He ceased: Sugríva bowed his head

And pondered for a while, and said:

“Past number be his faults or few,

What think ye of the Rákshas who,

When threatening clouds of danger rise,

Deserts his brother’s side and flies?

Say, Vánars, who may hope to find

True friendship in his faithless kind?”

The son of Raghu heard his speech:

He cast a hasty look on each

Of those brave Vánar chiefs, and while

Upon his lips there played a smile,

To Lakshmaṇ turned and thus expressed

The thoughts that moved his gallant breast:

“Well versed in Scripture’s lore, and sage

And duly reverent to age,

Is he, with long experience stored,

Who counsels like this Vánar lord.

Yet here, methinks, for searching eyes

Some deeper, subtler matter lies.

To you and all the world are known

The perils of a monarch’s throne,

While foe and stranger, kith and kin

By his misfortune trust to win.

By hope of such advantage led,

Vibhishaṇ o’er the sea has fled.

He in his brother’s stead would reign,

And our alliance seeks to gain;

And we his offer may embrace,

A stranger and of alien race.

But if he comes a spy and foe,

What power has he to strike a blow

In furtherance of his close design?

What is his strength compared with mine?

And can I, Vánar King, forget

The great, the universal debt,

Ever to aid and welcome those

Who pray for shelter, friends or foes?

Hast thou not heard the deathless praise

Won by the dove in olden days,

Who conquering his fear and hate

Welcomed the slayer of his mate,

And gave a banquet, to refresh

The weary fowler, of his flesh?

Now hear me, Vánar King, rehearse

What Kaṇdu(929) spoke in ancient verse,

Saint Kaṇva’s son who loved the truth

And clave to virtue from his youth:

“Strike not the suppliant when he stands

And asks thee with beseeching hands

For shelter: strike him not although

He were thy father’s mortal foe.

No, yield him, be he proud or meek,

The shelter which he comes to seek,

And save thy foeman, if the deed

Should cost thy life, in desperate need.”

And shall I hear the wretched cry,

And my protecting aid deny?

Shall I a suppliant’s prayer refuse,

And heaven and glory basely lose?

No, I will do for honour sake

E’en as the holy Kaṇdu spake,

Preserve a hero’s name from stain,

And bliss in heaven and glory gain.

Bound by a solemn vow I sware

That all my saving help should share

Who sought me in distress and cried,

“Thou art my hope, and none beside.”

Then go, I pray thee, Vánar King,

Vibhishaṇ to my presence bring,

Yea, were he Rávaṇ’s self, my vow

Forbids me to reject him now.”

He ceased: the Vánar king approved;

And Ráma toward Vibhishaṇ moved.

So moves, a brother God to greet,

Lord Indra from his heavenly seat.

Canto XIX. Vibhishan’s Counsel.

When Raghu’s son had owned his claim

Down from the air Vibhishaṇ came,

And with his four attendants bent

At Ráma’s feet most reverent.

“O Ráma,” thus he cried, “in me

Vibhishaṇ, Rávaṇ’s brother see.

By him disgraced thine aid I seek,

Sure refuge of the poor and weak.

From Lanká, friends, and wealth I fly,

And reft of all on thee rely.

On thee, the wretch’s firmest friend,

My kingdom, joys, and life depend.”

With glance of favour Ráma eyed

The Rákshas chief and thus replied:

“First from thy lips I fain would hear

Each brighter hope, each darker fear.

Speak, stranger, that I well may know

The strength and weakness of the foe.”

He ceased: the Rákshas chief obeyed,

And thus in turn his answer made:

“O Prince, the Self-existent gave

This boon to Rávaṇ; he may brave

All foes in fight; no fiend or snake,

Gandharva, God, his life may take.

His brother Kumbhakarṇa vies

In might with him who rules the skies.

The captain of his armies—fame

Perhaps has taught the warrior’s name—

Is terrible Prahasta, who

King Maṇibhadra’s(930) self o’erthrew.

