Canto XXIV. Sítá’s Reply.

Still with reproaches rough and rude

Those fiends the gentle queen pursued:

“What! can so fair a life displease,

To dwell with him in joyous ease?

Dwell in his bowers a happy queen

In silk and gold and jewels’ sheen?

Still must thy woman fancy cling

To Ráma and reject our king?

Die in thy folly, or forget

That wretched wandering anchoret.

Come, Sítá, in luxurious bowers

Spend with our lord thy happy hours;

The mighty lord who makes his own

The treasures of the worlds o’erthrown.”

Then, as a tear bedewed her eye,

The hapless lady made reply:

“I loathe, with heart and soul detest

The shameful life your words suggest.

Eat, if you will, this mortal frame:

My soul rejects the sin and shame.

A homeless wanderer though he be,

In him my lord, my life I see,

And, till my earthly days be done,

Will cling to great Ikshváku’s son.”

Then with fierce eyes on Sítá set

They cried again with taunt and threat:

Each licking with her fiery tongue

The lip that to her bosom hung,

And menacing the lady’s life

With axe, or spear or murderous knife:

“Hear, Sítá, and our words obey,

Or perish by our hands to-day.

Thy love for Raghu’s son forsake,

And Rávaṇ for thy husband take,

Or we will rend thy limbs apart

And banquet on thy quivering heart.

Now from her body strike the head,

And tell the king the dame is dead.

Then by our lord’s commandment she

A banquet for our band shall be.

Come, let the wine be quickly brought

That frees each heart from saddening thought.

Then to the western gate repair,

And we will dance and revel there.”

Canto XXV. Sítá’s Lament.

On the bare earth the lady sank,

And trembling from their presence shrank

Like a strayed fawn, when night is dark,

And hungry wolves around her bark.

Then to a shady tree she crept,

And thought upon her lord and wept.

By fear and bitter woe oppressed

She bathed the beauties of her breast

With her hot tears’ incessant flow,

And found no respite from her woe.

As shakes a plantain in the breeze

She shook, and fell on trembling knees;

While at each demon’s furious look

Her cheek its native hue forsook.

She lay and wept and made her moan

In sorrow’s saddest undertone,

And, wild with grief, with fear appalled,

On Ráma and his brother called:

“O dear Kauśalyá,(842) hear me cry!

Sweet Queen Sumitrá,(843) list my sigh!

True is the saw the wise declare:

Death comes not to relieve despair.

’Tis vain for dame or man to pray;

Death will not hear before his day;

Since I, from Ráma’s sight debarred,

And tortured by my cruel guard,

Still live in hopeless woe to grieve

And loathe the life I may not leave,

Here, like a poor deserted thing,

My limbs upon the ground I fling,

And, like a bark beneath the blast,

Shall sink oppressed with woes at last.

Ah, blest are they, supremely blest,

Whose eyes upon my lord may rest;

Who mark his lion port, and hear

His gentle speech that charms the ear.

Alas, what antenatal crime,

What trespass of forgotten time

Weighs on my soul, and bids me bow

Beneath this load of misery now?”

Canto XXVI. Sítá’s Lament.

“I Ráma’s wife, on that sad day,

By Rávaṇ’s arm was borne away,

Seized, while I sat and feared no ill,

By him who wears each form at will.

A helpless captive, left forlorn

To demons’ threats and taunts and scorn,

Here for my lord I weep and sigh,

And worn with woe would gladly die.

For what is life to me afar

From Ráma of the mighty car?

The robber in his fruitless sin

Would hope his captive’s love to win.

My meaner foot shall never touch

The demon whom I loathe so much.

The senseless fool! he knows me not,

Nor the proud soul his love would blot.

Yea, limb from limb will I be rent,

But never to his prayer consent;

Be burnt and perish in the fire,

But never meet his base desire.

My lord was grateful, true and wise,

And looked on woe with pitying eyes;

But now, recoiling from the strife

He pities not his captive wife.

Alone in Janasthán he slew

The thousands of the Rákshas crew.

His arm was strong, his heart was brave,

Why comes he not to free and save?

Why blame my lord in vain surmise?

He knows not where his lady lies.

O, if he knew, o’er land and sea

His feet were swift to set me free;

This Lanká, girdled by the deep,

Would fall consumed, a shapeless heap,

And from each ruined home would rise

A Rákshas widow’s groans and cries.”

Canto XXVII. Trijatá’s Dream.

Their threats unfeared, their counsel spurned,

The demons’ breasts with fury burned.

Some sought the giant king to bear

The tale of Sítá’s fixt despair.

With threats and taunts renewed the rest

Around the weeping lady pressed.

But Trijaṭá, of softer mould,

A Rákshas matron wise and old,

With pity for the captive moved,

In words like these the fiends reproved:

“Me, me,” she cried, “eat me, but spare

The spouse of Daśaratha’s heir.

Last night I dreamt a dream; and still

The fear and awe my bosom chill;

For in that dream I saw foreshown

Our race by Ráma’s hand o’erthrown.

I saw a chariot high in air,

Of ivory exceeding fair.

A hundred steeds that chariot drew

As swiftly through the clouds it flew,

And, clothed in white, with wreaths that shone,

The sons of Raghu rode thereon.

I looked and saw this lady here,

Clad in the purest white, appear

High on the snow white hill whose feet

The angry waves of ocean beat.

And she and Ráma met at last

Like light and sun when night is past.

Again I saw them side by side.

On Rávaṇ’s car they seemed to ride,

And with the princely Lakshmaṇ flee

To northern realms beyond the sea.

Then Rávaṇ, shaved and shorn, besmeared

With oil from head to foot, appeared.

He quaffed, he raved: his robes were red:

Fierce was his eye, and bare his head.

I saw him from his chariot thrust;

I saw him rolling in the dust.

A woman came and dragged away

The stricken giant where he lay,

And on a car which asses drew

The monarch of our race she threw.

He rose erect, he danced and laughed,

With thirsty lips the oil he quaffed,

Then with wild eyes and streaming mouth

Sped on the chariot to the south.(844)

Then, dropping oil from every limb,

His sons the princes followed him,

And Kumbhakarṇa,(845) shaved and shorn,

Was southward on a camel borne.

Then royal Lanká reeled and fell

With gate and tower and citadel.

This ancient city, far-renowned:

All life within her walls was drowned;

And the wild waves of ocean rolled

O’er Lanká and her streets of gold.

Warned by these signs I bid you fly;

Or by the hand of Ráma die,

Whose vengeance will not spare the life

Of one who vexed his faithful wife.

Your bitter taunts and threats forgo:

Comfort the lady in her woe,

And humbly pray her to forgive;

For so you may be spared and live.”

[I omit the 28th and 29th Cantos as an unmistakeable interpolation.

Instead of advancing the story it goes back to Canto XVII, containing a

lamentation of Sítá after Rávaṇ has left her, and describes the the

auspicious signs sent to cheer her, the throbbing of her left eye, arm,

and side. The Canto is found in the Bengal recension. Gorresio translates

it. and observes: “I think that Chapter XXVIII.—The Auspicious Signs—is an

addition, a later interpolation by the Rhapsodists. It has no bond of

connexion either with what precedes or follows it, and may be struck out

not only without injury to, but positively to the advantage of the poem.

The metre in which this chapter is written differs from that which is

generally adopted in the course of the poem.”]

Canto XXX. Hanumán’s Deliberation.

The Vánar watched concealed: each word

Of Sítá and the fiends he heard,

And in a maze of anxious thought

His quick-conceiving bosom wrought.

“At length my watchful eyes have seen,

Pursued so long, the Maithil queen,

Sought by our Vánar hosts in vain

From east to west, from main to main.

A cautious spy have I explored

The palace of the Rákhshas lord,

And thoroughly learned, concealed from sight,

The giant monarch’s power and might.

And now my task must be to cheer

The royal dame who sorrows here.

For if I go, and soothe her not,

A captive in this distant spot,

She, when she finds no comfort nigh,

Will sink beneath her woes and die.

How shall my tale, if unconsoled

I leave her, be to Ráma told?

How shall I answer Raghu’s son,

“No message from my darling, none?”

The husband’s wrath, to fury fanned,

Will scorch me lifeless where I stand,

Or if I urge my lord the king

To Lanká’s isle his hosts to bring,

In vain will be his zeal, in vain

The toil, the danger, and the pain.

Yea, this occasion must I seize

That from her guard the lady frees,(846)

To win her ear with soft address

And whisper hope in dire distress.

Shall I, a puny Vánar, choose

The Sanskrit men delight to use?

If, as a man of Bráhman kind,

I speak the tongue by rules refined,

The lady, yielding to her fears,

Will think ’tis Rávaṇ’s voice she hears.

I must assume my only plan—

The language of a common(847) man.

Yet, if the lady sees me nigh,

In terror she will start and cry;

And all the demon band, alarmed,

Will come with various weapons armed,

With their wild shouts the grove will fill,

And strive to take me, or to kill.

And, at my death or capture, dies

The hope of Ráma‘s enterprise.

For none can leap, save only me,

A hundred leagues across the sea.

It is a sin in me, I own,

To talk with Janak’s child alone.

Yet greater is the sin if I

Be silent, and the lady die.

First I will utter Ráma’s name,

And laud the hero’s gifts and fame.

Perchance the name she holds so dear

Will soothe the faithful lady’s fear.”

Canto XXXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

Then in sweet accents low and mild

The Vánar spoke to Janak’s child:

“A noble king, by sin unstained,

The mighty Daśaratha reigned.

Lord of the warrior’s car and steed,

The pride of old Ikshváku’s seed.

A faithful friend, a blameless king,

Protector of each living thing.

A glorious monarch, strong to save,

Blest with the bliss he freely gave.

His son, the best of all who know

The science of the bended bow,

Was moon-bright Ráma, brave and strong,

Who loved the right and loathed the wrong,

Who ne’er from kingly duty swerved,

Loved by the lands his might preserved.

His feet the path of law pursued;

His arm rebellious foes subdued.

His sire’s command the prince obeyed

And, banished, sought the forest shade,

Where with his wife and brother he

Wandered a saintly devotee.

There as he roamed the wilds he slew

The bravest of the Rákshas crew.

The giant king the prince beguiled,

And stole his consort, Janak’s child.

Then Ráma roamed the country round,

And a firm friend, Sugríva, found,

Lord of the Vánar race, expelled

From his own realm which Báli held,

He conquered Báli and restored

The kingdom to the rightful lord.

Then by Sugríva’s high decree

The Vánar legions searched for thee,

Sampáti’s counsel bade me leap

A hundred leagues across the deep.

And now my happy eyes have seen

At last the long-sought Maithil queen.

Such was the form, the eye, the grace

Of her whom Ráma bade me trace.”

He ceased: her flowing locks she drew

To shield her from a stranger’s view;

Then, trembling in her wild surprise,

Raised to the tree her anxious eyes.

Canto XXXII. Sítá’s Doubt.

Her eyes the Maithil lady raised

And on the monkey speaker gazed.

She looked, and trembling at the sight

Wept bitter tears in wild affright.

She shrank a while with fear distraught,

Then, nerved again, the lady thought:

“Is this a dream mine eyes have seen,

This creature, by our laws unclean?

O, may the Gods keep Ráma, still,

And Lakshmaṇ, and my sire, from ill!

It is no dream: I have not slept,

But, trouble-worn, have watched and wept

Afar from that dear lord of mine

For whom in ceaseless woe I pine,

No art may soothe my wild distress

Or lull me to forgetfulness.

I see but him: my lips can frame

No syllable but Ráma’s name.

Each sight I see, each sound I hear,

Brings Ráma to mine eye or ear,

The wish was in my heart, and hence

The sweet illusion mocked my sense.

’Twas but a phantom of the mind,

And yet the voice was soft and kind.

Be glory to the Eternal Sire,(848)

Be glory to the Lord of Fire,

The mighty Teacher in the skies,(849)

And Indra with his thousand eyes,

And may they grant the truth to be

E’en as the words that startled me.”

Canto XXXIII. The Colloquy.

Down from the tree Hanumán came

And humbly stood before the dame.

Then joining reverent palm to palm

Addressed her thus with words of balm:

“Why should the tears of sorrow rise,

Sweet lady, to those lovely eyes,

As when the wind-swept river floods

Two half expanded lotus buds?

Who art thou, O most fair of face?

Of Asur,(850) or celestial race?

Did Nága mother give thee birth?

For sure thou art no child of earth.

Do Rudras(851) claim that heavenly form?

Or the swift Gods(852) who ride the storm?

Or art thou Rohiṇí(853) the blest,

That star more lovely than the rest,—

Reft from the Moon thou lovest well

And doomed a while on earth to dwell?

Or canst thou, fairest wonder, be

The starry queen Arundhatí,(854)

Fled in thy wrath or jealous pride

From her dear lord Vaśishṭha’s side?

Who is the husband, father, son

Or brother, O thou loveliest one,

Gone from this world in heaven to dwell,

For whom those eyes with weeping swell?

Yet, by the tears those sweet eyes shed,

Yet, by the earth that bears thy tread,(855)

By calling on a monarch’s name,

No Goddess but a royal dame.

Art thou the queen, fair lady, say,

Whom Rávaṇ stole and bore away?

