Varuṇ(435) mighty-souled:

Here was the Vasus’(436) shrine to see,

Here that of sacred Gáyatrí,(437)

The king of serpents(438) here had place,

And he who rules the feathered race.(439)

Here Kártikeya,(440) warrior lord,

And there was Justice King adored.

Then with disciples girt about

The mighty saint himself came out:

Through fierce devotion bright as flame

Before the rest the Master came:

And then to Lakshmaṇ, fortune blest,

Ráma these hasty words addressed:

“Behold, Agastya’s self draws near,

The mighty saint, whom all revere:

With spirit raised I meet my lord

With richest wealth of penance stored.”

The strong-armed hero spake, and ran

Forward to meet the sunbright man.

Before him, as he came, he bent

And clasped his feet most reverent,

Then rearing up his stately height

Stood suppliant by the anchorite,

While Lakshmaṇ’s strength and Sítá’s grace

Stood by the pride of Raghu’s race.

The sage his arms round Ráma threw

And welcomed him with honours due,

Asked, was all well, with question sweet,

And bade the hero to a seat.

With holy oil he fed the flame,

He brought the gifts which strangers claim,

And kindly waiting on the three

With honours due to high degree,

He gave with hospitable care

A simple hermit’s woodland fare.

Then sat the reverend father, first

Of hermits, deep in duty versed.

And thus to suppliant Ráma, bred

In all the lore of virtue, said:

“Did the false hermit, Prince, neglect

To hail his guest with due respect,

He must,—the doom the perjured meet,—

His proper flesh hereafter eat.

A car-borne king, a lord who sways

The earth, and virtue’s law obeys,

Worthy of highest honour, thou

Hast sought, dear guest, my cottage now.”

He spoke: with fruit and hermit fare,

With every bloom the branches bare,

Agastya graced his honoured guest,

And thus with gentle words addressed:

“Accept this mighty bow, divine,

Whereon red gold and diamonds shine;

’Twas by the Heavenly Artist planned

For Vishṇu’s own almighty hand;

This God-sent shaft of sunbright hue,

Whose deadly flight is ever true,

By Lord Mahendra given of yore:

This quiver with its endless store.

Keen arrows hurtling to their aim

Like kindled fires that flash and flame:

Accept, in golden sheath encased,

This sword with hilt of rich gold graced.

Armed with this best of bows

Lord Vishṇu slew his demon foes,

And mid the dwellers in the skies

Won brilliant glory for his prize.

The bow, the quivers, shaft, and sword

Received from me, O glorious lord:

These conquest to thine arm shall bring,

As thunder to the thunder’s King.”

The splendid hermit bade him take

The noble weapons as he spake,

And as the prince accepted each

In words like these renewed his speech:

Canto XIII. Agastya’s Counsel.

“O Ráma, great delight I feel,

Pleased, Lakshmaṇ, with thy faithful zeal,

That you within these shades I see

With Sítá come to honour me.

But wandering through the rough rude wild

Has wearied Janak’s gentle child:

With labours of the way oppressed

The Maithil lady longs for rest.

Young, delicate, and soft, and fair,

Such toils as these untrained to bear,

Her wifely love the dame has led

The forest’s troubled ways to tread.

Here, Ráma, see that naught annoy

Her easy hours of tranquil joy:

A glorious task has she assayed,

To follow thee through woodland shade.

Since first from Nature’s hand she came,

A woman’s mood is still the same,

When Fortune smiles, her love to show,

And leave her lord in want and woe.

No pity then her heart can feel,

She arms her soul with warrior’s steel,

Swift as the storm or Feathered King,

Uncertain as the lightning’s wing.

Not so thy spouse: her purer mind

Shrinks from the faults of womankind;

Like chaste Arundhatí(441) above,

A paragon of faithful love.

Let these blest shades, dear Ráma, be

A home for Lakshmaṇ, her, and thee.”

With raised hands reverently meek

He heard the holy hermit speak,

And humbly thus addressed the sire

Whose glory shone like kindled fire:

“How blest am I, what thanks I owe

That our great Master deigns to show

His favour, that his heart can be

Content with Lakshmaṇ, Sítá, me.

Show me, I pray, some spot of ground

Where thick trees wave and springs abound,

That I may raise my hermit cell

And there in tranquil pleasure dwell.”

Then thus replied Agastya, best

Of hermits, to the chief’s request:

When for a little he had bent

His thoughts, upon that prayer intent:

“Beloved son, four leagues away

Is Panchavaṭí bright and gay:

Thronged with its deer, most fair it looks

With berries, fruit, and water-brooks.

There build thee with thy brother’s aid

A cottage in the quiet shade,

And faithful to thy sire’s behest,

Obedient to the sentence, rest.

For well, O sinless chieftain, well

I know thy tale, how all befell:

Stern penance and the love I bore

Thy royal sire supply the lore.

To me long rites and fervid zeal

The wish that stirs thy heart reveal,

And hence my guest I bade thee be,

That this pure grove might shelter thee.

So now, thereafter, thus I speak:

The shades of Panchavaṭí seek;

That tranquil spot is bright and fair,

And Sítá will be happy there.

Not far remote from here it lies,

A grove to charm thy loving eyes,

Godávarí’s pure stream is nigh:

There Sítá’s days will sweetly fly.

Pure, lovely, rich in many a charm,

O hero of the mighty arm,

’Tis gay with every plant and fruit,

And throngs of gay buds never mute.

Thou, true to virtue’s path, hast might

To screen each trusting anchorite,

And wilt from thy new home defend

The hermits who on thee depend.

Now yonder, Prince, direct thine eyes

Where dense Madhúka(442) woods arise:

Pierce their dark shade, and issuing forth

Turn to a fig-tree on the north:

Then onward up a sloping mead

Flanked by a hill the way will lead:

There Panchavaṭí, ever gay

With ceaseless bloom, thy steps will stay.”

The hermit ceased: the princely two

With seemly honours bade adieu:

With reverential awe each youth

Bowed to the saint whose word was truth,

And then, dismissed with Sítá, they

To Panchavaṭí took their way.

Thus when each royal prince had grasped

His warrior’s mighty bow, and clasped

His quiver to his side,

With watchful eyes along the road

The glorious saint Agastya showed,

Dauntless in fight the brothers strode,

And Sítá with them hied.

Canto XIV. Jatáyus.

Then as the son of Raghu made

His way to Panchavaṭí’s shade,

A mighty vulture he beheld

Of size and strength unparalleled.

The princes, when the bird they saw,

Approached with reverence and awe,

And as his giant form they eyed,

“Tell who thou art,” in wonder cried.