Where is the warrior found to face

Young Indrajít, when armed with brace

And guard(931) and bow he stands in mail

And laughs at spear and arrowy hail?

Within his city Lanká dwell

Ten million giants fierce and fell,

Who wear each varied shape at will

And eat the flesh of those they kill.

These hosts against the Gods he led,

And heavenly might discomfited.”

Then Ráma cried: “I little heed

Gigantic strength or doughty deed.

In spite of all their might has done

The king, the captain, and the son

Shall fall beneath my fury dead,

And thou shalt reign in Rávaṇ’s stead.

He, though in depths of earth he dwell,

Or seek protection down in hell,

Or kneel before the Sire supreme,

His forfeit life shall ne’er redeem.

Yea, by my brothers’ lives I swear,

I will not to my home repair

Till Rávaṇ and his kith and kin

Have paid in death the price of sin.”

Vibhishaṇ bowed his head and cried:

“Thy conquering army will I guide

To storm the city of the foe,

And aid the tyrant’s overthrow.”

Thus spake Vibhishaṇ: Ráma pressed

The Rákshas chieftain to his breast,

And cried to Lakshmaṇ: “Haste and bring

Sea-water for the new-made king.”

He spoke, and o’er Vibhishaṇ’s head

The consecrating drops were shed

Mid shouts that hailed with one accord

The giants’ king and Lanká’s lord.

“Is there no way,” Hanúmán cried,

“No passage o’er the boisterous tide?

How may we lead the Vánar host

In triumph to the farther coast?”

“Thus,” said Vibhishaṇ, “I advise:

Let Raghu’s son in suppliant guise

Entreat the mighty Sea to lend

His succour and this cause befriend.

His channels, as the wise have told,

By Sagar’s sons were dug of old,(932)

Nor will high-thoughted Ocean scorn

A prince of Sagar’s lineage born.”

He ceased; the prudent counsel won

The glad assent of Raghu’s son.

Then on the ocean shore a bed

Of tender sacred grass was spread,

Where Ráma at the close of day

Like fire upon an altar lay.

Canto XX. The Spies.

Śárdúla, Rávaṇ’s spy, surveyed

The legions on the strand arrayed.

And bore, his bosom racked with fear,

These tidings to the monarch’s ear:

“They come, they come. A rushing tide,

Ten leagues they spread from side to side,

And on to storm thy city press,

Fierce rovers of the wilderness.

Rich in each princely power and grace,

The pride of Daśaratha’s race,

Ráma and Lakshmaṇ lead their bands,

And halt them on the ocean sands.

O Monarch, rise, this peril meet;

Risk not the danger of defeat.

First let each wiser art be tried;

Bribe them, or win them, or divide.”

Such was the counsel of the spy:

And Rávaṇ called to Śuka: “Fly,

Sugríva lord of Vánars seek,

And thus my kingly message speak:

“Great power and might and fame are thine,

Brave scion of a royal line,

King Riksharajas’ son, in thee

A brother and a friend I see.

How wronged by me canst thou complain?

What profit here pretend to gain?

If from the wood the wife I stole

Of Ráma of the prudent soul,

What cause hast thou to mourn the theft?

Thou art not injured or bereft.

Return, O King, thy steps retrace

And seek thy mountain dwelling-place.

No, never may thy hosts within

My Lanká’s walls a footing win.

A mighty town whose strength defies

The gathered armies of the skies.”

He ceased: obedient Śuka heard;

With wings and plumage of a bird

He rose in eager speed and through

The air upon his errand flew.

Borne o’er the sea with rapid wing

He stood above the Vánar king,

And spoke aloud, sublime in air,

The message he was charged to bear.

The Vánar heard the words he spoke,

And quick redoubling stroke on stroke

On head and pinions hemmed him round

And bore him struggling to the ground.