Yea, by that agony of woe,

That form unrivalled here below,

That votive garb, thou art, I ween,

King Janak’s child and Ráma’s queen.”

Hope at the name of Ráma woke,

And thus the gentle lady spoke:

“I am that Sítá wooed and won

By Daśaratha’s royal son,

The noblest of Ikshváku’s line;

And every earthly joy was mine.

But Ráma left his royal home

In Daṇḍak’s tangled wilds to roam.

Where with Sumitrá’s son and me,

He lived a saintly devotee.

The giant Rávaṇ came with guile

And bore me thence to Lanká’s isle.

Some respite yet the fiend allows,

Two months of life, to Ráma’s spouse.

Two moons of hopeless woe remain,

And then the captive will be slain.”

Canto XXXIV. Hanumán’s Speech.

Thus spoke the dame in mournful mood,

And Hanumán his speech renewed:

“O lady, by thy lord’s decree

I come a messenger to thee.

Thy lord is safe with steadfast friends,

And greeting to his queen he sends,

And Lakshmaṇ, ever faithful bows

His reverent head to Ráma’s spouse.”

Through all her frame the rapture ran,

As thus again the dame began:

“Now verily the truth I know

Of the wise saw of long ago:

“Once only in a hundred years

True joy to living man appears.”

He marked her rapture-beaming hue,

And nearer to the lady drew,

But at each onward step he took

Suspicious fear her spirit shook.

“Alas, Alas,” she cried in fear.

“False is the tale I joyed to hear.

’Tis Rávaṇ, ’tis the fiend, who tries

To mock me with a new disguise.

If thou, to wring my woman’s heart,

Hast changed thy shape by magic art,

And wouldst a helpless dame beguile,

The wicked deed is doubly vile.

But no: that fiend thou canst not be:

Such joy I had from seeing thee.

But if my fancy does not err,

And thou art Ráma’s messenger,

The glories of my lord repeat:

For to these ears such words are sweet.”

The Vánar knew the lady’s thought,(856)

And gave the answer fondly sought:

“Bright as the sun that lights the sky

Dear as the Moon to every eye.

He scatters blessings o’er the land

Like bounties from Vaiśravaṇ’s(857) hand.

Like Vishṇu strong and unsubdued,

Unmatched in might and fortitude.

Wise, truthful as the Lord of Speech,

With gentle words he welcomes each.

Of noblest mould and form is he,

Like love’s incarnate deity.

He quells the fury of the foe,

And strikes when justice prompts the blow.

Safe in the shadow of his arm

The world is kept from scathe and harm.

Now soon shall Rávaṇ rue his theft,

And fall, of realm and life bereft.

For Ráma’s wrathful hand shall wing

His shafts against the giant king.

The day, O Maithil Queen, is near

When he and Lakshmaṇ will be here,

And by their side Sugríva lead

His countless hosts of Vánar breed.

Sugríva’s servant, I, by name

Hanumán, by his order came.

With desperate leap I crossed the sea

To Lanká’s isle in search of thee,

No traitor, gentle dame, am I:

Upon my word and faith rely.”

Canto XXXV. Hanumán’s Speech.

With joyous heart she heard him tell

Of the great lord she loved so well,

And in sweet accents, soft and low,

Spoke, half forgetful of her woe:

“How didst thou stand by Ráma’s side?

How came my lord and thou allied?

How met the people of the wood

With men on terms of brotherhood?

Declare each grace and regal sign

That decks the lords of Raghu’s line.

Each circumstance and look relate:

Tell Ráma’s form and speech, and gait.”

“Thy fear and doubt,” he cried, “dispelled,

Hear, lady, what mine eyes beheld.

Hear the imperial signs that grace

The glory of Ikshváku’s race.

With moon-bright face and lotus eyes,

Most beautiful and good and wise,

With sun-like glory round his head,

Long-suffering as the earth we tread,

He from all foes his realm defends.

Yea, o’er the world his care extends.

He follows right in all his ways,

And ne’er from royal duty strays.

He knows the lore that strengthens kings;

His heart to truth and honour clings.

Each grace and gift of form and mind

Adorns that prince of human kind;

And virtues like his own endue

His brother ever firm and true.

O’er all the land they roamed distraught,

And thee with vain endeavour sought,

Until at length their wandering feet

Trod wearily our wild retreat.

Our banished king Sugríva spied

The princes from the mountain side.

By his command I sought the pair

And led them to our monarch there.

Thus Ráma and Sugríva met,

And joined the bonds that knit them yet,

When each besought the other’s aid,

And friendship and alliance made.

An arrow launched from Ráma’s bow

Laid Báli dead, Sugríva’s foe.

Then by commandment of our lord

The Vánar hosts each land explored.

We reached the coast: I crossed the sea

And found my way at length to thee.”(858)

Canto XXXVI. Ráma’s Ring.

“Receive,” he cried, “this precious ring,(859)

Sure token from thy lord the king:

The golden ring he wont to wear:

See, Ráma’s name engraven there.”

Then, as she took the ring he showed,

The tears that spring of rapture flowed.

She seemed to touch the hand that sent

The dearly valued ornament,

And with her heart again at ease,

Replied in gentle words like these:

“O thou, whose soul no fears deter,

Wise, brave, and faithful messenger!

And hast thou dared, o’er wave and foam,

To seek me in the giants’ home?

In thee, true messenger, I find

The noblest of thy woodland kind.

Who couldst, unmoved by terror, brook

On Rávaṇ, king of fiends, to look.

Now may we commune here as friends,

For he whom royal Ráma sends

Must needs be one in danger tried,

A valiant, wise, and faithful guide.

Say, is it well with Ráma still?

Lives Lakshmaṇ yet untouched by ill?

Then why should Ráma’s hand be slow

To free his consort from her woe?

Why spare to burn, in search of me,

The land encircled by the sea?

Can Bharat send no army out

With banners, cars and battle shout?

Cannot thy king Sugríva lend

His legions to assist his friend?”

His hands upon his head he laid

And thus again his answer made:

“Not yet has Ráma learnt where lies

His lady of the lotus eyes,

Or he like Indra from the sky

To Śachí’s(860) aid, to thee would fly.

Soon will he hear the tale, and then,

Roused to revenge, the lord of men

Will to the giants’ island lead

Fierce myriads of the woodland breed,

Bridging his conquering way, and make

The town a ruin for thy sake.

Believe my words, sweet dame; I swear

By roots and fruit, my woodland fare,

By Meru’s peak and Vindhva’s chain,

And Mandar of the Milky Main,

Soon shalt thou see thy lord, though now

He waits upon Praśravaṇ’s(861) brow,

Come glorious as the breaking morn,

Like Indra on Airávat(862) borne.

For thee he looks with longing eyes;

The wood his scanty food supplies.

For thee his brow is pale and worn,

For thee are meat and wine forsworn.

Thine image in his heart he keeps,

For thee by night he wakes and weeps.

Or if perchance his eyes he close

And win brief respite from his woes,

E’en then the name of Sítá slips

In anguish from his murmuring lips.

If lovely flowers or fruit he sees,

Which women love, upon the trees,

To thee, to thee his fancy flies.

And ‘Sítá! O my love!’ he cries.”

Canto XXXVII. Sítá’s Speech.

“Thou bringest me,” she cried again,

“A mingled draught of bliss and pain:

Bliss, that he wears me in his heart,

Pain, that he wakes and weeps apart,

O, see how Fate is king of all,

Now lifts us high, now bids us fall,

And leads a captive bound with cord

The meanest slave, the proudest lord,

Thus even now Fate’s stern decree

Has struck with grief my lord and me.

Say, how shall Ráma reach the shore

Of sorrow’s waves that rise and roar,

A shipwrecked sailor, well nigh drowned

In the wild sea that foams around?

When will he smite the demon down,

Lay low in dust the giants’ town,

And, glorious from his foes’ defeat,

His wife, his long-lost Sítá, meet?

Go, bid him speed to smite his foes

Before the year shall reach its close.

Ten months are fled but two remain,

Then Rávaṇ’s captive must be slain.

Oft has Vibhishaṇ,(863) just and wise,

Besought him to restore his prize.

But deaf is Rávaṇ’s senseless ear:

His brother’s rede he will not hear.

Vibhishaṇ’s daughter(864) loves me well:

From her I learnt the tale I tell.

Avindhva(865) prudent, just, and old,

The giant’s fall has oft foretold;

But Fate impels him to despise

His word on whom he most relies.

In Ráma’s love I rest secure,

For my fond heart is true and pure,

And him, my noblest lord, I deem

In valour, power, and might supreme.”

As from her eyes the waters ran,

The Vánar chief again began:

“Yea, Ráma, when he hears my tale,

Will with our hosts these walls assail.

Or I myself, O Queen, this day

Will bear thee from the fiend away,

Will lift thee up, and take thee hence

To him thy refuge and defence;

Will take thee in my arms, and flee

To Ráma far beyond the sea;

Will place thee on Praśravaṇ hill

Where Raghu’s son is waiting still.”

“How canst thou bear me hence?” she cried,

“The way is long, the sea is wide.

To bear my very weight would be

A task too hard for one like thee.”(866)

Swift rose before her startled eyes

The Vánar in his native size,

Like Mandar’s hill or Meru’s height,

Encircled with a blaze of light.

“O come,” he cried, “thy fears dispel,

Nor doubt that I will bear thee well.

Come, in my strength and care confide,

And sit in joy by Ráma’s side.”

Again she spake: “I know thee now,

Brave, resolute, and strong art thou;

In glory like the Lord of Fire

With storm-swift feet which naught may tire

But yet with thee I may not fly:

For, borne so swiftly through the sky,

Mine eyes would soon grow faint and dim,

My dizzy brain would reel and swim,

My yielding arms relax their hold,

And I in terror uncontrolled

Should fall into the raging sea

Where hungry sharks would feed on me.

Nor can I touch, of free accord,

The limbs of any save my lord.

If, by the giant forced away,

In his enfolding arms I lay,

Not mine, O Vánar, was the blame;

What could I do, a helpless dame?

Go, to my lord my message bear,

And bid him end my long despair.”

Canto XXXVIII. Sítá’s Gem.

Again the Vánar chief replied,

With her wise answer satisfied:

“Well hast thou said: thou canst not brave

The rushing wind, the roaring wave.

Thy woman’s heart would sink with fear

Before the ocean shore were near.

And for thy dread lest limb of thine

Should for a while be touched by mine,

The modest fear is worthy one

Whose cherished lord is Raghu’s son.

Yet when I sought to bear thee hence

I spoke the words of innocence,

Impelled to set the captive free

By friendship for thy lord and thee.

But if with me thou wilt not try

The passage of the windy sky,

Give me a gem that I may show,

Some token which thy lord may know.”

Again the Maithil lady spoke,

While tears and sobs her utterance broke:

“The surest of all signs is this,

To tell the tale of vanished bliss.

Thus in my name to Ráma speak:

“Remember Chitrakúṭa’s peak

And the green margin of the rill(867)

That flows beside that pleasant hill,

Where thou and I together strayed

Delighting in the tangled shade.

There on the grass I sat with thee

And laid my head upon thy knee.

There came a greedy crow and pecked

The meat I waited to protect

And, heedless of the clods I threw,

About my head in circles flew,

Until by darling hunger pressed

He boldly pecked me on the breast.

I ran to thee in rage and grief

And prayed for vengeance on the thief.

Then Ráma(868) from his slumber rose

And smiled with pity at my woes.

Upon my bleeding breast he saw

The scratches made by beak and claw.

He laid an arrow on his bow,

And launched it at the shameless crow.

That shaft, with magic power endued,

The bird, where’er he flew, pursued,

Till back to Raghu’s son he fled

And bent at Ráma’s feet his head.(869)

Couldst thou for me with anger stirred

Launch that dire shaft upon a bird,

And yet canst pardon him who stole

The darling of thy heart and soul?

Rise up, O bravest of the brave,

And come in all thy might to save.

Come with the thunders of thy bow,

And smite to earth the Rákshas foe.”

She ceased; and from her glorious hair

She took a gem that sparkled there

A token which her husband’s eyes

With eager love would recognize.

His head the Vánar envoy bent

In low obeisance reverent.

And on his finger bound the gem

She loosened from her diadem.

[I omit two Cantos of dialogue. Sítá tells Hanumán again to convey her

message to Ráma and bid him hasten to rescue her. Hanumán replies as

before that there is no one on earth equal to Ráma, who will soon come and

destroy Rávaṇ. There is not a new idea in the two Cantos: all is

reiteration.]

Canto XLI. The Ruin Of The Grove.

Dismissed with every honour due

The Vánar from the spot withdrew.

Then joyous thought the Wind-God’s son:

“The mighty task is wellnigh done.

The three expedients I must leave;

The fourth alone can I achieve.(870)

These dwellers in the giants’ isle

No arts of mine can reconcile.

I cannot bribe: I cannot sow

Dissension mid the Rákshas foe.

Arts, gifts, address, these fiends despise;

But force shall yet their king chastise.

Perchance he may relent when all

The bravest of his chieftains fall.

This lovely grove will I destroy,

The cruel Rávaṇ’s pride and joy.

The garden where he takes his ease

Mid climbing plants and flowery trees

That lift their proud tops to the skies,

Dear to the tyrant as his eyes.