The bird, as though their hearts to gain,

Addressed them thus in gentlest strain;

“In me, dear sons, the friend behold

Your royal father loved of old.”

He spoke: nor long did Ráma wait

His sire’s dear friend to venerate:

He bade the bird declare his name

And the high race of which he came.

When Raghu’s son had spoken, he

Declared his name and pedigree,

His words prolonging to disclose

How all the things that be arose:

“List while I tell, O Raghu’s son,

The first-born Fathers, one by one,

Great Lords of Life, whence all in earth

And all in heaven derive their birth.

First Kardam heads the glorious race

Where Vikrit holds the second place,

With Śesha, Sanśray next in line,

And Bahuputra’s might divine.

Then Stháṇu and Maríchi came,

Atri, and Kratu’s forceful frame.

Pulastya followed, next to him

Angiras’ name shall ne’er be dim.

Prachetas, Pulah next, and then

Daksha, Vivasvat praised of men:

Aríshṭanemi next, and last

Kaśyap in glory unsurpassed.

From Daksha,—fame the tale has told—:

Three-score bright daughters sprang of old.

Of these fair-waisted nymphs the great

Lord Kaśyap sought and wedded eight,

Aditi, Diti, Kálaká,

Támrá, Danú, and Analá,

And Krodhavasá swift to ire,

And Manu(443) glorious as her sire.

Then when the mighty Kaśyap cried

Delighted to each tender bride:

“Sons shalt thou bear, to rule the three

Great worlds, in might resembling me.”

Aditi, Diti, and Danú

Obeyed his will as consorts true,

And Kálaká; but all the rest

Refused to hear their lord’s behest.

First Aditi conceived, and she,

Mother of thirty Gods and three,

The Vasus and Ádityas bare,

Rudras, and Aśvins, heavenly pair.

Of Diti sprang the Daityas: fame

Delights to laud their ancient name.

In days of yore their empire dread

O’er earth and woods and ocean spread.

Danú was mother of a child,

O hero, Aśvagríva styled,

And Narak next and Kálak came

Of Kálaká, celestial dame.

Of Támrá, too, five daughters bright

In deathless glory sprang to light.

Ennobling fame still keeps alive

The titles of the lovely five:

Immortal honour still she claims

For Kraunchí, Bhasí, Śyení’s names.

And wills not that the world forget

Śukí or Dhritaráshtrí yet.

Then Kraunchí bare the crane and owl,

And Bhásí tribes of water fowl:

Vultures and hawks that race through air

With storm-fleet pinions Śyení bare.

All swans and geese on mere and brook

Their birth from Dhritaráshtrí took,

And all the river-haunting brood

Of ducks, a countless multitude.

From Śukí Nalá sprang, who bare

Dame Vinatá surpassing fair.

From fiery Krodhavaśá, ten

Bright daughters sprang, O King of men:

Mrigí and Mrigamandá named,

Hari and Bhadramadá famed,

Śárdúlí, Śvetá fair to see,

Mátangí bright, and Surabhí,

Surasá marked with each fair sign,

And Kadrumá, all maids divine.

Mrigí, O Prince without a peer,

Was mother of the herds of deer,

The bear, the yak, the mountain roe

Their birth to Mrigamandá owe;

And Bhadramadá joyed to be

Mother of fair Irávatí,

Who bare Airávat,(444) huge of mould,

Mid warders of the earth enrolled,

From Harí lordly lions trace,

With monkeys of the wild, their race.

From the great dame Śárdúlí styled

Sprung pards, Lángúrs,(445) and tigers wild.

Mátangí, Prince, gave birth to all

Mátangas, elephants strong and tall,

And Śvetá bore the beasts who stand

One at each wind, earth’s warder band.(446)

Next Surabhí the Goddess bore

Two heavenly maids, O Prince, of yore,

Gandharví—dear to fame is she—

And her sweet sister Rohiṇí.

With kine this daughter filled each mead,

And bright Gandharví bore the steed.(447)

Surasá bore the serpents:(448) all

The snakes Kadrú their mother call.

Then Manu, high-souled Kaśyap’s(449) wife,

To all the race of men gave life,

The Bráhmans first, the Kshatriya caste,

Then Vaiśyas, and the Śúdras last.

Sprang from her mouth the Bráhman race;

Her chest the Kshatriyas’ natal place:

The Vaiśyas from her thighs, ’tis said,

The Śúdras from her feet were bred.

From Analá all trees that hang

Their fair fruit-laden branches sprang.

The child of beauteous Śukí bore

Vinatá, as I taught before:

And Surasá and Kadrú were

Born of one dame, a noble pair.

Kadrú gave birth to countless snakes

That roam the earth in woods and brakes.

Aruṇ and Garuḍ swift of flight

By Vinatá were given to light,

And sons of Aruṇ red as morn

Sampati first, then I was born,

Me then, O tamer of the foe,

Jaṭáyus, son of Śyení, know.

Thy ready helper will I be,

And guard thy house, if thou agree:

When thou and Lakshmaṇ urge the chase

By Sítá’s side shall be my place.”

With courteous thanks for promised aid,

The prince, to rapture stirred,

Bent low, and due obeisance paid,

Embraced the royal bird.

He often in the days gone by

Had heard his father tell

How, linked with him in friendship’s tie,

He loved Jaṭáyus well.

He hastened to his trusted friend

His darling to confide,

And through the wood his steps to bend

By strong Jaṭáyus’ side.

On to the grove, with Lakshmaṇ near,

The prince his way pursued

To free those pleasant shades from fear

And slay the giant brood.

Canto XV. Panchavatí.

Arrived at Panchavaṭí’s shade

Where silvan life and serpents strayed,

Ráma in words like these addressed

Lakshmaṇ of vigour unrepressed:

“Brother, our home is here: behold

The grove of which the hermit told:

The bowers of Panchavaṭí see

Made fair by every blooming tree.

Now, brother, bend thine eyes around;

With skilful glance survey the ground:

Here be some spot selected, best

Approved for gentle hermits’ rest,

Where thou, the Maithil dame, and I

May dwell while seasons sweetly fly.

Some pleasant spot be chosen where

Pure waters gleam and trees are fair,

Some nook where flowers and wood are found

And sacred grass and springs abound.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, Sítá standing by,

Raised reverent hands, and made reply:

“A hundred years shall flee, and still

Will I obey my brother’s will:

Select thyself a pleasant spot;

Be mine the care to rear the cot.”

The glorious chieftain, pleased to hear

That loving speech that soothed his ear,

Selected with observant care

A spot with every charm most fair.