The Rákshas wounded and distressed

These words to Raghu’s son addressed:

“Quick, quick! This Vánar host restrain,

For heralds never must be slain.

To him alone, a wretch untrue,

The punishment of death is due

Who leaves his master’s speech unsaid

And speaks another in its stead.”

Moved by the suppliant speech and prayer

Up sprang the prince and cried, forbear.

Saved from his wild assailant’s blows

Again the Rákshas herald rose

And borne on light wings to the sky

Addressed Sugríva from on high:

“O Vánar Monarch, chief endued

With power and wonderous fortitude,

What answer is my king, the fear

And scourge of weeping worlds, to hear?”

“Go tell thy lord,” Sugríva cried,

“Thou, Ráma’s foe, art thus defied.

His arm the guilty Báli slew;

Thus, tyrant, shalt thou perish too.

Thy sons, thy friends, proud King, and all

Thy kith and kin with thee shall fall;

And, emptied of the giant’s brood,

Burnt Lanká be a solitude.

Fly to the Sun-God’s pathway, go

And hide thee deep in hell below:

In vain from Ráma shalt thou flee

Though heavenly warriors fight for thee.

Thine arm subdued, securely bold,

The Vulture-king infirm and old:

But will thy puny strength avail

When Raghu’s wrathful sons assail?

A captive in thy palace lies

The lady of the lotus eyes:

Thou knowest not how fierce and strong

Is he whom thou hast dared to wrong.

The best of Raghu’s lineage, he

Whose conquering hand shall punish thee.”

He ceased: and Angad raised a cry;

“This is no herald but a spy.

Above thee from his airy post

His rapid eye surveyed our host,

Where with advantage he might scan

Our gathered strength from rear to van.

Bind him, Vánars, bind the spy,

Nor let him back to Lanká fly.”

They hurled the Rákshas to the ground,

They grasped his neck, his pinions bound,

And firmly held him while in vain

His voice was lifted to complain.

But Ráma’s heart inclined to spare,

He listened to his plaint and prayer,

And cried aloud: “O Vánars, cease;

The captive from his bonds release.”

Canto XXI. Ocean Threatened.

His hands in reverence Ráma raised

And southward o’er the ocean gazed;

Then on the sacred grass that made

His lowly couch his limbs he laid.

His head on that strong arm reclined

Which Sítá, best of womankind,

Had loved in happier days to hold

With soft arms decked with pearls and gold.

Then rising from his bed of grass,

“This day,” he cried, “the host shall pass

Triumphant to the southern shore,

Or Ocean’s self shall be no more.”

Thus vowing in his constant breast

Again he turned him to his rest,

And there, his eyes in slumber closed,

Silent beside the sea reposed.

Thrice rose the Day-God thrice he set,

The lord of Ocean came not yet,

Thrice came the night, but Raghu’s son

No answer by his service won.

To Lakshmaṇ thus the hero cried,

His eyes aflame with wrath and pride:

“In vain the softer gifts that grace

The good are offered to the base.

Long-suffering, patience, gentle speech

Their thankless hearts can never reach.

The world to him its honour pays

Whose ready tongue himself can praise,

Who scorns the true, and hates the right,

Whose hand is ever raised to smite.

Each milder art is tried in vain:

It wins no glory, but disdain.

And victory owns no softer charm

Than might which nerves a warrior’s arm.

My humble suit is still denied

By Ocean’s overweening pride.

This day the monsters of the deep

In throes of death shall wildly leap.

My shafts shall rend the serpents curled

In caverns of the watery world,

Disclose each sunless depth and bare

The tangled pearl and coral there.

Away with mercy! at a time

Like this compassion is a crime.

Welcome, the battle and the foe!

My bow! my arrows and my bow!

This day the Vánars’ feet shall tread

The conquered Sea’s exhausted bed,

And he who never feared before

Shall tremble to his farthest shore.”