Then will he rouse in wrath, and lead

His legions with the car and steed

And elephants in long array,

And seek me thirsty for the fray.

The Rákshas legions will I meet,

And all his bravest host defeat;

Then, glorious from the bloody plain,

Turn to my lord the king again.”

Then every lovely tree that bore

Fair blossoms, from the soil he tore,

Till each green bough that lent its shade

To singing birds on earth was laid.

The wilderness he left a waste,

The fountains shattered and defaced:

O’erthrew and levelled with the ground

Each shady seat and pleasure-mound.

Each arbour clad with climbing bloom,

Each grotto, cell, and picture room,

Each lawn by beast and bird enjoyed,

Each walk and terrace was destroyed.

And all the place that was so fair

Was left a ruin wild and bare,

As if the fury of the blast

Or raging fire had o’er it passed.

Canto XLII. The Giants Roused.

The cries of startled birds, the sound

Of tall trees crashing to the ground,

Struck with amaze each giant’s ear,

And filled the isle with sudden fear.

Then, wakened by the crash and cries,

The fierce shefiends unclosed their eyes,

And saw the Vánar where he stood

Amid the devastated wood.

The more to scare them with the view

To size immense the Vánar grew;

And straight the Rákshas warders cried

Janak’s daughter terrified

“Whose envoy, whence, and who is he,

Why has he come to talk with thee?

Speak, lady of the lovely eyes,

And let not fear thy joy disguise.”

Then thus replied the Maithil dame

Of noble soul and perfect frame.

“Can I discern, with scanty skill,

These fiends who change their forms at will?

’Tis yours to say: your kin you meet;

A serpent knows a serpent’s feet.

I weet not who he is: the sight

Has filled my spirit with affright.”

Some pressed round Sítá in a ring;

Some bore the story to their king:

“A mighty creature of our race,

In monkey form, has reached the place.

He came within the grove,” they cried,

“He stood and talked by Sítá’s side,

He comes from Indra’s court to her,

Or is Kuvera’s messenger;

Or Ráma sent the spy to seek

His consort, and her wrongs to wreak.

His crushing arm, his trampling feet

Have marred and spoiled that dear retreat,

And all the pleasant place which thou

So lovest is a ruin now.

The tree where Sítá sat alone

Is spared where all are overthrown.

Perchance he saved the dame from harm:

Perchance the toil had numbed his arm.”

Then flashed the giant’s eye with fire

Like that which lights the funeral pyre.

He bade his bravest Kinkars(871) speed

And to his feet the spoiler lead.

Forth from the palace, at his hest,

Twice forty thousand warriors pressed.

Burning for battle, strong and fierce,

With clubs to crush and swords to pierce,

They saw Hanúmán near a porch,

And, thick as moths around a torch,

Rushed on the foe with wild attacks

Of mace and club and battle-axe.

As round him pressed the Rákshas crowd,

The wondrous monkey roared aloud,

That birds fell headlong from the sky:

Then spake he with a mighty cry:

“Long life to Daśaratha’s heir,

And Lakshmaṇ, ever-glorious pair!

Long life to him who rules our race,

Preserved by noblest Ráma’s grace!

I am the slave of Kośal’s king,(872)

Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.

Hanúmán I, the Wind-God’s seed:

Beneath this arm the foemen bleed.

I fear not, unapproached in might,

A thousand Rávaṇ’s ranged for fight,

Although in furious hands they rear

The hill and tree for sword and spear,

I will, before the giants’ eyes,

Their city and their king chastise;

And, having communed with the dame,

Depart in triumph as I came.”

At that terrific roar and yell

The heart of every giant fell.

But still their king’s command they feared

And pressed around with arms upreared.

Beside the porch a club was laid:

The Vánar caught it up, and swayed

The weapon round his head, and slew

The foremost of the Rákshas crew.

Thus Indra vanquished, thousand-eyed,

The Daityas who the Gods defied.

Then on the porch Hanúmán sprang,

And loud his shout of triumph rang.

The giants looked upon the dead,

And turning to their monarch fled.

And Rávaṇ with his spirit wrought

To frenzy by the tale they brought,

Urged to the fight Prahasta’s son,

Of all his chiefs the mightiest one.

Canto XLIII. The Ruin Of The Temple.

The Wind-God’s son a temple(873) scaled

Which, by his fury unassailed,

High as the hill of Meru, stood

Amid the ruins of the wood;

And in his fury thundered out

Again his haughty battle-shout:

“I am the slave of Kośal’s King

Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.”

Forth hurried, by that shout alarmed,

The warders of the temple armed

With every weapon haste supplied,

And closed him in on every side,

With bands that strove to pierce and strike

With shaft and axe and club and pike.

Then from its base the Vánar tore

A pillar with the weight it bore.

Against the wall the mass he dashed,

And forth the flames in answer flashed,

That wildly ran o’er roofs and wall

In hungry rage consuming all.

He whirled the pillar round his head

And struck a hundred giants dead.

Then high upheld on air he rose

And called in thunder to his foes:

“A thousand Vánar chiefs like me

Roam at their will o’er land and sea,

Terrific might we all possess:

Our stormy speed is limitless.

And all, unconquered in the fray,

Our king Sugríva’s word obey.

Backed by his bravest myriads, he

Our warrior lord will cross the sea.

Then Lanká’s lofty towers, and all

Your hosts and Rávaṇ’s self shall fall.

None shall be left unslaughtered; none

Who braves the wrath of Raghu’s son.”

Canto XLIV. Jambumáli’s Death.

Then Jambumáli, pride and boast

For valour of the Rákshas host,

Prahasta’s son supremely brave,

Obeyed the hest that Rávaṇ gave:

Fierce warrior with terrific teeth,

With saguine robes and brilliant wreath.

A bow like Indra’s own(874), and store

Of glittering shafts the chieftain bore.

And ever as the string he tried

The weapon with a roar replied,

Loud as the crashing thunder sent

By him who rules the firmament.

Soon as the foeman came in view

Borne on a car which asses drew,

The Vánar chieftain mighty-voiced

Shouted in triumph and rejoiced.

Prahasta’s son his bow-string drew,

And swift the winged arrows flew,

One in the face the Vánar smote,

Another quivered in his throat.

Ten from the deadly weapon sent

His brawny arms and shoulders rent.

Then as he felt each galling shot

The Vánar’s rage waxed fiercely hot.

He looked, and saw a mass of stone

That lay before his feet o’erthrown.

The mighty block he raised and threw,

And crashing through the air it flew.

But Jambumáli shunned the blow,

And rained fresh arrows from his bow.

The Vánar’s limbs were red with gore:

A Sál tree from the earth he tore,

And, ere he hurled it undismayed,

Above his head the missile swayed.

But shafts from Jambumáli’s bow

Cut through it ere his hand could throw.

And thigh and arm and chest and side

With streams of rushing blood were dyed.

Still unsubdued though wounded oft

The shattered trunk he raised aloft,

And down with well-directed aim

On Jambumáli’s chest it came.

There crushed upon the trampled grass

He lay an undistinguished mass,

The foeman’s eye no more could see

His head or chest or arm or knee.

And bow and car and steeds(875) and store

Of glittering shafts were seen no more.

When Jambumáli’s death he heard,

King Rávaṇ’s heart with rage was stirred

And forth his general’s sons he sent,

For power and might preeminent.

Canto XLV. The Seven Defeated.

Forth went the seven in brave attire,

In glory brilliant as the fire,

Impetuous chiefs with massive bows,

The quellers of a host of foes:

Trained from their youth in martial lore,

And masters of the arms they bore:

Each emulous and fiercely bold,

And banners wrought with glittering gold

Waved o’er their chariots, drawn at speed

By coursers of the noblest breed.

On through the ruins of the grove

At Hanumán they fiercely drove,

And from the ponderous bows they strained

A shower of deadly arrows rained.

Then scarce was seen the Vánar’s form

Enveloped in the arrowy storm.

So stands half veiled the Mountains’ King

When rainy clouds about him cling.

By nimble turn, by rapid bound

He shunned the shafts that rained around,

Eluding, as in air he rose,

The rushing chariots of his foes.

The mighty Vánar undismayed

Amid his archer foemen played,

As plays the frolic wind on high

Mid bow-armed(876) clouds that fill the sky.

He raised a mighty roar and yell

That fear on all the army fell,

And then, his warrior soul aglow

With fury, rushed upon the foe,

Some with his open hand he beat

To death and trampled with his feet;

Some with fierce nails he rent and slew,

And others with his fists o’erthrew;

Some with his legs, as on he rushed,

Some with his bulky chest he crushed;

While some struck senseless by his roar

Dropped on the ground and breathed no more,

The remnant, seized with sudden dread,

Turned from the grove and wildly fled.

The trampled earth was thickly strown

With steed and car and flag o’erthrown,

And the red blood in rivers flowed

From slaughtered fiends o’er path and road.

Canto XLVI. The Captains.

Mad with the rage of injured pride

King Rávaṇ summoned to his side

The valiant five who led his host,

Supreme in war and honoured most.

“Go forth,” he cried, “with car and steed,

And to my feet this monkey lead,

But watch each chance of time and place

To seize this thing of silvan race.

For from his wondrous exploits he

No monkey of the woods can be,

But some new kind of creature meant

To work us woe, by Indra sent.

Gandharvas, Nágas, and the best

Of Yakshas have our might confessed.

Have we not challenged and subdued

The whole celestial multitude?

Yet will you not, if you are wise,

A chief of monkey race despise.

For I myself have Báli known,

And King Sugríva’s power I own.

But none of all their woodland throng

Was half so terrible and strong.”

Obedient to the words he spake

They hastened forth the foe to take.

Swift were the cars whereon they rode,

And bright their weapons flashed and glowed.

They saw: they charged in wild career

With sword and mace and axe and spear.

From Durdhar’s bow five arrows sped

And quivered in the Vánar’s head.

He rose and roared: the fearful sound

Made all the region echo round.

Then from above his weight he threw

On Durdhar’s car that near him drew.

The weight that came with lightning speed

Crushed pole and axle, car and steed.

It shattered Durdhar’s head and neck,

And left him lifeless mid the wreck.

Yúpáksha saw the warrior die,

And Virúpáksha heard his cry,

And, mad for vengeance for the slain,

They charged their Vánar foe again.

He rose in air: they onward pressed

And fiercely smote him on the breast.

In vain they struck his iron frame:

With eagle swoop to earth he came,

Tore from the ground a tree that grew

Beside him, and the demons slew.

Then Bhásakama raised his spear,

And Praghas with a laugh drew near,

And, maddened at the sight, the two

Against the undaunted Vánar flew.

As from his wounds the torrents flowed,

Like a red sun the Vánar showed.

He turned, a mountain peak to seize

With all its beasts and snakes and trees.

He hurled it on the pair: and they

Crushed, overwhelmed, beneath it lay.

Canto XLVII. The Death Of Aksha.

But Rávaṇ, as his fury burned,

His eyes on youthful Aksha(877) turned,

Who rose impetuous at his glance

And shouted for his bow and lance.

He rode upon a glorious car

That shot the light of gems afar.

His pennon waved mid glittering gold

And bright the wheels with jewels rolled,

By long and fierce devotion won

That car was splendid as the sun.

With rows of various weapons stored;

And thought-swift horses whirled their lord

Racing along the earth, or rose

High through the clouds whene’er he chose.

Then fierce and fearful war between

The Vánar and the fiend was seen.

The Gods and Asurs stood amazed,

And on the wondrous combat gazed.

A cry from earth rose long and shrill,

The wind was hushed, the sun grew chill.

The thunder bellowed from the sky,

And troubled ocean roared reply.

Thrice Aksha strained his dreadful bow,

Thrice smote his arrow on the foe,

And with full streams of crimson bled

Three gashes in the Vánar’s head.

Then rose Hanúmán in the air

To shun the shafts no life could bear.

But Aksha in his car pursued,

And from on high the fight renewed

With storm of arrows, thick as hail

When angry clouds some hill assail.

Impatient of that arrowy shower

The Vánar chief put forth his power,

Again above his chariot rose

And smote him with repeated blows.

Terrific came each deadly stroke:

Breast neck and arm and back he broke;

And Aksha fell to earth, and lay

With all his life-blood drained away.

Canto XLVIII. Hanumán Captured.

To Indrajít(878) the bold and brave

The giant king his mandate gave:

“O trained in warlike science, best

In arms of all our mightiest,

Whose valour in the conflict shown

To Asurs and to Gods is known,

The Kinkars whom I sent are slain,

And Jambumálí and his train;

The lords who led our giant bands

Have fallen by the monkey’s hands;

With shattered cars the ground is spread,

And Aksha lies amid the dead.

Thou art my best and bravest: go,

Unmatched in power, and slay the foe.”

He heard the hest: he bent his head;

Athirst for battle forth he sped.

Four tigers fierce, of tawny hue,

With fearful teeth, his chariot drew.

Hanúmán heard his strong bow clang,

And swiftly from the earth he sprang,

While weak and ineffective fell

The archer’s shafts though pointed well.

The Rákshas saw that naught might kill

The wondrous foe who mocked his skill,

And launched a magic shaft to throw

A binding spell about his foe.

Forth flew the shaft: the mystic charm

Stayed his swift feet and numbed his arm,

Through all his frame he felt the spell,

And motionless to earth he fell.