He stood within that calm retreat,

A shade for hermits’ home most meet,

And thus Sumitrá’s son addressed,

While his dear hand in his he pressed:

“See, see this smooth and lovely glade

Which flowery trees encircling shade:

Do thou, beloved Lakshmaṇ rear

A pleasant cot to lodge us here.

I see beyond that feathery brake

The gleaming of a lilied lake,

Where flowers in sunlike glory throw

Fresh odours from the wave below.

Agastya’s words now find we true,

He told the charms which here we view:

Here are the trees that blossom o’er

Godávarí’s most lovely shore.

Whose pleasant flood from side to side

With swans and geese is beautified,

And fair banks crowded with the deer

That steal from every covert near.

The peacock’s cry is loud and shrill

From many a tall and lovely hill,

Green-belted by the trees that wave

Full blossoms o’er the rock and cave.

Like elephants whose huge fronts glow

With painted streaks, the mountains show

Long lines of gold and silver sheen

With copper’s darker hues between.

With every tree each hill is graced,

Where creepers blossom interlaced.

Look where the Sál’s long branches sway,

And palms their fanlike leaves display;

The date-tree and the Jak are near,

And their long stems Tamálas rear.

See the tall Mango lift his head,

Aśokas all their glory spread,

The Ketak her sweet buds unfold,

And Champacs hang their cups of gold.(450)

The spot is pure and pleasant: here

Are multitudes of birds and deer.

O Lakshmaṇ, with our father’s friend

What happy hours we here shall spend!”

He spoke: the conquering Lakshmaṇ heard,

Obedient to his brother’s word.

Raised by his toil a cottage stood

To shelter Ráma in the wood,

Of ample size, with leaves o’erlaid,

Of hardened earth the walls were made.

The strong bamboos his hands had felled

For pillars fair the roof upheld,

And rafter, beam, and lath supplied

Well interwrought from side to side.

Then Śamí(451) boughs he deftly spread

Enlaced with knotted cord o’erhead,

Well thatched above from ridge to eaves

With holy grass, and reed, and leaves.

The mighty chief with careful toil

Had cleared the ground and smoothed the soil

Where now, his loving labour done,

Rose a fair home for Raghu’s son.

Then when his work was duly wrought,

Godávarís sweet stream he sought,

Bathed, plucked the lilies, and a store

Of fruit and berries homeward bore.

Then sacrifice he duly paid,

And wooed the Gods their hopes to aid,

And then to Ráma proudly showed

The cot prepared for his abode.

Then Raghu’s son with Sítá gazed

Upon the home his hands had raised,

And transport thrilled his bosom through

His leafy hermitage to view.

The glorious son of Raghu round

His brother’s neck his arms enwound,

And thus began his sweet address

Of deep-felt joy and gentleness:

“Well pleased am I, dear lord, to see

This noble work performed by thee.

For this,—sole grace I can bestow,—

About thy neck mine arms I throw.

So wise art thou, thy breast is filled

With grateful thoughts, in duty skilled,

Our mighty father, free from stain,

In thee, his offspring, lives again.”

Thus spoke the prince, who lent a grace

To fortune, pride of Raghu’s race;

Then in that spot whose pleasant shade

Gave store of fruit, content he stayed.

With Lakshmaṇ and his Maithil spouse

He spent his day’s neath sheltering boughs,

As happy as a God on high

Lives in his mansion in the sky.

Canto XVI. Winter.

While there the high-souled hero spent

His tranquil hours in sweet content,

The glowing autumn passed, and then

Came winter so beloved of men.

One morn, to bathe, at break of day

To the fair stream he took his way.

Behind him, with the Maithil dame

Bearing a pitcher Lakshmaṇ came,

And as he went the mighty man

Thus to his brother chief began:

“The time is come, to thee more dear

Than all the months that mark the year:

The gracious seasons’ joy and pride,

By which the rest are glorified.

A robe of hoary rime is spread

O’er earth, with corn engarlanded.

The streams we loved no longer please,

But near the fire we take our ease.

Now pious men to God and shade

Offer young corn’s fresh sprouted blade,

And purge away their sins with rice

Bestowed in humble sacrifice.

Rich stores of milk delight the swain,

And hearts are cheered that longed for gain,

Proud kings whose breasts for conquests glow

Lead bannered troops to smite the foe.

Dark is the north: the Lord of Day

To Yáma’s south(452) has turned away:

And she—sad widow—shines no more,

Reft of the bridal mark(453) she wore.

Himálaya’s hill, ordained of old

The treasure-house of frost and cold,

Scarce conscious of the feebler glow,

Is truly now the Lord of Snow.

Warmed by the noontide’s genial rays

Delightful are the glorious days:

But how we shudder at the chill

Of evening shadows and the rill!

How weak the sun, how cold the breeze!

How white the rime on grass and trees!

The leaves are sere, the woods have lost

Their blossoms killed by nipping frost.

Neath open skies we sleep no more:

December’s nights with rime are hoar:

Their triple watch(454) in length extends

With hours the shortened daylight lends.

No more the moon’s sun-borrowed rays

Are bright, involved in misty haze,

As when upon the mirror’s sheen

The breath’s obscuring cloud is seen.

E’en at the full the faint beams fail

To struggle through the darksome veil:

Changed like her hue, they want the grace

That parts not yet from Sítá’s face.

Cold is the western wind, but how

Its piercing chill is heightened now,

Blowing at early morning twice

As furious with its breath of ice!

See how the dewy tears they weep

The barley, wheat, and woodland steep,

Where, as the sun goes up the sky,

The curlew and the sáras cry.

See where the rice plants scarce uphold

Their full ears tinged with paly gold,

Bending their ripe heads slowly down

Fair as the date tree’s flowery crown.

Though now the sun has mounted high

Seeking the forehead of the sky,

Such mist obscures his struggling beams,

No bigger than the moon he seems.

Though weak at first, his rays at length

Grow pleasant in their noonday strength,

And where a while they chance to fall

Fling a faint splendour over all.

See, o’er the woods where grass is wet

With hoary drops that cling there yet,

With soft light clothing earth and bough

There steals a tender glory now.

Yon elephant who longs to drink,

Still standing on the river’s brink,

Plucks back his trunk in shivering haste

From the cold wave he fain would taste.

The very fowl that haunt the mere

Stand doubtful on the bank, and fear

To dip them in the wintry wave

As cowards dread to meet the brave.

The frost of night, the rime of dawn

Bind flowerless trees and glades of lawn:

Benumbed in apathetic chill

Of icy chains they slumber still.

You hear the hidden sáras cry

From floods that wrapped in vapour lie,

And frosty-shining sands reveal

Where the unnoticed rivers steal.