Red flashed his eyes with angry glow:

He stood and grasped his mighty bow,

Terrific as the fire of doom

Whose quenchless flames the world consume.

His clanging cord the archer drew,

And swift the fiery arrows flew

Fierce as the flashing levin sent

By him who rules the firmament.

Down through the startled waters sped

Each missile with its flaming head.

The foamy billows rose and sank,

And dashed upon the trembling bank.

Sea monsters of tremendous form

With crash and roar of thunder storm.

Still the wild waters rose and fell

Crowned with white foam and pearl and shell.

Each serpent, startled from his rest,

Raised his fierce eyes and glowing crest.

And prisoned Dánavs(933) where they dwelt

In depths below the terror felt.

Again upon his string he laid

A flaming shaft, but Lakshmaṇ stayed

His arm, with gentle reasoning tried

To soothe his angry mood, and cried:

“Brother, reflect: the wise control

The rising passions of the soul.

Let Ocean grant, without thy threat,

The boon on which thy heart is set.

That gracious lord will ne’er refuse

When Ráma son of Raghu sues.”

He ceased: and voices from the air

Fell clear and loud, Spare, Ráma, spare.

Canto XXII. Ocean Threatened.

With angry menace Ráma, best

Of Raghu’s sons, the Sea addressed:

“With fiery flood of arrowy rain

Thy channels will I dry and drain.

And I and all the Vánar host

Will reach on foot the farther coast.

Thou shalt not from destruction save

The creatures of the teeming wave,

And lapse of time shall ne’er efface

The memory of the dire disgrace.”

Thus spoke the warrior, and prepared

The mortal shaft which never spared,

Known mystic weapon, by the name

Of Brahmá, red with quenchless flame.

Great terror, as he strained the bow,

Struck heaven above and earth below.

Through echoing skies the thunder pealed,

And startled mountains rocked and reeled,

The earth was black with sudden night

And heaven was blotted from the sight.

Then ever and anon the glare

Of meteors shot through murky air,

And with a wild terrific sound

Red lightnings struck the trembling ground.

In furious gusts the fierce wind blew:

Tall trees it shattered and o’erthrew,

And, smiting with a giant’s stroke,

Huge masses from the mountain broke.

A cry of terror long and shrill

Came from each valley, plain, and hill.

Each ruined dale, each riven peak

Re-echoed with a wail or shriek.

While Raghu’s son undaunted gazed,

The waters of the deep were raised,

And, still uplifted more and more,

Leapt in wild flood upon the shore.

Still Ráma looked upon the tide

And kept his post unterrified.

Then from the seething flood upreared

Majestic Ocean’s form appeared,

As rising from his eastern height

Springs through the sky the Lord of Light.

Attendant on their monarch came

Sea serpents with their eyes aflame.

Like lazulite mid burning gold

His form was wondrous to behold.

Bright with each fairest precious stone

A chain about his neck was thrown.

Calm shone his lotus eyes beneath

The blossoms of his heavenly wreath,

And many a pearl and sea-born gem

Flashed in the monarch’s diadem.

There Gangá, tributary queen,

And Sindhu(934) by his lord, were seen,

And every stream and brook renowned

In ancient story girt him round.

Then, as the waters rose and swelled,

The king with suppliant hands upheld,

His glorious head to Ráma bent

And thus addressed him reverent:

“Air, ether, fire, earth, water, true

To nature’s will, their course pursue;

And I, as ancient laws ordain,

Unfordable must still remain.

Yet, Raghu’s son, my counsel hear:

I ne’er for love or hope or fear

Will pile my waters in a heap

And leave a pathway through the deep.

Still shall my care for thee provide

An easy passage o’er the tide,

And like a city’s paven street

Shall be the road beneath thy feet.”

He ceased: and Ráma spoke again:

“This spell is ne’er invoked in vain.

Where shall the magic shaft, to spend

The fury of its might, descend?”