Nor would the reverent Vánar loose

The bonds that bound him as a noose.

He knew that Brahmá’s self had charmed

The weapon that his might disarmed.

They saw him helpless on the ground,

And all the giants pressed around,

And bonds of hemp and bark were cast

About his limbs to hold him fast.

They drew the ropes round feet and wrists;

They beat him with their hands and fists,

And dragged him as they strained the cord

With shouts of triumph to their lord.(879)

Canto XLIX. Rávan.

On the fierce king Hanúmán turned

His angry eyes that glowed and burned.

He saw him decked with wealth untold

Of diamond and pearl and gold,

And priceless was each wondrous gem

That sparkled in his diadem.

About his neck rich chains were twined,

The best that fancy e’er designed,

And a fair robe with pearls bestrung

Down from his mighty shoulders hung.

Ten heads he reared,(880) as Mandar’s hill

Lifts woody peaks which tigers fill,

Bright were his eyes, and bright, beneath,

The flashes of his awful teeth.

His brawny arms of wondrous size

Were decked with rings and scented dyes.

His hands like snakes with five long heads

Descending from their mountain beds.

He sat upon a crystal throne

Inlaid with wealth of precious stone,

Whereon, of noblest work, was set

A gold-embroidered coverlet.

Behind the monarch stood the best

Of beauteous women gaily dressed,

And each her giant master fanned,

Or waved a chourie in her hand.

Four noble courtiers(881) wise and good

In counsel, near the monarch stood,

As the four oceans ever stand

About the sea-encompassed land.

Still, though his heart with rage was fired,

The Vánar marvelled and admired:

“O what a rare and wondrous sight!

What beauty, majesty, and might!

All regal pomp combines to grace

This ruler of the Rákshas race.

He, if he scorned not right and law,

Might guide the world with tempered awe:

Yea, Indra and the Gods on high

Might on his saving power rely.”

Canto L. Prahasta’s Questions.

Then fierce the giant’s fury blazed

As on Hanúmán’s form he gazed,

And shaken by each wild surmise

He spake aloud with flashing eyes:

“Can this be Nandi(882) standing here,

The mighty one whom all revere?

Who once on high Kailása’s hill

Pronounced the curse that haunts me still?

Or is the woodland creature one

Of Asur race, or Bali’s(883) son?

The wretch with searching question try:

Learn who he is, and whence; and why

He marred the glory of the grove,

And with my captains fiercely strove.”

Prahasta heard his lord’s behest,

And thus the Vánar chief addressed:

“O monkey stranger be consoled:

Fear not, and let thy heart be bold.

If thou by Indra’s mandate sent

Thy steps to Lanká’s isle hast bent,

With fearless words the cause explain,

And freedom thou shalt soon regain.

Or if thou comest as a spy

Despatched by Vishṇu in the sky,

Or sent by Yáma, or the Lord

Of Riches, hast our town explored;

Proved by the prowess thou hast shown

No monkey save in form alone;

Speak boldly all the truth, and be

Released from bonds, unharmed and free.

But falsehood spoken to our king

Swift punishment of death will bring.”

He ceased: the Vánar made reply;

“Not Indra’s messenger am I,

Nor came I hither to fulfil

Kuvera’s hest or Vishṇu’s will.

I stand before the giants here

A Vánar e’en as I appear.

I longed to see the king: ’twas hard

To win my way through gate and guard.

And so to gain my wish I laid

In ruin that delightful shade.

No fiend, no God of heavenly kind

With bond or chain these limbs may bind.

The Eternal Sire himself of old

Vouchsafed the boon that makes me bold,

From Brahmá’s magic shaft released(884)

I knew the captor’s power had ceased,

The fancied bonds I freely brooked,

And thus upon the king have looked.

My way to Lanká have I won,

A messenger from Raghu’s son.”

Canto LI. Hanumán’s Reply.

“My king Sugríva greets thee fair,

And bids me thus his rede declare.

Son of the God of Wind, by name

Hanumán, to this isle I came.

To set the Maithil lady free

I crossed the barrier of the sea.

I roamed in search of her and found

Her weeping in that lovely ground.

Thou in the lore of duty trained,

Who hast by stern devotion gained

This wondrous wealth and power and fame

Shouldst fear to wrong another’s dame.

Hear thou my counsel, and be wise:

No fiend, no dweller in the skies

Can bear the shafts by Lakshmaṇ shot,

Or Ráma when his wrath is hot.

O Giant King, repent the crime

And soothe him while there yet is time.

Now be the Maithil queen restored

Uninjured to her sorrowing lord.

Soon wilt thou rue thy dire mistake:

She is no woman but a snake,

Whose very deadly bite will be

The ruin of thy house and thee.

Thy pride has led thy thoughts astray,

That fancy not a hand may slay

The monarch of the giants, screened

From mortal blow of God and fiend.

Sugríva still thy death may be:

No Yaksha, fiend, or God is he,

And Ráma from a woman springs,

The mortal seed of mortal kings.

O think how Báli fell subdued;

Think on thy slaughtered multitude.

Respect those brave and strong allies;

Consult thy safety, and be wise.

I, even I, no helper need

To overthrow, with car and steed,

Thy city Lanká half divine:

The power but not the will is mine.

For Raghu’s son, before his friend

The Vánar monarch, swore to end

With his own conquering arm the life

Of him who stole his darling wife.

Turn, and be wise, O Rávaṇ turn;

Or thou wilt see thy Lanká burn,

And with thy wives, friends, kith and kin

Be ruined for thy senseless sin.”

Canto LII. Vibhishan’s Speech.

Then Rávaṇ spake with flashing eye:

“Hence with the Vánar: let him die.”

Vibhishaṇ heard the stern behest,

And pondered in his troubled breast;

Then, trained in arts that soothe and please

Addressed the king in words like these:

“Revoke, my lord, thy fierce decree,

And hear the words I speak to thee.

Kings wise and noble ne’er condemn

To death the envoys sent to them.

Such deed the world’s contempt would draw

On him who breaks the ancient law.(885)

Observe the mean where justice lies,

And spare his life but still chastise.”

Then forth the tyrant’s fury broke,

And thus in angry words he spoke:

“O hero, when the wicked bleed

No sin or shame attends the deed.

The Vánar’s blood must needs be spilt,

The penalty of heinous guilt.”

Again Vibhishaṇ made reply:

“Nay, hear me, for he must not die.

Hear the great law the wise declare:

“Thy foeman’s envoy thou shalt spare.”

’Tis true he comes an open foe:

’Tis true his hands have wrought us woe,

But law allows thee, if thou wilt,

A punishment to suit the guilt.

The mark of shame, the scourge, the brand,

The shaven head, the wounded hand.

Yea, were the Vánar envoy slain,

Where, King of giants, were the gain?

On them alone, on them who sent

The message, be the punishment.

For spake he well or spake he ill,

He spake obedient to their will,

And, if he perish, who can bear

Thy challenge to the royal pair?

Who, cross the ocean and incite

Thy death-doomed enemies to fight?”

Canto LIII. The Punishment.

King Rávaṇ, by his pleading moved,

The counsel of the chief approved:

“Thy words are wise and true: to kill

An envoy would beseem us ill.

Yet must we for his crime invent

Some fitting mode of punishment.

The tail, I fancy, is the part

Most cherished by a monkey’s heart.

Make ready: set his tail aflame,

And let him leave us as he came,

And thus disfigured and disgraced

Back to his king and people haste.”

The giants heard their monarch’s speech;

And, filled with burning fury, each

Brought strips of cotton cloth, and round

The monkey’s tail the bandage wound.

As round his tail the bands they drew

His mighty form dilating grew

Vast as the flame that bursts on high

Where trees are old and grass is dry.

Each band and strip they soaked in oil,

And set on fire the twisted coil.

Delighted as they viewed the blaze,

The cruel demons stood at gaze:

And mid loud drums and shells rang out

The triumph of their joyful shout.

They pressed about him thick and fast

As through the crowded streets he passed,

Observing with attentive care

Each rich and wondrous structure there,

Still heedless of the eager cry

That rent the air, The spy! the spy!

Some to the captive lady ran,

And thus in joyous words began:

“That copper-visaged monkey, he

Who in the garden talked with thee,

Through Lanká’s town is led a show,

And round his tail the red flames glow.”

The mournful news the lady heard

That with fresh grief her bosom stirred.

Swift to the kindled fire she went

And prayed before it reverent:

“If I my husband have obeyed,

And kept the ascetic vows I made,

Free, ever free, from stain and blot,

O spare the Vánar; harm him not.”

Then leapt on high the flickering flame

And shone in answer to the dame.

The pitying fire its rage forbore:

The Vánar felt the heat no more.

Then, to minutest size reduced,

The bonds that bound his limbs he loosed,

And, freed from every band and chain,

Rose to his native size again.

He seized a club of ponderous weight

That lay before him by the gate,

Rushed at the fiends that hemmed him round,

And laid them lifeless on the ground.

Through Lanká’s town again he strode,

And viewed each street and square and road,—

Still wreathed about with harmless blaze,

A sun engarlanded with rays.

Canto LIV. The Burning Of Lanká.

“What further deed remains to do

To vex the Rákshas king anew?

The beauty of his grove is marred,

Killed are the bravest of his guard.

The captains of his host are slain;

But forts and palaces remain,

Swift is the work and light the toil

Each fortress of the foe to spoil.”

Reflecting thus, his tail ablaze

As through the cloud red lightning plays,

He scaled the palaces and spread

The conflagration where he sped.

From house to house he hurried on,

And the wild flames behind him shone.

Each mansion of the foe he scaled,

And furious fire its roof assailed

Till all the common ruin shared:

Vibhishaṇ’s house alone was spared.

From blazing pile to pile he sprang,

And loud his shout of triumph rang,

As roars the doomsday cloud when all

The worlds in dissolution fall.

The friendly wind conspired to fan

The hungry flames that leapt and ran,

And spreading in their fury caught

The gilded walls with pearls inwrought,

Till each proud palace reeled and fell

As falls a heavenly citadel.

Loud was the roar the demons raised

Mid walls that split and beams that blazed,

As each with vain endeavour strove

To stay the flames in house or grove.

The women, with dishevelled hair,

Flocked to the roofs in wild despair,

Shrieked out for succour, wept aloud,

And fell, like lightning from a cloud.

He saw the flames ascend and curl

Round turkis, diamond, and pearl,

While silver floods and molten gold

From ruined wall and latice rolled.

As fire grows fiercer as he feeds

On wood and grass and crackling reeds,

So Hanúmán the ruin eyed

With fury still unsatisfied.

Canto LV. Fear For Sítá.

But other thoughts resumed their sway

When Lanká’s town in ruin lay;

And, as his bosom felt their weight

He stood a while to meditate.

“What have I done?”, he thought with shame,

“Destroyed the town with hostile flame.

O happy they whose firm control

Checks the wild passion of the soul;

Who on the fires of anger throw

The cooling drops that check their glow.

But woe is me, whom wrath could lead

To do this senseless shameless deed.

The town to fire and death I gave,

Nor thought of her I came to save,—

Doomed by my own rash folly, doomed

To perish in the flames consumed.

If I, when anger drove me wild,

Have caused the death of Janak’s child,

The kindled flame shall end my woe,

Or the deep fires that burn below,(886)

Or my forsaken corse shall be

Food for the monsters of the sea.

How can I meet Sugríva? how

Before the royal brothers bow,—

I whose rash deed has madly foiled,

The noble work in which we toiled?

Or has her own bright virtue shed

Its guardian influence round her head?

She lives untouched,—the peerless dame;

Flame has no fury for the flame.(887)

The very fire would ne’er consent

To harm a queen so excellent,—

The high-souled Ráma’s faithful wife,

Protected by her holy life.

She lives, she lives. Why should I fear

For one whom Raghu’s sons hold dear?

Has not the pitying fire that spared

The Vánar for the lady cared?”

Such were his thoughts: he pondered long,

And fear grew faint and hope grew strong.

Then round him heavenly voices rang,

And, sweetly tuned, his praises sang:

“O glorious is the exploit done

By Hanumán the Wind-God’s son.

The flames o’er Lanká’s city rise:

The giants’ home in ruin lies.

O’er roof and wall the fires have spread,

Nor harmed a hair of Sítá’s head.”

Canto LVI. Mount Arishta.

He looked upon the burning waste,

Then sought the queen in joyous haste,

With words of hope consoled her heart,

And made him ready to depart.

He scaled Arishṭa’s glorious steep

Whose summits beetled o’er the deep.

The woods in varied beauty dressed

Hung like a garland round his crest,

And clouds of ever changing hue

A robe about his shoulders threw.

On him the rays of morning fell

To wake the hill they loved so well,

And bid unclose those splendid eyes

That glittered in his mineral dyes.

He woke to hear the music made

By thunders of the white cascade,

While every laughing rill that sprang

From crag to crag its carol sang.

For arms, he lifted to the stars

His towering stems of Deodárs,

And morning heard his pealing call

In tumbling brook and waterfall.

He trembled when his woods were pale

And bowed beneath the autumn gale,

And when his vocal reeds were stirred

His melancholy moan was heard.

Far down against the mountain’s feet

The Vánar heard the wild waves beat;

Then turned his glances to the north.