The hoary rime of dewy night,

And suns that glow with tempered light

Lend fresh cool flavours to the rill

That sparkles from the topmost hill.

The cold has killed the lily’s pride:

Leaf, filament, and flower have died:

With chilling breath rude winds have blown,

The withered stalk is left alone.

At this gay time, O noblest chief,

The faithful Bharat, worn by grief,

Lives in the royal town where he

Spends weary hours for love of thee.

From titles, honour, kingly sway,

From every joy he turns away:

Couched on cold earth, his days are passed

With scanty fare and hermit’s fast.

This moment from his humble bed

He lifts, perhaps, his weary head,

And girt by many a follower goes

To bathe where silver Sarjú flows.

How, when the frosty morn is dim,

Shall Sarjú be a bath for him

Nursed with all love and tender care,

So delicate and young and fair.

How bright his hue! his brilliant eye

With the broad lotus leaf may vie.

By fortune stamped for happy fate,

His graceful form is tall and straight.

In duty skilled, his words are truth:

He proudly rules each lust of youth.

Though his strong arm smites down the foe,

In gentle speech his accents flow.

Yet every joy has he resigned

And cleaves to thee with heart and mind.

Thus by the deeds that he has done

A name in heaven has Bharat won,

For in his life he follows yet

Thy steps, O banished anchoret.

Thus faithful Bharat, nobly wise,

The proverb of the world belies:

“No men, by mothers’ guidance led,

The footsteps of their fathers tread.”

How could Kaikeyí, blest to be

Spouse of the king our sire, and see

A son like virtuous Bharat, blot

Her glory with so foul a plot!”

Thus in fraternal love he spoke,

And from his lips reproaches broke:

But Ráma grieved to hear him chide

The absent mother, and replied:

“Cease, O beloved, cease to blame

Our royal father’s second dame.

Still speak of Bharat first in place

Of old Ikshváku’s princely race.

My heart, so firmly bent but now

To dwell in woods and keep my vow,

Half melting as I hear thee speak

Of Bharat’s love, grows soft and weak,

With tender joy I bring to mind

His speeches ever sweet and kind.

That dear as Amrit took the sense

With most enchanting influence.

Ah, when shall I, no more to part,

Meet Bharat of the mighty heart?

When, O my brother, when shall we

The good and brave Śatrughna see?”

Thus as he poured his fond lament

The son of Raghu onward went:

They reached the river, and the three

Bathed them in fair Godávarí.

Libations of the stream they paid

To every deity and shade,

With hymns of praise, the Sun on high

And sinless Gods to glorify.

Fresh from the purifying tide

Resplendent Ráma came,

With Lakshmaṇ ever by his side,

And the sweet Maithil dame.

So Rudra shines by worlds adored,

In glory undefiled,

When Nandi(455) stands beside his lord,

And King Himálaya’s child.(456)

Canto XVII. Súrpanakhá.

The bathing and the prayer were o’er;

He turned him from the grassy shore,

And with his brother and his spouse

Sought his fair home beneath the boughs.

Sítá and Lakshmaṇ by his side,

On to his cot the hero hied,

And after rites at morning due

Within the leafy shade withdrew.

Then, honoured by the devotees,

As royal Ráma sat at ease,

With Sítá near him, o’er his head

A canopy of green boughs spread,

He shone as shines the Lord of Night

By Chitrá’s(457) side, his dear delight.

With Lakshmaṇ there he sat and told

Sweet stories of the days of old,

And as the pleasant time he spent

With heart upon each tale intent,

A giantess, by fancy led,

Came wandering to his leafy shed.

Fierce Śúrpaṇakhá,—her of yore

The Ten-necked tyrant’s mother bore,—

Saw Ráma with his noble mien

Bright as the Gods in heaven are seen;

Him from whose brow a glory gleamed,

Like lotus leaves his full eyes beamed:

Long-armed, of elephantine gait,

With hair close coiled in hermit plait:

In youthful vigour, nobly framed,

By glorious marks a king proclaimed:

Like some bright lotus lustrous-hued,

With young Kandarpa’s(458) grace endued:

As there like Indra’s self he shone,

She loved the youth she gazed upon.

She grim of eye and foul of face

Loved his sweet glance and forehead’s grace:

She of unlovely figure, him

Of stately form and shapely limb:

She whose dim locks disordered hung,

Him whose bright hair on high brows clung:

She whose fierce accents counselled fear,

Him whose soft tones were sweet to hear:

She whose dire form with age was dried,

Him radiant in his youthful pride:

She whose false lips maintained the wrong,

Him in the words of virtue strong:

She cruel-hearted, stained with sin,

Him just in deed and pure within.

She, hideous fiend, a thing to hate,

Him formed each eye to captivate:

Fierce passion in her bosom woke,

And thus to Raghu’s son she spoke:

“With matted hair above thy brows,

With bow and shaft and this thy spouse,

How hast thou sought in hermit dress

The giant-haunted wilderness?

What dost thou here? The cause explain:

Why art thou come, and what to gain?”

As Śúrpaṇakhá questioned so,

Ráma, the terror of the foe,

In answer to the monster’s call,

With fearless candour told her all.

“King Daśaratha reigned of old,

Like Gods celestial brave and bold.

I am his eldest son and heir,

And Ráma is the name I bear.

This brother, Lakshmaṇ, younger born,

Most faithful love to me has sworn.

My wife, this princess, dear to fame,

Is Sitá the Videhan dame.

Obedient to my sire’s behest

And by the queen my mother pressed,

To keep the law and merit win,

I sought this wood to harbour in.

But speak, for I of thee in turn

Thy name, and race, and sire would learn.

Thou art of giant race, I ween.

Changing at will thy form and mien.

Speak truly, and the cause declare

That bids thee to these shades repair.”

Thus Ráma spoke: the demon heard,

And thus replied by passion spurred:

“Of giant race, what form soe’er

My fancy wills, ’tis mine to wear.

Named Śúrpaṇakhá here I stray,

And where I walk spread wild dismay.

King Rávaṇ is my brother: fame

Has taught perchance his dreaded name,

Strong Kumbhakarṇa slumbering deep

In chains of never-ending sleep:

Vibhíshaṇ of the duteous mind,

In needs unlike his giant kind:

Dúshaṇ and Khara, brave and bold

Whose fame by every tongue is told:

Their might by mine is far surpassed;

But when, O best of men, I cast

These fond eyes on thy form, I see

My chosen love and lord in thee.

Endowed with wondrous might am I:

Where’er my fancy leads I fly.

The poor misshapen Sítá leave,

And me, thy worthier bride receive.

Look on my beauty, and prefer

A spouse more meet than one like her:

I’ll eat that ill-formed woman there:

Thy brother too her fate shall share.