Sprang from the peak and bounded forth,

The mountain felt the fearful shock

And trembled through his mass of rock.

The tallest trees were crushed and rent

And headlong to the valley sent,

And as the rocking shook each cave

Loud was the roar the lions gave.

Forth from the shaken cavern came

Fierce serpents with their tongues aflame;

And every Yaksha, wild with dread,

And Kinnar and Gandharva, fled.

Canto LVII. Hanumán’s Return.

Still, like a winged mountain, he

Sprang forward through the airy sea,(888)

And rushing through the ether drew

The clouds to follow as he flew,

Through the great host around him spread,

Grey, golden, dark, and white, and red.

Now in a sable cloud immersed,

Now from its gloomy pall he burst,

Like the bright Lord of Stars concealed

A moment, and again revealed.

Sunábha(889) passed, he neared the coast

Where waited still the Vánar host.

They heard a rushing in the skies,

And lifted up their wondering eyes.

His wild triumphant shout they knew

That louder still and louder grew,

And Jámbaván with eager voice

Called on the Vánars to rejoice:

“Look he returns, the Wind-God’s son,

And full success his toils have won;

Triumphant is the shout that comes

Like music of a thousand drums.”

Up sprang the Vánars from the ground

And listened to the wondrous sound

Of hurtling arm and thigh as through

The region of the air he flew,

Loud as the wind, when tempests rave,

Roars in the prison of the cave.

From crag to crag, from height to height;

They bounded in their mad delight,

And when he touched the mountain’s crest,

With reverent welcome round him pressed.

They brought him of their woodland fruits,

They brought him of the choicest roots,

And laughed and shouted in their glee

The noblest of their chiefs to see.

Nor Hanumán delayed to greet

Sage Jámbaván with reverence meet;

To Angad and the chiefs he bent

For age and rank preëminent,

And briefly spoke: “These eyes have seen,

These lips addressed, the Maithil queen.”

They sat beneath the waving trees,

And Angad spoke in words like these:

“O noblest of the Vánar kind

For valour power and might combined,

To thee triumphant o’er the foe

Our hopes, our lives and all we owe.

O faithful heart in perils tried,

Which toil nor fear could turn aside,

Thy deed the lady will restore,

And Ráma’s heart will ache no more.”(890)

Canto LVIII. The Feast Of Honey.

They rose in air: the region grew

Dark with their shadow as they flew.

Swift to a lovely grove(891) they came

That rivalled heavenly Nandan’s(892) fame;

Where countless bees their honey stored,—

The pleasance of the Vánars’ lord,

To every creature fenced and barred,

Which Dadhimukh was set to guard,

A noble Vánar, brave and bold,

Sugríva’s uncle lofty-souled.

To Angad came with one accord

The Vánars, and besought their lord

That they those honeyed stores might eat

That made the grove so passing sweet.

He gave consent: they sought the trees

Thronged with innumerable bees.

They rifled all the treasured store,

And ate the fruit the branches bore,

And still as they prolonged the feast

Their merriment and joy increased.

Drunk with the sweets, they danced and bowed,

They wildly sang, they laughed aloud,

Some climbed and sprang from tree to tree,

Some sat and chattered in their glee.

Some scaled the trees which creepers crowned,

And rained the branches to the ground.

There with loud laugh a Vánar sprang

Close to his friend who madly sang,

In doleful mood another crept

To mix his tears with one who wept.

Then Dadhimukh with fury viewed

The intoxicated multitude.

He looked upon the rifled shade,

And all the ruin they had made;

Then called with angry voice, and strove

To save the remnant of the grove.

But warning cries and words were spurned,

And angry taunt and threat returned.

Then fierce and wild contention rose:

With furious words he mingled blows.

They by no shame or fear withheld,

By drunken mood and ire impelled,

Used claws, and teeth, and hands, and beat

The keeper under trampling feet.

[Three Cantos consisting of little but repetitions are omitted. Dadhimukh

escapes from the infuriated monkeys and hastens to Sugríva to report their

misconduct. Sugríva infers that Hanumán and his band have been successful

in their search, and that the exuberance of spirits and the mischief

complained of, are but the natural expression of their joy. Dadhimukh

obtains little sympathy from Sugríva, and is told to return and send the

monkeys on with all possible speed.]

Canto LXV. The Tidings.

On to Praśravaṇ’s hill they sped

Where blooming trees their branches spread.

To Raghu’s sons their heads they bent

And did obeisance reverent.

Then to their king, by Angad led,

Each Vánar chieftain bowed his head;

And Hanumán the brave and bold

His tidings to the monarch told;

But first in Ráma’s hand he placed

The gem that Sítá’s brow had graced:

“I crossed the sea: I searched a while

For Sítá in the giants’ isle.

I found her vext with taunt and threat

By demon guards about her set.

Her tresses twined in single braid,

On the bare earth her limbs were laid.

Sad were her eyes: her cheeks were pale

As shuddering flowers in winter’s gale.

I stood beside the weeping dame,

And gently whispered Ráma’s name:

With cheering words her grief consoled,

And then the whole adventure told.

She weeps afar beyond the sea,

And her true heart is still with thee.

She gave a sign that thou wouldst know,

She bids thee think upon the crow,

And bright mark pressed upon her brow

When none was nigh but she and thou.

She bids thee take this precious stone,

The sea-born gem thou long hast known.

“And I,” she said, “will dull the sting

Of woe by gazing on the ring.

One little month shall I sustain

This life oppressed with woe and pain:

And when the month is ended, I

The giants’ prey must surely die.’ ”

Canto LXVI. Ráma’s Speech.

There ceased the Vánar: Ráma pressed

The treasured jewel to his breast,

And from his eyes the waters broke

As to the Vánar king he spoke:

“As o’er her babe the mother weeps,

This flood of tears the jewel steeps.

This gem that shone on Sítá’s head

Was Janak’s gift when we were wed,

And the pure brow that wore it lent

New splendour to the ornament.

This gem, bright offspring of the wave,

The King of Heaven to Janak gave,

Whose noble sacrificial rite

Had filled the God with new delight.

Now, as I gaze upon the prize,

Methinks I see my father’s eyes.

Methinks I see before me stand

The ruler of Videha’s land.(893)

Methinks mine arms are folded now

Round her who wore it on her brow.

Speak, Hanumán, O say, dear friend,

What message did my darling send?

O speak, and let thy words impart

Their gentle dew to cool my heart.

Ah, ’tis the crown of woe to see

This gem and ask “Where, where is she?”

If for one month her heart be strong,

Her days of life will yet be long.

But I, with naught to lend relief,

This very day must die of grief.

Come, Hanumán, and quickly guide

The mourner to his darling’s side.

O lead me—thou hast learnt the way—

I cannot and I will not stay.

How can my gentle love endure,

So timid, delicate, and pure,

The dreadful demons fierce and vile

Who watch her in the guarded isle?

No more the light of beauty shines

From Sítá as she weeps and pines.

But pain and sorrow, cloud on cloud

Her moonlight glory dim and shroud.

O speak, dear Hanumán, and tell

Each word that from her sweet lips fell,

Her words, her words alone can give

The healing balm to make me live.”(894)

BOOK VI.(895)

Canto I. Ráma’s Speech.

The son of Raghu heard, consoled,

The wondrous tale Hanumán told;

And, as his joyous hope grew high,

In friendly words he made reply:

“Behold a mighty task achieved,

Which never heart but his conceived.

Who else across the sea can spring,

Save Váyu(896) and the Feathered King?(897)

Who, pass the portals strong and high

Which Nágas,(898) Gods, and fiends defy,

Where Rávaṇ’s hosts their station keep,—

And come uninjured o’er the deep?

By such a deed the Wind-God’s son

Good service to the king has done,

And saved from ruin and disgrace

Lakshmaṇ and me and Raghu’s race.

Well has he planned and bravely fought,

And with due care my lady sought.

But of the sea I sadly think,

And the sweet hopes that cheered me sink.

How can we cross the leagues of foam

That keep us from the giant’s home?

What can the Vánar legions more

Than muster on the ocean shore?”

Canto II. Sugríva’s Speech.

He ceased: and King Sugríva tried

To calm his grief, and thus replied:

“’Be to thy nobler nature true,

Nor let despair thy soul subdue.

This cloud of causeless woe dispel,

For all as yet has prospered well,

And we have traced thy queen, and know

The dwelling of our Rákshas foe.

Arise, consult: thy task must be

To cast a bridge athwart the sea,

The city of our foe to reach

That crowns the mountain by the beach;

And when our feet that isle shall tread,

Rejoice and deem thy foeman dead.

The sea unbridged, his walls defy

Both fiends and children of the sky,

Though at the fierce battalions’ head

Lord Indra’s self the onset led.

Yea, victory is thine before

The long bridge touch the farther shore,

So fleet and fierce and strong are these

Who limb them as their fancies please.

Away with grief and sad surmise

That mar the noblest enterprise,

And with their weak suspicion blight

The sage’s plan, the hero’s might.

Come, this degenerate weakness spurn,

And bid thy dauntless heart return,

For each fair hope by grief is crossed

When those we love are dead or lost.

Arise, O best of those who know,

Arm for the giant’s overthrow.

None in the triple world I see

Who in the fight may equal thee;

None who before thy face may stand

And brave the bow that arms thy hand,

Trust to these mighty Vánars: they

With full success thy trust will pay,

When thou shalt reach the robber’s hold,

And loving arms round Sítá fold.”

Canto III. Lanká.

He ceased: and Raghu’s son gave heed,

Attentive to his prudent rede:

Then turned again, with hope inspired,

To Hanumán, and thus inquired:

“Light were the task for thee, I ween,

To bridge the sea that gleams between

The mainland and the island shore.

Or dry the deep and guide as o’er.

Fain would I learn from thee whose feet

Have trod the stones of every street,

Of fenced Lanká’s towers and forts,

And walls and moats and guarded ports,

And castles where the giants dwell,

And battlemented citadel.

O Váyu’s son, describe it all,

With palace, fort, and gate, and wall.”

He ceased: and, skilled in arts that guide

The eloquent, the chief replied:

“Vast is the city, gay and strong,

Where elephants unnumbered throng,

And countless hosts of Rákshas breed

Stand ready by the car and steed.

Four massive gates, securely barred,

All entrance to the city guard,

With murderous engines fixt to throw

Bolt, arrow, rock to check the foe,

And many a mace with iron head

That strikes at once a hundred dead.

Her golden ramparts wide and high

With massy strength the foe defy,

Where inner walls their rich inlay

Of coral, turkis, pearl display.

Her circling moats are broad and deep,

Where ravening monsters dart and leap.

By four great piers each moat is spanned

Where lines of deadly engines stand.

In sleepless watch at every gate

Unnumbered hosts of giants wait,

And, masters of each weapon, rear

The threatening pike and sword and spear.

My fury hurled those ramparts down,

Filled up the moats that gird the town,

The piers and portals overturned,

And stately Lanká spoiled and burned.

Howe’er we Vánars force our way

O’er the wide seat of Varuṇ’s(899) sway,

Be sure that city of the foe

Is doomed to sudden overthrow,

Nay, why so vast an army lead?

Brave Angad, Dwivid good at need,

Fierce Mainda, Panas famed in fight,

And Níla’s skill and Nala’s might,

And Jámbaván the strong and wise,

Will dare the easy enterprise.

Assailed by these shall Lanká fall

With gate and rampart, tower and wall.

Command the gathering, chief: and they

In happy hour will haste away.”

Canto IV. The March.

He ceased; and spurred by warlike pride

The impetuous son of Raghu cried:

“Soon shall mine arm with wrathful joy

That city of the foe destroy.

Now, chieftain, now collect the host,

And onward to the southern coast!

The sun in his meridian tower

Gives glory to the Vánar power.

The demon lord who stole my queen

By timely flight his life may screen.

She, when she knows her lord is near,

Will cling to hope and banish fear,

Saved like a dying wretch who sips

The drink of Gods with fevered lips.

Arise, thy troops to battle lead:

All happy omens counsel speed.

The Lord of Stars in favouring skies

Bodes glory to our enterprise.

This arm shall slay the fiend; and she,

My consort, shall again be free.

Mine upward-throbbing eye foreshows

The longed-for triumph o’er my foes.

Far in the van be Níla’s post,

To scan the pathway for the host,

And let thy bravest and thy best,

A hundred thousand, wait his hest.

Go forth, O warrior Níla, lead

The legions on through wood and mead

Where pleasant waters cool the ground,

And honey, flowers, and fruit abound.

Go, and with timely care prevent

The Rákshas foeman’s dark intent.

With watchful troops each valley guard

Ere brooks and fruits and roots be marred

And search each glen and leafy shade

For hostile troops in ambuscade.

But let the weaklings stay behind:

For heroes is our task designed.

Let thousands of the Vánar breed

The vanguard of the armies lead:

Fierce and terrific must it be

As billows of the stormy sea.

There be the hill-huge Gaja’s place,

And Gavaya’s, strongest of his race,

And, like the bull that leads the herd,

Gaváksha’s, by no fears deterred

Let Rishabh, matchless in the might

Of warlike arms, protect our right,

And Gandhamádan next in rank

Defend and guide the other flank.

I, like the God who rules the sky

Borne on Airávat(900) mounted high

On stout Hanúmán’s back will ride,

The central host to cheer and guide.

Fierce as the God who rules below,

On Angad’s back let Lakshmaṇ show

Like him who wealth to mortals shares,(901)

The lord whom Sárvabhauma(902) bears.

The bold Susheṇ’s impetuous might,

And Vegadarśí’s piercing sight,

And Jámbaván whom bears revere,

Illustrious three, shall guard the rear.”

He ceased, the royal Vánar heard,

And swift, obedient to his word,

Sprang forth in numbers none might tell

From mountain, cave, and bosky dell,

From rocky ledge and breezy height,

Fierce Vánars burning for the fight.

And Ráma’s course was southward bent

Amid the mighty armament.

On, joyous, pressed in close array

The hosts who owned Sugríva’s sway,

With nimble feet, with rapid bound

Exploring, ere they passed, the ground,

While from ten myriad throats rang out

The challenge and the battle shout.

On roots and honeycomb they fed,

And clusters from the boughs o’erhead,

Or from the ground the tall trees tore

Rich with the flowery load they bore.

Some carried comrades, wild with mirth,

Then cast their riders to the earth,

Who swiftly to their feet arose

And overthrew their laughing foes.

While still rang out the general cry,

“King Rávaṇ and his fiends shall die,”

Still on, exulting in the pride

Of conscious strength, the Vánars hied,

And gazed where noble Sahya, best

Of mountains, raised each towering crest.

They looked on lake and streamlet, where

The lotus bloom was bright and fair,

Nor marched—for Ráma’s hest they feared

Where town or haunt of men appeared.

Still onward, fearful as the waves

Of Ocean when he roars and raves,

Led by their eager chieftains, went

The Vánars’ countless armament.

Each captain, like a noble steed

Urged by the lash to double speed.

Pressed onward, filled with zeal and pride,

By Ráma’s and his brother’s side,

Who high above the Vánar throng

On mighty backs were borne along,

Like the great Lords of Day and Night

Seized by eclipsing planets might.

Then Lakshmaṇ radiant as the morn,

On Angad’s shoulders high upborne.

With sweet consoling words that woke

New ardour, to his brother spoke:

“Soon shalt thou turn, thy queen regained

And impious Rávaṇ’s life-blood drained,

In happiness and high renown

To dear Ayodhyá’s happy town.

I see around exceeding fair

All omens of the earth and air.

Auspicious breezes sweet and low

To greet the Vánar army blow,

And softly to my listening ear

Come the glad cries of bird and deer.

Bright is the sky around us, bright

Without a cloud the Lord of Light,

And Śukra(903) with propitious love

Looks on thee from his throne above.

The pole-star and the Sainted Seven(904)

Shine brightly in the northern heaven,

And great Triśanku,(905) glorious king,

Ikshváku’s son from whom we spring,

Beams in unclouded glory near

His holy priest(906) whom all revere.

Undimmed the two Viśákhás(907) shine,

The strength and glory of our line,

And Nairrit’s(908) influence that aids

Our Rákshas foemen faints and fades.

The running brooks are fresh and fair,

The boughs their ripening clusters bear,

And scented breezes gently sway

The leaflet of the tender spray.

See, with a glory half divine

The Vánars’ ordered legions shine,

Bright as the Gods’ exultant train

Who saw the demon Tárak slain.

O let thine eyes these signs behold,

And bid thy heart be glad and bold.”

The Vánar squadrons densely spread

O’er all the country onward sped,

While rising from the rapid beat

Of bears’ and monkeys’ hastening feet.

Dust hid the earth with thickest veil,

And made the struggling sunbeams pale.

Now where Mahendra’s peaks arise

Came Ráma of the lotus eyes

And the long arm’s resistless might,

And clomb the mountain’s wood-crowned height.

Thence Daśaratha’s son beheld

Where billowy Ocean rose and swelled,

Past Malaya’s peaks and Sahya’s chain

The Vánar legions reached the main,

And stood in many a marshalled band

On loud-resounding Ocean’s strand.

To the fair wood that fringed the tide

Came Daśaratha’s son, and cried:

“At length, my lord Sugríva, we

Have reached King Varuṇ’s realm the sea,

And one great thought, still-vexing, how

To cross the flood, awaits us now.

The broad deep ocean, that denies

A passage, stretched before us lies.

Then let us halt and plan the while

How best to storm the giant’s isle.”

He ceased: Sugríva on the coast

By trees o’ershadowed stayed the host,

That seemed in glittering lines to be

The bright waves of a second sea.

Then from the shore the captains gazed

On billows which the breezes raised

To fury, as they dashed in foam

O’er Varuṇ’s realm, the Asurs’ home:(909)

The sea that laughed with foam, and danced

With waves whereon the sunbeams glanced:

Where, when the light began to fade,

Huge crocodiles and monsters played;

And, when the moon went up the sky,

The troubled billows rose on high

From the wild watery world whereon

A thousand moons reflected shone:

Where awful serpents swam and showed

Their fiery crests which flashed and glowed,

Illumining the depths of hell,

The prison where the demons dwell.

The eye, bewildered, sought in vain

The bounding line of sky and main:

Alike in shade, alike in glow

Were sky above and sea below.

There wave-like clouds by clouds were chased,

Here cloud-like billows roared and raced:

Then shone the stars, and many a gem

That lit the waters answered them.

They saw the great-souled Ocean stirred

To frenzy by the winds, and heard,

Loud as ten thousand drums, the roar

Of wild waves dashing on the shore.

They saw him mounting to defy

With deafening voice the troubled sky.

And the deep bed beneath him swell

In fury as the billows fell.

Canto V. Ráma’s Lament.

There on the coast in long array

The Vánars’ marshalled legions lay,

Where Níla’s care had ordered well

The watch of guard and sentinel,

And Mainda moved from post to post

With Dwivid to protect the host.

Then Ráma stood by Lakshmaṇ’s side,

And mastered by his sorrow cried:

“My brother dear, the heart’s distress,

As days wear on, grows less and less.

But my deep-seated grief, alas,

Grows fiercer as the seasons pass.

Though for my queen my spirit longs,

And broods indignant o’er my wrongs,

Still wilder is my grief to know

That her young life is passed in woe.

Breathe, gentle gale, O breathe where she

Lies prisoned, and then breathe on me,

And, though my love I may not meet,

Thy kiss shall be divinely sweet.

Ah, by the giant’s shape appalled,

On her dear lord for help she called,

Still in mine ears the sad cry rings

And tears my heart with poison stings.

Through the long daylight and the gloom

Of night wild thoughts of her consume

My spirit, and my love supplies

The torturing flame which never dies.

Leave me, my brother; I will sleep

Couched on the bosom of the deep,

For the cold wave may bring me peace

And bid the fire of passion cease.

One only thought my stay must be,

That earth, one earth, holds her and me,

To hear, to know my darling lives

Some life-supporting comfort gives,

As streams from distant fountains run

O’er meadows parching in the sun.

Ah when, my foeman at my feet,

Shall I my queen, my glory, meet,

The blossom of her dear face raise

And on her eyes enraptured gaze,

Press her soft lips to mine again,

And drink a balm to banish pain!

Alas, alas! where lies she now,

My darling of the lovely brow?

On the cold earth, no help at hand,

Forlorn amid the Rákshas band,

King Janak’s child still calls on me,

Her lord and love, to set her free.

But soon in glory will she rise

A crescent moon in autumn skies,

And those dark rovers of the night,

Like scattered clouds shall turn in flight.”

Canto VI. Rávan’s Speech.

But when the giant king surveyed

His glorious town in ruin laid,

And each dire sign of victory won

By Hanumán the Wind-God’s son,

He vailed his angry eyes oppressed

By shame, and thus his lords addressed:

“The Vánar spy has passed the gate

Of Lanká long inviolate,

Eluded watch and ward, and seen

With his bold eyes the captive queen.

My royal roof with flames is red,

The bravest of my lords are dead,

And the fierce Vánar in his hate

Has left our city desolate.

Now ponder well the work that lies

Before us, ponder and advise.

With deep-observing judgment scan

The peril, and mature a plan.

From counsel, sages say, the root,

Springs victory, most glorious fruit.

First ranks the king, when woe impends

Who seeks the counsel of his friends,

Of kinsmen ever faithful found,

Or those whose hopes with his are bound,

Then with their aid his strength applies,

And triumphs in his enterprise.

Next ranks the prince who plans alone,

No counsel seeks to aid his own,

Weighs loss and gain and wrong and right,

And seeks success with earnest might.

Unwisest he who spurns delays,

Who counts no cost, no peril weighs,

Speeds to his aim, defying fate,

And risks his all, precipitate.

Thus too in counsel sages find

A best, a worst, a middle kind.

When gathered counsellors explore

The way by light of holy lore,

And all from first to last agree,

Is the best counsel of the three.

Next, if debate first waxes high,

And each his chosen plan would try

Till all agree at last, we deem

This counsel second in esteem.

Worst of the three is this, when each

Assails with taunt his fellow’s speech;

When all debate, and no consent

Concludes the angry argument.

Consult then, lords; my task shall be

To crown with act your wise decree.

With thousands of his wild allies

The vengeful Ráma hither hies;

With unresisted might and speed

Across the flood his troops will lead,

Or for the Vánar host will drain

The channels of the conquered main.”

Canto VII. Rávan Encouraged.

He ceased: they scorned, with blinded eyes,

The foeman and his bold allies,

Raised reverent hands with one accord,

And thus made answer to their lord:

“Why yield thee, King, to causeless fear?

A mighty host with sword and spear

And mace and axe and pike and lance

Waits but thy signal to advance.

Art thou not he who slew of old

The Serpent-Gods, and stormed their hold;

Scaled Mount Kailása and o’erthrew

Kuvera(910) and his Yaksha crew,

Compelling Śiva’s haughty friend

Beneath a mightier arm to bend?

Didst thou not bring from realms afar

The marvel of the magic car,

When they who served Kuvera fell

Crushed in their mountain citadel?

Attracted by thy matchless fame

To thee, a suppliant, Maya came,

The lord of every Dánav band,

And won thee with his daughter’s hand.

Thy arm in hell itself was felt,

Where Vásuki(911) and Śankha dwelt,

And they and Takshak, overthrown,

Were forced thy conquering might to own.

The Gods in vain their blessing gave

To heroes bravest of the brave,

Who strove a year and, sorely pressed,

Their victor’s peerless might confessed.

In vain their magic arts they tried,

In vain thy matchless arm defied

King Varuṇ’s sons with fourfold force,

Cars, elephants, and foot, and horse,

But for a while thy power withstood,

And, conquered, mourned their hardihood.

Thou hast encountered, face to face,

King Yáma(912) with his murdering mace.

Fierce as the wild tempestuous sea,

What terror had his wrath for thee,

Though death in every threatening form,

And woe and torment, urged the storm?

Thine arm a glorious victory won

O’er the dread king who pities none;

And the three worlds, from terror freed,

In joyful wonder praised thy deed.

The tribe of Warriors, strong and dread

As Indra’s self, o’er earth had spread;

As giant trees that towering stand

In mountain glens, they filled the land.

Can Raghu’s son encounter foes

Fierce, numerous, and strong as those?

Yet, trained in war and practised well,

O’ermatched by thee, they fought and fell,

Stay in thy royal home, nor care

The battle and the toil to share;

But let the easy fight be won

By Indrajít(913) thy matchless son.

All, all shall die, if thou permit,

Slain by the hand of Indrajít.”

Canto VIII. Prahasta’s Speech.

Dark as a cloud of autumn, dread

Prahasta joined his palms and said:

“Gandharvas, Gods, the hosts who dwell

In heaven, in air, in earth, in hell,

Have yielded to thy might, and how

Shall two weak men oppose thee now?

Hanúmán came, a foe disguised,

And mocked us heedless and surprised,

Or never had he lived to flee

And boast that he has fought with me.

Command, O King, and this right hand

Shall sweep the Vánars from the land,

And hill and dale, to Ocean’s shore,

Shall know the death-doomed race no more.

But let my care the means devise

To guard thy city from surprise.”

Then Durmukh cried, of Rákshas race:

“Too long we brook the dire disgrace.

He gave our city to the flames,

He trod the chambers of thy dames.

Ne’er shall so weak and vile a thing

Unpunished brave the giants’ king.

Now shall this single arm attack

And drive the daring Vánars back,

Till to the winds of heaven they flee,

Or seek the depths of earth and sea.”

Then, brandishing the mace he bore,

Whose horrid spikes were stained with gore,

While fury made his eyeballs red,

Impetuous Vajradanshṭra said:

“Why waste a thought on one so vile

As Hanúmán the Vánar, while

Sugríva, Lakshmaṇ, yet remain,

And Ráma mightier still, unslain?

This mace to-day shall crush the three,

And all the host will turn and flee.

Listen, and I will speak: incline,

O King, to hear these words of mine,

For the deep plan that I propose

Will swiftly rid thee of thy foes.

Let thousands of thy host assume

The forms of men in youthful bloom,

In war’s magnificent array

Draw near to Raghu’s son, and say:

“Thy younger brother Bharat sends

This army, and thy cause befriends.”

Then let our legions hasten near

With bow and mace and sword and spear,

And on the Vánar army rain

Our steel and stone till all be slain.