But come, beloved, thou shalt roam

With me through all our woodland home;

Each varied grove with me shalt seek,

And gaze upon each mountain peak.”

As thus she spoke, the monster gazed

With sparkling eyes where passion blazed:

Then he, in lore of language learned,

This answer eloquent returned:

Canto XVIII. The Mutilation.

On her ensnared in Káma’s net

His eyes the royal Ráma set,

And thus, her passion to beguile,

Addressed her with a gentle smile:

“I have a wife: behold her here,

My Sítá ever true and dear:

And one like thee will never brook

Upon a rival spouse to look.

But there my brother Lakshmaṇ stands:

Unchained is he by nuptial bands:

A youth heroic, loved of all,

Gracious and gallant, fair and tall.

With winning looks, most nobly bred,

Unmatched till now, he longs to wed.

Meet to enjoy thy youthful charms,

O take him to thy loving arms.

Enamoured on his bosom lie,

Fair damsel of the radiant eye,

As the warm sunlight loves to rest

Upon her darling Meru’s breast.”

The hero spoke, the monster heard,

While passion still her bosom stirred.

Away from Ráma’s side she broke,

And thus in turn to Lakshmaṇ spoke:

“Come, for thy bride take me who shine

In fairest grace that suits with thine.

Thou by my side from grove to grove

Of Daṇḍak’s wild in bliss shalt rove.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, skilled in soft address,

Wooed by the amorous giantess,

With art to turn her love aside,

To Śúrpaṇakhá thus replied:

“And can so high a dame agree

The slave-wife of a slave to be?

I, lotus-hued! in good and ill

Am bondsman to my brother’s will.

Be thou, fair creature radiant-eyed,

My honoured brother’s younger bride:

With faultless tint and dainty limb,

A happy wife, bring joy to him.

He from his spouse grown old and grey,

Deformed, untrue, will turn away,

Her withered charms will gladly leave,

And to his fair young darling cleave.

For who could be so fond and blind,

O loveliest of all female kind,

To love another dame and slight

Thy beauties rich in all delight?”

Thus Lakshmaṇ praised in scornful jest

The long-toothed fiend with loathly breast,

Who fondly heard his speech, nor knew

His mocking words were aught but true.

Again inflamed with love she fled

To Ráma, in his leafy shed

Where Sítá rested by his side,

And to the mighty victor cried:

“What, Ráma, canst thou blindly cling

To this old false misshapen thing?

Wilt thou refuse the charms of youth

For withered breast and grinning tooth!

Canst thou this wretched creature prize

And look on me with scornful eyes?

This aged crone this very hour

Before thy face will I devour:

Then joyous, from all rivals free.

Through Daṇḍak will I stray with thee.”

She spoke, and with a glance of flame

Rushed on the fawn-eyed Maithil dame:

So would a horrid meteor mar

Fair Rohiṇí’s soft beaming star.

But as the furious fiend drew near,

Like Death’s dire noose which chills with fear,

The mighty chief her purpose stayed,

And spoke, his brother to upbraid:

“Ne’er should we jest with creatures rude,

Of savage race and wrathful mood.

Think, Lakshmaṇ, think how nearly slain

My dear Videhan breathes again.

Let not the hideous wretch escape

Without a mark to mar her shape.

Strike, lord of men, the monstrous fiend,

Deformed, and foul, and evil-miened.”

He spoke: then Lakshmaṇ’s wrath rose high,

And there before his brother’s eye,

He drew that sword which none could stay,

And cleft her nose and ears away.

Noseless and earless, torn and maimed,

With fearful shrieks the fiend exclaimed,

And frantic in her wild distress

Resought the distant wilderness.

Deformed, terrific, huge, and dread,

As on she moved, her gashes bled,

And groan succeeded groan as loud

As roars, ere rain, the thunder cloud.

Still on the fearful monster passed,

While streams of blood kept falling fast,

And with a roar, and arms outspread

Within the boundless wood she fled.

To Janasthán the monster flew;

Fierce Khara there she found,

With chieftains of the giant crew

In thousands ranged around.

Before his awful feet she bent

And fell with piercing cries,

As when a bolt in swift descent

Comes flashing from the skies.

There for a while with senses dazed

Silent she lay and scared:

At length her drooping head she raised,

And all the tale declared,

How Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and the dame

Had reached that lonely place:

Then told her injuries and shame,

And showed her bleeding face.

Canto XIX. The Rousing Of Khara.

When Khara saw his sister lie

With blood-stained limbs and troubled eye,

Wild fury in his bosom woke,

And thus the monstrous giant spoke;

“Arise, my sister; cast away

This numbing terror and dismay,

And straight the impious hand declare

That marred those features once so fair.

For who his finger tip will lay

On the black snake in childish play,

And unattacked, with idle stroke

His poison-laden fang provoke?

Ill-fated fool, he little knows

Death’s noose around his neck he throws,

Who rashly met thee, and a draught

Of life-destroying poison quaffed.

Strong, fierce as death, ’twas thine to choose

Thy way at will, each shape to use;

In power and might like one of us:

What hand has maimed and marred thee thus?

What God or fiend this deed has wrought,

What bard or sage of lofty thought

Was armed with power supremely great

Thy form to mar and mutilate?

In all the worlds not one I see

Would dare a deed to anger me:

Not Indra’s self, the Thousand-eyed,

Beneath whose hand fierce Páka(459) died.

My life-destroying darts this day

His guilty breath shall rend away,

E’en as the thirsty wild swan drains

Each milk-drop that the wave retains.

Whose blood in foaming streams shall burst

O’er the dry ground which lies athirst,

When by my shafts transfixed and slain

He falls upon the battle plain?

From whose dead corpse shall birds of air

The mangled flesh and sinews tear,

And in their gory feast delight,

When I have slain him in the fight?

Not God or bard or wandering ghost,

No giant of our mighty host

Shall step between us, or avail

To save the wretch when I assail.

Collect each scattered sense, recall

Thy troubled thoughts, and tell me all.

What wretch attacked thee in the way,

And quelled thee in victorious fray?”

His breast with burning fury fired,

Thus Khara of the fiend inquired:

And then with many a tear and sigh

Thus Śúrpaṇakhá made reply:

“’Tis Daśaratha’s sons, a pair

Strong, resolute, and young, and fair:

In coats of dark and blackdeer’s hide,

And like the radiant lotus eyed:

On berries roots and fruit they feed,

And lives of saintly virtue lead:

With ordered senses undefiled,

Ráma and Lakshmaṇ are they styled.

Fair as the Minstrels’ King(460) are they,

And stamped with signs of regal sway.

I know not if the heroes trace

Their line from Gods or Dánav(461) race.

There by these wondering eyes between

The noble youths a dame was seen,

Fair, blooming, young, with dainty waist,

And all her bright apparel graced.

For her with ready heart and mind

The royal pair their strength combined,

And brought me to this last distress,

Like some lost woman, comfortless.

Perfidious wretch! my soul is fain

Her foaming blood and theirs to drain.

O let me head the vengeful fight,

And with this hand my murderers smite.

Come, brother, hasten to fulfil

This longing of my eager will.

On to the battle! Let me drink

Their lifeblood as to earth they sink.”

Then Khara, by his sister pressed,

Inflamed with fury, gave his hest

To twice seven giants of his crew,

Fierce as the God of death to view:

’Two men equipped with arms, who wear

Deerskin and bark and matted hair,

Leading a beauteous dame, have strayed

To the wild gloom of Daṇḍak’s shade.

These men, this cursed woman slay,

And hasten back without delay,

That this my sister’s lips may be

Red with the lifeblood of the three.

Giants, my wounded sister longs

To take this vengeance for her wrongs.

With speed her dearest wish fulfil,

And with your might these creatures kill.

Soon as your matchless strength shall lay

These brothers dead in battle fray,

She in triumphant joy will laugh,

And their hearts’ blood delighted quaff.”

The giants heard the words he said,

And forth with Śúrpaṇakhá sped,

As mighty clouds in autumn fly

Urged by the wind along the sky.

Canto XX. The Giants’ Death.

Fierce Śúrpaṇakhá with her train

To Ráma’s dwelling came again,

And to the eager giants showed

Where Sítá and the youths abode.

Within the leafy cot they spied

The hero by his consort’s side,

And faithful Lakshmaṇ ready still

To wait upon his brother’s will.

Then noble Ráma raised his eye

And saw the giants standing nigh,

And then, as nearer still they pressed.

His glorious brother thus addressed,

“Be thine a while, my brother dear,

To watch o’er Sítá’s safety here,

And I will slay these creatures who

The footsteps of my spouse pursue.”

He spoke, and reverent Lakshmaṇ heard

Submissive to his brother’s word.

The son of Raghu, virtuous-souled,

Strung his great bow adorned with gold,

And, with the weapon in his hand,

Addressed him to the giant band:

“Ráma and Lakshmaṇ we, who spring

From Daśaratha, mighty king;

We dwell a while with Sítá here

In Daṇḍak forest wild and drear.

On woodland roots and fruit we feed,

And lives of strictest rule we lead.

Say why would ye our lives oppress

Who sojourn in the wilderness.

Sent hither by the hermits’ prayer

With bow and darts unused to spare,

For vengeance am I come to slay

Your sinful band in battle fray.

Rest as ye are: remain content,

Nor try the battle’s dire event.

Unless your offered lives ye spurn,

O rovers of the night, return.”

They listened while the hero spoke,

And fury in each breast awoke.

The Bráhman-slayers raised on high

Their mighty spears and made reply:

They spoke with eyes aglow with ire,

While Ráma’s burnt with vengeful tire,

And answered thus, in fury wild,

That peerless chief whose tones were mild:

“Nay thou hast angered, overbold,

Khara our lord, the mighty-souled,

And for thy sin, in battle strife

Shalt yield to us thy forfeit life.

No power hast thou alone to stand

Against the numbers of our band.

’Twere vain to match thy single might

Against us in the front of fight.

When we equipped for fight advance

With brandished pike and mace and lance,

Thou, vanquished in the desperate field,

Thy bow, thy strength, thy life shalt yield.”

With bitter words and threatening mien

Thus furious spoke the fierce fourteen,

And raising scimitar and spear

On Ráma rushed in wild career.

Their levelled spears the giant crew

Against the matchless hero threw.

His bow the son of Raghu bent,

And twice seven shafts to meet them sent,

And every javelin sundered fell

By the bright darts he aimed so well.

The hero saw: his anger grew

To fury: from his side he drew

Fresh sunbright arrows pointed keen,

In number, like his foes, fourteen.

His bow he grasped, the string he drew,

And gazing on the giant crew,

As Indra casts the levin, so

Shot forth his arrows at the foe.

The hurtling arrows, stained with gore,

Through the fiends’ breasts a passage tore,

And in the earth lay buried deep

As serpents through an ant-hill creep

Like trees uptorn by stormy blast

The shattered fiends to earth were cast,

And there with mangled bodies they,

Bathed in their blood and breathless, lay.

With fainting heart and furious eye

The demon saw her champions die.

With drying wounds that scarcely bled

Back to her brother’s home she fled.

Oppressed with pain, with loud lament

At Khara’s feet the monster bent.

There like a plant whence slowly come

The trickling drops of oozy gum,

With her grim features pale with pain

She poured her tears in ceaseless rain,

There routed Śúrpaṇakhá lay,

And told her brother all,

The issue of the bloody fray,

Her giant champions’ fall.

Canto XXI. The Rousing Of Khara.

Low in the dust he saw her lie,

And Khara’s wrath grew fierce and high.

Aloud he cried to her who came

Disgracefully with baffled aim:

“I sent with thee at thy request

The bravest of my giants, best

Of all who feed upon the slain:

Why art thou weeping here again?

Still to their master’s interest true,

My faithful, noble, loyal crew,

Though slaughtered in the bloody fray,

Would yet their monarch’s word obey.

Now I, my sister, fain would know

The cause of this thy fear and woe,

Why like a snake thou writhest there,

Calling for aid in wild despair.

Nay, lie not thus in lowly guise:

Cast off thy weakness and arise!”

With soothing words the giant chief

Assuaged the fury of her grief.

Her weeping eyes she slowly dried

And to her brother thus replied:

“I sought thee in my shame and fear

With severed nose and mangled ear:

My gashes like a river bled,

I sought thee and was comforted.

Those twice seven giants, brave and strong,

Thou sentest to avenge the wrong,

To lay the savage Ráma low,

And Lakshmaṇ who misused me so.

But ah, the shafts of Ráma through

The bodies of my champions flew:

Though madly fierce their spears they plied,

Beneath his conquering might they died.

I saw them, famed for strength and speed,

I saw my heroes fall and bleed:

Great trembling seized my every limb

At the great deed achieved by him.

In trouble, horror, doubt, and dread,

Again to thee for help I fled.

While terror haunts my troubled sight,

I seek thee, rover of the night.

And canst thou not thy sister free

From this wide waste of troublous sea

Whose sharks are doubt and terror, where

Each wreathing wave is dark despair?