If Raghu’s sons will fain believe,

Entangled in the net we weave,

The penalty they both must pay,

And lose their forfeit lives to-day.”

Then with his warrior soul on fire,

Nikumbha spoke in burning ire:

“I, only I, will take the field,

And Raghu’s son his life shall yield.

Within these walls, O Chiefs, abide,

Nor part ye from our monarch’s side.”

Canto IX. Vibhishan’s Counsel.

A score of warriors(914) forward sprang,

And loud the clashing iron rang

Of mace and axe and spear and sword,

As thus they spake unto their lord:

“Their king Sugríva will we slay,

And Raghu’s sons, ere close of day,

And strike the wretch Hanúmán down,

The spoiler of our golden town.”

But sage Vibhishaṇ strove to calm

The chieftains’ fury; palm to palm

He joined in lowly reverence, pressed(915)

Before them, and the throng addressed:

“Dismiss the hope of conquering one

So stern and strong as Raghu’s son.

In due control each sense he keeps

With constant care that never sleeps.

Whose daring heart has e’er conceived

The exploit Hanumán achieved,

Across the fearful sea to spring,

The tributary rivers’ king?

O Rákshas lords, in time be wise,

Nor Ráma’s matchless power despise.

And say, what evil had the son

Of Raghu to our monarch done,

Who stole the dame he loved so well

And keeps her in his citadel;

If Khara in his foolish pride

Encountered Ráma, fought, and died,

May not the meanest love his life

And guard it in the deadly strife?

The Maithil dame, O Rákshas King,

Sore peril to thy realm will bring.

Restore her while there yet is time,

Nor let us perish for thy crime.

O, let the Maithil lady go

Ere the avenger bend his bow

To ruin with his arrowy showers

Our Lanká with her gates and towers.

Let Janak’s child again be free

Ere the wild Vánars cross the sea,

In their resistless might assail

Our city and her ramparts scale.

Ah, I conjure thee by the ties

Of brotherhood, be just and wise.

In all my thoughts thy good I seek,

And thus my prudent counsel speak.

Let captive Sítá be restored

Ere, fierce as autumn’s sun, her lord

Send his keen arrows from the string

To drink the life-blood of our king.

This fury from thy soul dismiss,

The bane of duty, peace, and bliss.

Seek duty’s path and walk therein,

And joy and endless glory win.

Restore the captive, ere we feel

The piercing point of Ráma’s steel.

O spare thy city, spare the lives

Of us, our friends, our sons and wives.”

Thus spake Vibhishaṇ wise and brave:

The Rákshas king no answer gave,

But bade his lords the council close,

And sought his chamber for repose.

Canto X. Vibhishan’s Counsel.

Soon as the light of morning broke,

Vibhishaṇ from his slumber woke,

And, duty guiding every thought,

The palace of his brother sought.

Vast as a towering hill that shows

His peaks afar, that palace rose.

Here stood within the monarch’s gate

Sage nobles skilful in debate.

There strayed in glittering raiment through

The courts his royal retinue,

Where in wild measure rose and fell

The music of the drum and shell,

And talk grew loud, and many a dame

Of fairest feature went and came

Through doors a marvel to behold,

With pearl inlaid on burning gold:

Therein Gandharvas or the fleet

Lords of the storm might joy to meet.

He passed within the wondrous pile,

Chief glory of the giants’ isle:

Thus, ere his fiery course be done,

An autumn cloud admits the sun.

He heard auspicious voices raise

With loud accord the note of praise,

And sages, deep in Scripture, sing

Each glorious triumph of the king.

He saw the priests in order stand,

Curd, oil, in every sacred hand;

And by them flowers were laid and grain,

Due offerings to the holy train.

Vibhishaṇ to the monarch bowed,

Raised on a throne above the crowd:

Then, skilled in arts of soft address,

He raised his voice the king to bless,

And sate him on a seat where he

Full in his brother’s sight should be.

The chieftain there, while none could hear,

Spoke his true speech for Rávaṇ’s ear,

And to his words of wisdom lent

The force of weightiest argument:

“O brother, hear! since Ráma’s queen

A captive in thy house has been,

Disastrous omens day by day

Have struck our souls with wild dismay.

No longer still and strong and clear

The flames of sacrifice appear,

But, restless with the frequent spark,

Neath clouds of smoke grow faint and dark.

Our ministering priests turn pale

To see their wonted offerings fail,

And ants and serpents creep and crawl

Within the consecrated hall.(916)

Dried are the udders of our cows,

Our elephants have juiceless brows,(917)

Nor can the sweetest pasture stay

The charger’s long unquiet neigh.

Big tears from mules and camels flow

Whose staring coats their trouble show,

Nor can the leech’s art restore

Their health and vigour as before.

Rapacious birds are fierce and bold:

Not single hunters as of old,

In banded troops they chase the prey,

Or gathering on our temples stay.

Through twilight hours with shriek and howl

Around the city jackals prowl,

And wolves and foul hyænas wait

Athirst for blood at every gate.

One sole atonement still may cure

These evils, and our weal assure.

Restore the Maithil dame, and win

An easy pardon for thy sin.”

The Rákshas monarch heard, and moved

To sudden wrath his speech reproved:

“No danger, brother, can I see:

The Maithil dame I will not free.

Though all the Gods for Ráma fight,

He yields to my superior might.”

Thus the tremendous king who broke

The ranks of heavenly warriors spoke,

And, sternly purposed to resist,

His brother from the hall dismissed.

Canto XI. The Summons.

Still Rávaṇ’s haughty heart rebelled,

The counsel of the wise repelled,

And, as his breast with passion burned,

His thoughts again to Sítá turned.

Thus, to each sign of danger blind,

To love and war he still inclined.

Then mounted he his car that glowed

With gems and golden net, and rode

Where, gathered at the monarch’s call,

The nobles filled the council hall.

A host of warriors bright and gay

With coloured robes and rich array,

With shield and mace and spear and sword,

Followed the chariot of their lord.

Mid the loud voice of shells and beat

Of drums he raced along the street,

And, ere he came, was heard afar

The rolling thunder of his car.

He reached the doors: the nobles bent

Their heads before him reverent:

And, welcomed with their loud acclaim,

Within the glorious hall he came.

He sat upon a royal seat

With golden steps beneath his feet,

And bade the heralds summon all

His captains to the council hall.

The heralds heard the words he spake,

And sped from house to house to wake

The giants where they slept or spent

The careless hours in merriment.

These heard the summons and obeyed:

From chamber, grove, and colonnade,

On elephants or cars they rode,

Or through the streets impatient strode.

As birds on rustling pinions fly

Through regions of the darkened sky,

Thus cars and mettled coursers through

The crowded streets of Lanká flew.

The council hall was reached, and then,

As lions seek their mountain den,

Through massy doors that opened wide,

With martial stalk the captains hied.

Welcomed with honour as was meet

They stooped to press their monarch’s feet,

And each a place in order found

On stool, on cushion, or the ground.

Nor did the sage Vibhishaṇ long

Delay to join the noble throng.

High on a car that shone like flame

With gold and flashing gems he came,

Drew near and spoke his name aloud,

And reverent to his brother bowed.

Canto XII. Rávan’s Speech.

The king in counsel unsurpassed

His eye around the synod cast,

And fierce Prahasta, first and best

Of all his captains, thus addressed:

“Brave master of each warlike art,

Arouse thee and perform thy part.

Array thy fourfold forces(918) well

To guard our isle and citadel.”

The captain of the hosts obeyed,

The troops with prudent skill arrayed;

Then to the hall again he hied,

And stood before the king and cried:

“Each inlet to the town is closed

Without, within, are troops disposed.

With fearless heart thine aim pursue

And do the deed thou hast in view.”

Thus spoke Prahasta in the zeal

That moved him for the kingdom’s weal.

And thus the monarch, who pursued

His own delight, his speech renewed:

“In ease and bliss, in toil and pain,

In doubts of duty, pleasure, gain,

Your proper path I need not tell,

For of yourselves ye know it well.

The Storm-Gods, Moon, and planets bring

New glory to their heavenly king,(919)

And, ranged about your monarch, ye

Give joy and endless fame to me.

My secret counsel have I kept,

While senseless Kumbhakarṇa slept.

Six months the warrior’s slumbers last

And bind his torpid senses fast;

But now his deep repose he breaks,

The best of all our champions wakes.

I captured, Ráma’s heart to wring,

This daughter of Videha’s king.

And brought her from that distant land(920)

Where wandered many a Rákshas band.

Disdainful still my love she spurns,

Still from each prayer and offering turns,

Yet in all lands beneath the sun

No dame may rival Sítá, none,

Her dainty waist is round and slight,

Her cheek like autumn’s moon is bright,

And she like fruit in graven gold

Mocks her(921) whom Maya framed of old.

Faultless in form, how firmly tread

Her feet whose soles are rosy red!

Ah, as I gaze her beauty takes

My spirit, and my passion wakes.

Looking for Ráma far away

She sought with tears a year’s delay

Nor gazing on her love-lit eye

Could I that earnest prayer deny.

But baffled hopes and vain desire

At length my patient spirit tire.

How shall the sons of Raghu sweep

To vengeance o’er the pathless deep?

How shall they lead the Vánar train

Across the monster-teeming main?

One Vánar yet could find a way

To Lanká’s town, and burn and slay.

Take counsel then, remembering still

That we from men need fear no ill;

And give your sentence in debate,

For matchless is the power of fate.

Assailed by you the Gods who dwell

In heaven beneath our fury fell.

And shall we fear these creatures bred

In forests, by Sugríva led?

E’en now on ocean’s farther strand,

The sons of Daśaratha stand,

And follow, burning to attack

Their giant foes, on Sítá’s track.

Consult then, lords for ye are wise:

A seasonable plan devise.

The captive lady to retain,

And triumph when the foes are slain.

No power can bring across the foam

Those Vánars to our island home;

Or if they madly will defy

Our conquering might, they needs must die.”

Then Kumbhakarṇa’s anger woke,

And wroth at Rávaṇ’s words he spoke:

“O Monarch, when thy ravished eyes

First looked upon thy lovely prize,

Then was the time to bid us scan

Each peril and mature a plan.

Blest is the king who acts with heed,

And ne’er repents one hasty deed;

And hapless he whose troubled soul

Mourns over days beyond control.

Thou hast, in beauty’s toils ensnared,

A desperate deed of boldness dared;

By fortune saved ere Ráma’s steel

One wound, thy mortal bane, could deal.

But, Rávaṇ, as the deed is done,

The toil of war I will not shun.

This arm, O rover of the night,

Thy foemen to the earth shall smite,

Though Indra with the Lord of Flame,

The Sun and Storms, against me came.

E’en Indra, monarch of the skies,

Would dread my club and mountain size,

Shrink from these teeth and quake to hear

The thunders of my voice of fear.

No second dart shall Ráma cast:

The first he aims shall be the last.

He falls, and these dry lips shall drain

The blood of him my hand has slain;

And Sítá, when her champion dies,

Shall be thine undisputed prize.”

Canto XIII. Rávan’s Speech.

But Mahápárśva saw the sting

Of keen reproach had galled the king;

And humbly, eager to appease

His anger, spoke in words like these:

“And breathes there one so cold and weak

The forest and the gloom to seek

Where savage beasts abound, and spare

To taste the luscious honey there?

Art thou not lord? and who is he

Shall venture to give laws to thee?

Love thy Videhan still, and tread

Upon thy prostrate foeman’s head.

O’er Sítá’s will let thine prevail,

And strength achieve if flattery fail.

What though the lady yet be coy

And turn her from the proffered joy?

Soon shall her conquered heart relent

And yield to love and blandishment.

With us let Kumbhakarṇa fight,

And Indrajít of matchless might:

We need not other champions, they

Shall lead us forth to rout and slay.

Not ours to bribe or soothe or part

The foeman’s force with gentle art,

Doomed, conquered by our might, to feel

The vengeance of the warrior’s steel.”

The Rákshas monarch heard, and moved

By flattering hopes the speech approved:

“Hear me,” he cried, “great chieftain, tell

What in the olden time befell,—

A secret tale which, long suppressed,

Lies prisoned only in my breast.

One day—a day I never forget—

Fair Punjikasthalá(922) I met,

When, radiant as a flame of fire,

She sought the palace of the Sire.

In passion’s eager grasp I tore

From her sweet limbs the robes she wore,

And heedless of her prayers and cries

Strained to my breast the vanquised prize.

Like Naliní(923) with soil distained,

The mansion of the Sire she gained,

And weeping made the outrage known

To Brahmá on his heavenly throne.

He in his wrath pronounced a curse,—

That lord who made the universe:

“If, Rávaṇ, thou a second time

Be guilty of so foul a crime,

Thy head in shivers shall be rent:

Be warned, and dread the punishment.”

Awed by the threat of vengeance still

I force not Sítá’s stubborn will.

Terrific as the sea in might:

My steps are like the Storm-Gods’ flight;

But Ráma knows not this, or he

Had never sought to war with me.

Where is the man would idly brave

The lion in his mountain cave,

And wake him when with slumbering eyes

Grim, terrible as Death, he lies?

No, blinded Ráma knows me not:

Ne’er has he seen mine arrows shot;

Ne’er marked them speeding to their aim

Like snakes with cloven tongues of flame.