Low lie on earth thy giant train

By ruthless Ráma’s arrows slain,

And all the mighty demons, fed

On blood, who followed me are dead.

Now if within thy breast may be

Pity for them and love for me,

If thou, O rover of the night,

Have valour and with him can fight,

Subdue the giants’ cruel foe

Who dwells where Daṇḍak’s thickets grow.

But if thine arm in vain assay

This queller of his foes to slay,

Now surely here before thine eyes,

Wronged and ashamed thy sister dies.

Too well, alas, too well I see

That, strong in war as thou mayst be,

Thou canst not in the battle stand

When Ráma meets thee hand to hand.

Go forth, thou hero but in name,

Assuming might thou canst not claim;

Call friend and kin, no longer stay:

Away from Janasthán, away!

Shame of thy race! the weak alone

Beneath thine arm may sink o’erthrown:

Fly Ráma and his brother: they

Are men too strong for thee to slay.

How canst thou hope, O weak and base,

To make this grove thy dwelling-place?

With Ráma’s might unmeet to vie,

O’ermastered thou wilt quickly die.

A hero strong in valorous deed

Is Ráma, Daśaratha’s seed:

And scarce of weaker might than he

His brother chief who mangled me.”

Thus wept and wailed in deep distress

The grim misshapen giantess:

Before her brother’s feet she lay

O’erwhelmed with grief, and swooned away.

Canto XXII. Khara’s Wrath.

Roused by the taunting words she spoke,

The mighty Khara’s wrath awoke,

And there, while giants girt him round,

In these fierce words an utterance found:

“I cannot, peerless one, contain

Mine anger at this high disdain,

Galling as salt when sprinkled o’er

The rawness of a bleeding sore.

Ráma in little count I hold,

Weak man whose days are quickly told.

The caitiff with his life to-day

For all his evil deeds shall pay.

Dry, sister, dry each needless tear,

Stint thy lament and banish fear,

For Ráma and his brother go

This day to Yáma’s realm below.

My warrior’s axe shall stretch him slain,

Ere set of sun, upon the plain,

Then shall thy sated lips be red

With his warm blood in torrents shed.”

As Khara’s speech the demon heard,

With sudden joy her heart was stirred:

She fondly praised him as the boast

And glory of the giant host.

First moved to ire by taunts and stings,

Now soothed by gentle flatterings,

To Dúshaṇ, who his armies led,

The demon Khara spoke, and said:

“Friend, from the host of giants call

Full fourteen thousand, best of all,

Slaves of my will, of fearful might,

Who never turn their backs in fight:

Fiends who rejoice to slay and mar,

Dark as the clouds of autumn are:

Make ready quickly, O my friend,

My chariot and the bows I bend.

My swords, my shafts of brilliant sheen,

My divers lances long and keen.

On to the battle will I lead

These heroes of Pulastya’s seed,

And thus, O famed for warlike skill,

Ráma my wicked foeman kill.”

He spoke, and ere his speech was done,

His chariot glittering like the sun,

Yoked and announced, by Dúshan’s care,

With dappled steeds was ready there.

High as a peak from Meru rent

It burned with golden ornament:

The pole of lazulite, of gold

Were the bright wheels whereon it rolled.

With gold and moonstone blazoned o’er,

Fish, flowers, trees, rocks, the panels bore;

Auspicious birds embossed thereon,

And stars in costly emblem shone.

O’er flashing swords his banner hung,

And sweet bells, ever tinkling, swung.

That mighty host with sword and shield

And oar was ready for the field:

And Khara saw, and Dúshan cried,

“Forth to the fight, ye giants, ride.”

Then banners waved, and shield and sword

Flashed as the host obeyed its lord.

From Janasthán they sallied out

With eager speed, and din, and shout,

Armed with the mace for close attacks,

The bill, the spear, the battle-axe,

Steel quoit and club that flashed afar,

Huge bow and sword and scimitar,

The dart to pierce, the bolt to strike,

The murderous bludgeon, lance, and pike.

So forth from Janasthán, intent

On Khara’s will, the monsters went.

He saw their awful march: not far

Behind the host he drove his car.

Ware of his master’s will, to speed

The driver urged each gold-decked steed.

Then forth the warrior’s coursers sprang,

And with tumultuous murmur rang

Each distant quarter of the sky

And realms that intermediate lie.

High and more high within his breast

His pride triumphant rose,

While terrible as Death he pressed

Onward to slay his foes,

“More swiftly yet,” as on they fled,

He cried in thundering tones

Loud as a cloud that overhead

Hails down a flood of stones.

Canto XXIII. The Omens.

As forth upon its errand went

That huge ferocious armament,

An awful cloud, in dust and gloom,

With threatening thunders from its womb

Poured in sad augury a flood

Of rushing water mixt with blood.

The monarch’s steeds, though strong and fleet,

Stumbled and fell: and yet their feet

Passed o’er the bed of flowers that lay

Fresh gathered on the royal way.

No gleam of sunlight struggled through

The sombre pall of midnight hue,

Edged with a line of bloody red,

Like whirling torches overhead.

A vulture, fierce, of mighty size.

Terrific with his cruel eyes,

Perched on the staff enriched with gold,

Whence hung the flag in many a fold.

Each ravening bird, each beast of prey

Where Janasthán’s wild thickets lay,

Rose with a long discordant cry

And gathered as the host went by.

And from the south long, wild, and shrill,

Came spirit voices boding ill.

Like elephants in frantic mood,

Vast clouds terrific, sable-hued,

Hid all the sky where’er they bore

Their load of water mixt with gore.

Above, below, around were spread

Thick shades of darkness strange and dread,

Nor could the wildered glance descry

A point or quarter of the sky.

Then came o’er heaven a sanguine hue,

Though evening’s flush not yet was due,

While each ill-omened bird that flies

Assailed the king with harshest cries.

There screamed the vulture and the crane,

And the loud jackal shrieked again.

Each hideous thing that bodes aright

Disaster in the coming fight,

With gaping mouth that hissed and flamed,

The ruin of the host proclaimed.

Eclipse untimely reft away

The brightness of the Lord of Day,

And near his side was seen to glow

A mace-like comet boding woe.

Then while the sun was lost to view

A mighty wind arose and blew,

And stars like fireflies shed their light,

Nor waited for the distant night.

The lilies drooped, the brooks were dried,

The fish and birds that swam them died,

And every tree that was so fair

With flower and fruit was stripped and bare.

The wild wind ceased, yet, raised on high,

Dark clouds of dust involved the sky.

In doleful twitter long sustained

The restless Sárikás(462) complained,

And from the heavens with flash and flame

Terrific meteors roaring came.