On him those arrows will I turn,

Whose fiery points shall rend and burn.

Quenched by my power when I assail

The glory of his might shall fail,

As stars before the sun grow dim

And yield their feeble light to him.”

Canto XIV. Vibhishan’s Speech.

He ceased: Vibhishaṇ ill at ease

Addressed the king in words like these:

“O Rávaṇ, O my lord, beware

Of Sítá dangerous as fair,

Nor on thy heedless bosom hang

This serpent with a deadly fang.

O King, the Maithil dame restore

To Raghu’s matchless son before

Those warriors of the woodlands, vast

As mountain peaks, approaching fast,

Armed with fierce teeth and claws, enclose

Thy city with unsparing foes.

O, be the Maithil dame restored

Ere loosened from the clanging cord

The vengeful shafts of Ráma fly,

And low in death thy princes lie.

In all thy legions hast thou one

A match in war for Raghu’s son?

Can Kumbhakarṇa’s self withstand,

Or Indrajít, that mighty hand?

In vain with Ráma wilt thou strive:

Thou wilt not save thy soul alive

Though guarded by the Lord of Day

And Storm-Gods’ terrible array,

In vain to Indra wilt thou fly,

Or seek protection in the sky,

In Yáma’s gloomy mansion dwell,

Or hide thee in the depths of hell.”

He ceased; and when his lips were closed

Prahasta thus his rede opposed:

“O timid heart, to counsel thus!

What terrors have the Gods for us?

Can snake, Gandharva, fiend appal

The giants’ sons who scorn them all?

And shall we now our birth disgrace,

And dread a king of human race?”

Thus fierce Prahasta counselled ill:

But sage Vibhishaṇ’s constant will

The safety of the realm ensued;

Who thus in turn his speech renewed:

“Yes, when a soul defiled with sin

Shall mount to heaven and enter in,

Then, chieftain, will experience teach

The truth of thy disdainful speech.

Can I, or thou, or these or all

Our bravest compass Ráma’s fall,

The chief in whom all virtues shine,

The pride of old Ikshváku’a line,

With whom the Gods may scarce compare

In skill to act, in heart to dare?

Yea, idly mayst thou vaunt thee, till

Sharp arrows winged with matchless skill

From Ráma’s bowstring, fleet and fierce

As lightning’s flame, thy body pierce.

Nikumbha shall not save thee then,

Nor Rávaṇ, from the lord of men.

O Monarch, hear my last appeal,

My counsel for thy kingdom’s weal.

This sentence I again declare:

O giant King, beware, beware!

Save from the ruin that impends

Thy town, thy people, and thy friends;

O hear the warning urged once more:

To Raghu’s son the dame restore.”

Canto XV. Indrajít’s Speech.

He ceased: and Indrajít the pride

Of Rákshas warriors thus replied:

“Is this a speech our king should hear,

This counsel of ignoble fear?

A scion of our glorious race

Should ne’er conceive a thought so base,

But one mid all our kin we find,

Vibhishaṇ, whose degenerate mind

No spark of gallant pride retains,

Whose coward soul his lineage stains.

Against one giant what can two

Unhappy sons of Raghu do?

Away with idle fears, away!

Matched with our meanest, what are they?

Beneath my conquering prowess fell

The Lord of earth and heaven and hell.(924)

Through every startled region dread

Of my resistless fury spread;

And Gods in each remotest sphere

Confessed the universal fear.

Rending the air with roar and groan,

Airávat(925) to the earth was thrown.

From his huge head the tusks I drew,

And smote the Gods with fear anew.

Shall I who tame celestials’ pride,

By whom the fiends are terrified,

Now prove a weakling little worth,

And fail to slay those sons of earth?”

He ceased: Vibhishaṇ trained and tried

In war and counsel thus replied

“Thy speech is marked with scorn of truth,

With rashness and the pride of youth.

Yea, to thy ruin like a child

Thou pratest, and thy words are wild.

Most dear, O Indrajít, to thee

Should Rávaṇ’s weal and safety be,

For thou art called his son, but thou

Art proved his direst foeman now,

When warned by me thou hast not tried

To turn the coming woe aside.

Both thee and him ’twere meet to slay,

Who brought thee to this hall to-day,

And dared so rash a youth admit

To council where the wisest sit.

Presumptuous, wild, devoid of sense,

Filled full of pride and insolence,

Thy reckless tongue thou wilt not rule

That speaks the counsel of a fool.

Who in the fight may brook or shun

The arrows shot by Raghu’s son

With flame and fiery vengeance sped,

Dire as his staff who rules the dead?

O Rávaṇ, let thy people live,

And to the son of Raghu give

Fair robes and gems and precious ore,

And Sítá to his arms restore.”

Canto XVI. Rávan’s Speech.

Then, while his breast with fury swelled,

Thus Rávaṇ spoke, as fate impelled:

“Better with foes thy dwelling make,

Or house thee with the venomed snake,

Than live with false familiar friends

Who further still thy foeman’s ends.

I know their treacherous mood, I know

Their secret triumph at thy woe.

They in their inward hearts despise

The brave, the noble, and the wise,

Grieve at their bliss with rancorous hate,

And for their sorrows watch and wait:

Scan every fault with curious eye,

And each slight error magnify.

Ask elephants who roam the wild

How were their captive friends beguiled.

“For fire,” they cry, “we little care,

For javelin and shaft and snare:

Our foes are traitors, taught to bind

The trusting creatures of their kind.”

Still, still, shall blessings flow from cows,(926)

And Bráhmans love their rigorous vows;

Still woman change her restless will,

And friends perfidious work us ill.

What though with conquering feet I tread

On every prostrate foeman’s head;

What though the worlds in abject fear

Their mighty lord in me revere?

This thought my peace of mind destroys

And robs me of expected joys.

The lotus of the lake receives

The glittering rain that gems its leaves,

But each bright drop remains apart:

So is it still with heart and heart.

Deceitful as an autumn cloud

Which, though its thunderous voice be loud,

On the dry earth no torrent sends,

Such is the race of faithless friends.

No riches of the bloomy spray

Will tempt the wandering bee to stay

That loves from flower to flower to range;

And friends like thee are swift to change.

Thou blot upon thy glorious line,

If any giant’s tongue but thine

Had dared to give this base advice,

He should not live to shame me twice.”

Then just Vibhishaṇ in the heat

Of anger started from his seat,

And with four captains of the band

Sprang forward with his mace in hand;

Then, fury flashing from his eye,

Looked on the king and made reply:

“Thy rights, O Rávaṇ, I allow:

My brother and mine elder thou.

Such, though from duty’s path they stray,

We love like fathers and obey,

But still too bitter to be borne

Is thy harsh speech of cruel scorn.

The rash like thee, who spurn control,

Nor check one longing of the soul,

Urged by malignant fate repel

The faithful friend who counsels well.

A thousand courtiers wilt thou meet,

With flattering lips of smooth deceit:

But rare are they whose tongue or ear

Will speak the bitter truth, or hear.

Unclose thy blinded eyes and see

That snares of death encompass thee.

I dread, my brother, to behold

The shafts of Ráma, bright with gold,

Flash fury through the air, and red

With fires of vengeance strike thee dead.

Lord, brother, King, again reflect,

Nor this mine earnest prayer reject,

O, save thyself, thy royal town,

Thy people and thine old renown.”

Canto XVII. Vibhishan’s Flight.

Soon as his bitter words were said,

To Raghu’s sons Vibhishaṇ fled.(927)

Their eyes the Vánar leaders raised

And on the air-borne Rákhshas gazed,

Bright as a thunderbolt, in size

Like Meru’s peak that cleaves the skies.

In gorgeous panoply arrayed

Like Indra’s self he stood displayed,

And four attendants brave and bold

Shone by their chief in mail and gold.

Sugríva then with dark surmise

Bent on their forms his wondering eyes,

And thus in hasty words confessed

The anxious doubt that moved his breast:

“Look, look ye Vánars, and beware:

That giant chief sublime in air

With other four in bright array

Comes armed to conquer and to slay.”

Soon as his warning speech they heard,

The Vánar chieftains undeterred

Seized fragments of the rock and trees,

And made reply in words like these:

“We wait thy word: the order give,

And these thy foes shall cease to live.

Command us, mighty King, and all

Lifeless upon the earth shall fall.”

Meanwhile Vibhishaṇ with the four

Stood high above the ocean shore.

Sugríva and the chiefs he spied,

And raised his mighty voice and cried:

“From Rávaṇ, lord of giants, I

His brother, named Vibhishaṇ, fly.

From Janasthán he stole the child

Of Janak by his art beguiled,

And in his palace locked and barred

Surrounds her with a Rákshas guard.

I bade him, plied with varied lore,

His hapless prisoner restore.

But he, by Fate to ruin sent,

No credence to my counsel lent,

Mad as the fevered wretch who sees

And scorns the balm to bring him ease.

He scorned the sage advice I gave,

He spurned me like a base-born slave.

I left my children and my wife,

And fly to Raghu’s son for life.

I pray thee, Vánar chieftain, speed

To him who saves in hour of need,

And tell him famed in distant lands

That suppliant here Vibhishaṇ stands.”

The Rákshas ceased: Sugríva hied

To Raghu’s noble son and cried:

“A stranger from the giant host,

Borne o’er the sea, has reached the coast;

A secret foe, he comes to slay,

As owls attack their heedless prey.

’Tis thine, O King, in time of need

To watch, to counsel, and to lead,

Our Vánar legions to dispose,

And guard us from our crafty foes.

Vibhishaṇ from the giants’ isle,

King Rávaṇ’s brother, comes with guile

And, feigning from his king to flee,

Seeks refuge, Raghu’s son, with thee.

Arise, O Ráma, and prevent

By bold attack his dark intent.

Who comes in friendly guise prepared

To slay thee by his arts ensnared.”

Thus urged Sugríva famed for lore

Of moving words, and spoke no more.

Then Ráma thus in turn addressed

The bold Hanúmán and the rest:

“Chiefs of the Vánar legions each

Of you heard Sugríva’s speech.

What think ye now in time of fear,

When peril and distress are near,

In every doubt the wise depend

For counsel on a faithful friend.”

They heard his gracious words, and then

Spake reverent to the lord of men:

“O Raghu’s son, thou knowest well

All things of heaven and earth and hell.

’Tis but thy friendship bids us speak

The counsel Ráma need not seek.

So duteous, brave, and true art thou,

Heroic, faithful to thy vow.

Deep in the scriptures, trained and tried,

Still in thy friends wilt thou confide.

Let each of us in turn impart

The secret counsel of his heart,

And strive to win his chief’s assent,

By force of wisest argument.”

They ceased and Angad thus began:

“With jealous eye the stranger scan:

Not yet with trusting heart receive

Vibhishaṇ, nor his tale believe.

These giants wandering far and wide

Their evil nature falsely hide,

And watching with malignant skill

Assail us when we fear no ill.

Well ponder every hope and fear

Until thy doubtful course be clear;

Then own his merit or detect

His guile, and welcome or reject.”

Then Śarabha the bold and brave

In turn his prudent sentence gave:

“Yea, Ráma, send a skilful spy

With keenest tact to test and try.

Then let the stranger, as is just,

Obtain or be refused thy trust.”

Then he whose heart was rich in store

Of scripture’s life-directing lore,

King Jámbaván, stood forth and cried:

“Suspect, suspect a foe allied

With Rávaṇ lord of Lanká’s isle,

And Rákshas sin and Rákshas guile.”

Then Mainda, wisest chief, who knew

The wrong, the right, the false, the true,

Pondered a while, then silence broke,

And thus his sober counsel spoke:

“Let one with gracious speech draw near

And gently charm Vibhishaṇ’s ear,

Till he the soothing witchery feel

And all his secret heart reveal.

So thou his aims and hopes shalt know,

And hail the friend or shun the foe.”

“Not he,” Hanúmán cried, “not he

Who taught the Gods(928) may rival thee,

Supreme in power of quickest sense,

First in the art of eloquence.

But hear me soothly speak, O King,

And learn the hope to which I cling.

Vibhishaṇ comes no crafty spy:

Urged by his brother’s fault to fly.

With righteous soul that loathes the sin,

He fled from Lanká and his kin.

If strangers question, doubt will rise

And chill the heart of one so wise.

Marred by distrust the parle will end,

And thou wilt lose a faithful friend.

Nor let it seem so light a thing

To sound a stranger’s heart, O King.

And he, I ween, whate’er he say,

Will ne’er an evil thought betray.

He comes a friend in happy time,

Loathing his brother for his crime.

His ear has heard thine old renown,

The might that struck King Báli down,

And set Sugríva on the throne.

And looking now to thee alone

He comes thy matchless aid to win

And punish Rávaṇ for his sin.

Thus have I tried thy heart to move,

And thus Vibhishaṇ’s truth to prove.

Still in his friendship I confide;

But ponder, wisest, and decide.”

Canto XVIII. Ráma’s Speech.

Then Ráma’s rising doubt was stilled,

And friendly thoughts his bosom filled.

Thus, deep in Scripture’s lore, he spake:

“The suppliant will I ne’er forsake,

Nor my protecting aid refuse

When one in name of friendship sues.

Though faults and folly blot his fame,

Pity and help he still may claim.”