Earth to her deep foundation shook

With rock and tree and plain and brook,

As Khara with triumphant shout,

Borne in his chariot, sallied out.

His left arm throbbed: he knew full well

That omen, and his visage fell.

Each awful sign the giant viewed,

And sudden tears his eye bedewed.

Care on his brow sat chill and black,

Yet mad with wrath he turned not back.

Upon each fearful sight that raised

The shuddering hair the chieftain gazed,

And laughing in his senseless pride

Thus to his giant legions cried:

“By sense of mightiest strength upborne,

These feeble signs I laugh to scorn.

I could bring down the stars that shine

In heaven with these keen shafts of mine.

Impelled by warlike fury I

Could cause e’en Death himself to die.

I will not seek my home again

Until my pointed shafts have slain

This Raghu’s son so fierce in pride,

And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side.

And she, my sister, she for whom

These sons of Raghu meet their doom,

She with delighted lips shall drain

The lifeblood of her foemen slain.

Fear not for me: I ne’er have known

Defeat, in battle overthrown.

Fear not for me, O giants; true

Are the proud words I speak to you.

The king of Gods who rules on high,

If wild Airávat bore him nigh,

Should fall before me bolt in hand:

And shall these two my wrath withstand!”

He ended and the giant host

Who heard their chief’s triumphant boast,

Rejoiced with equal pride elate,

Entangled in the noose of Fate.

Then met on high in bright array,

With eyes that longed to see the fray,

God and Gandharva, sage and saint,

With beings pure from earthly taint.

Blest for good works aforetime wrought,

Thus each to other spake his thought:

“Now joy to Bráhmans, joy to kine,

And all whom world count half divine!

May Raghu’s offspring slay in fight

Pulastya’s sons who roam by night!”

In words like these and more, the best

Of high-souled saints their hopes expressed,

Bending their eager eyes from where

Car-borne with Gods they rode in air.

Beneath them stretching far, they viewed

The giants’ death-doomed multitude.

They saw where, urged with fury, far

Before the host rolled Khara’s car,

And close beside their leader came

Twelve giant peers of might and fame.

Four other chiefs(463) before the rest

Behind their leader Dúshaṇ pressed.

Impetuous, cruel, dark, and dread,

All thirsting for the fray,

The hosts of giant warriors sped

Onward upon their way.

With eager speed they reached the spot

Where dwelt the princely two,—

Like planets in a league to blot

The sun and moon from view.

Canto XXIV. The Host In Sight.

While Khara, urged by valiant rage,

Drew near that little hermitage,

Those wondrous signs in earth and sky

Smote on each prince’s watchful eye.

When Ráma saw those signs of woe

Fraught with destruction to the foe,

With bold impatience scarce repressed

His brother chief he thus addressed:

“These fearful signs, my brother bold,

Which threaten all our foes, behold:

All laden, as they strike the view,

With ruin to the fiendish crew.

The angry clouds are gathering fast,

Their skirts with dusty gloom o’ercast,

And harsh with loud-voiced thunder, rain

Thick drops of blood upon the plain.

See, burning for the coming fight,

My shafts with wreaths of smoke are white,

And my great bow embossed with gold

Throbs eager for the master’s hold.

Each bird that through the forest flies

Sends out its melancholy cries.

All signs foretell the dangerous strife,

The jeopardy of limb and life.

Each sight, each sound gives warning clear

That foemen meet and death is near.

But courage, valiant brother! well

The throbbings of mine arm foretell

That ruin waits the hostile powers,

And triumph in the fight is ours.

I hail the welcome omen: thou

Art bright of face and clear of brow.

For Lakshmaṇ, when the eye can trace

A cloud upon the warrior’s face

Stealing the cheerful light away,

His life is doomed in battle fray.

List, brother, to that awful cry:

With shout and roar the fiends draw nigh.

With thundering beat of many a drum

The savage-hearted giants come.

The wise who value safety know

To meet, prepared, the coming blow:

In paths of prudence trained aright

They watch the stroke before it smite.

Take thou thine arrows and thy bow,

And with the Maithil lady go

For shelter to the mountain cave

Where thickest trees their branches wave.

I will not have thee, Lakshmaṇ, say

One word in answer, but obey.

By all thy honour for these feet

Of mine, dear brother, I entreat.

Thy warlike arm, I know could, smite

To death these rovers of the night;

But I this day would fight alone

Till all the fiends be overthrown.”

He spake: and Lakshmaṇ answered naught:

His arrows and his bow he brought,

And then with Sítá following hied

For shelter to the mountain side.

As Lakshmaṇ and the lady through

The forest to the cave withdrew,

“’Tis well,” cried Ráma. Then he braced

His coat of mail around his waist.

When, bright as blazing fire, upon

His mighty limbs that armour shone,

The hero stood like some great light

Uprising in the dark of night.

His dreadful shafts were by his side;

His trusty bow he bent and plied,

Prepared he stood: the bowstring rang,

Filling the welkin with the clang.

The high-souled Gods together drew

The wonder of the fight to view,

The saints made free from spot and stain,

And bright Gandharvas’ heavenly train.

Each glorious sage the assembly sought,

Each saint divine of loftiest thought,

And filled with zeal for Ráma’s sake.

Thus they whose deeds were holy spake:

“Now be it well with Bráhmans, now

Well with the worlds and every cow!

Let Ráma in the deadly fray

The fiends who walk in darkness slay,

As He who bears the discus(464) slew

The chieftains of the Asur crew.”

Then each with anxious glances viewed

His fellow and his speech renewed:

“There twice seven thousand giants stand

With impious heart and cruel hand:

Here Ráma stands, by virtue known:

How can the hero fight alone?”

Thus royal sage and Bráhman saint,

Spirit, and Virtue free from taint,

And all the Gods of heaven who rode

On golden cars, their longing showed.

Their hearts with doubt and terror rent,

They saw the giants’ armament,

And Ráma clothed in warrior might,

Forth standing in the front of fight.

Lord of the arm no toil might tire,

He stood majestic in his ire,

Matchless in form as Rudra(465) when

His wrath is fierce on Gods or men.

While Gods and saints in close array

Held converse of the coming fray,

The army of the fiends drew near

With sight and sound that counselled fear.

Long, loud and deep their war-cry pealed,

As on they rushed with flag and shield,

Each, of his proper valour proud,

Urging to fight the demon crowd.

His ponderous bow each warrior tried,

And swelled his bulk with martial pride.

’Mid shout and roar and trampling feet,

And thunder of the drums they beat,

Loud and more loud the tumult went

Throughout the forest’s vast extent,

And all the life that moved within

The woodland trembled at the din.

In eager haste all fled to find

Some tranquil spot, nor looked behind.