“Shoot,” Ocean cried, “thine arrow forth

With all its fury to the north,

Where sacred Drumakulya lies,

Whose glory with thy glory vies.

There dwells a wild Abhíra(935) race,

As vile in act as foul of face,

Fierce Dasyus(936) who delight in ill,

And drink my tributary rill.

My soul no longer may endure

Their neighbourhood and touch impure.

At these, O son of Raghu, aim

Thine arrow with the quenchless flame.”

Swift from the bow, as Ráma drew

His cord, the fiery arrow flew.

Earth groaned to feel the wound, and sent

A rush of water through the rent;

And famed for ever is the well

Of Vraṇa(937) where the arrow fell.

Then every brook and lake beside

Throughout the region Ráma dried.

But yet he gave a boon to bless

And fertilize the wilderness:

No fell disease should taint the air,

And sheep and kine should prosper there:

Earth should produce each pleasant root,

The stately trees should bend with fruit;

Oil, milk, and honey should abound,

And fragrant herbs should clothe the ground.

Then spake the king of brooks and seas

To Raghu’s son in words like these:

“Now let a wondrous task be done

By Nala, Viśvakarmá’s son,

Who, born of one of Vánar race,

Inherits by his father’s grace

A share of his celestial art.

Call Nala to perform his part,

And he, divinely taught and skilled,

A bridge athwart the sea shall build.”

He spoke and vanished. Nala, best

Of Vánar chiefs, the king addressed:

“O’er the deep sea where monsters play

A bridge, O Ráma, will I lay;

For, sharer of my father’s skill,

Mine is the power and mine the will.

’Tis vain to try each gentler art

To bribe and soothe the thankless heart;

In vain on such is mercy spent;

It yields to naught but punishment.

Through fear alone will Ocean now

A passage o’er his waves allow.

My mother, ere she bore her son,

This boon from Viśvakarmá won:

“O Mandarí, thy child shall be

In skill and glory next to me.”

But why unbidden should I fill

Thine ear with praises of my skill?

Command the Vánar hosts to lay

Foundations for the bridge to-day.”

He spoke: and swift at Ráma’s hest

Up sprang the Vánars from their rest,

The mandate of the king obeyed

And sought the forest’s mighty shade.

Unrooted trees to earth they threw,

And to the sea the timber drew.

The stately palm was bowed and bent,

Aśokas from the ground were rent,

And towering Sáls and light bamboos,

And trees with flowers of varied hues,

With loveliest creepers wreathed and crowned,

Shook, reeled, and fell upon the ground.

With mighty engines piles of stone

And seated hills were overthrown:

Unprisoned waters sprang on high,

In rain descending from the sky:

And ocean with a roar and swell

Heaved wildly when the mountains fell.

Then the great bridge of wondrous strength

Was built, a hundred leagues in length.

Rocks huge as autumn clouds bound fast

With cordage from the shore were cast,

And fragments of each riven hill,

And trees whose flowers adorned them still.

Wild was the tumult, loud the din

As ponderous rocks went thundering in.

Ere set of sun, so toiled each crew,

Ten leagues and four the structure grew;

The labours of the second day

Gave twenty more of ready way,

And on the fifth, when sank the sun,

The whole stupendous work was done.

O’er the broad way the Vánars sped,

Nor swayed it with their countless tread.

Exultant on the ocean strand

Vibhishaṇ stood, and, mace in hand,

Longed eager for the onward way,

And chafed impatient at delay.

Then thus to Ráma trained and tried

In battle King Sugríva cried:

“Come, Hanumán’s broad back ascend;

Let Angad help to Lakshmaṇ lend.

These high above the sea shall bear

Their burthen through the ways of air.”

So, with Sugríva, borne o’erhead

Ikshváku’s sons the legions led.

Behind, the Vánar hosts pursued

Their march in endless multitude.

Some skimmed the surface of the wave,

To some the air a passage gave.

Amid their ceaseless roar the sound

Of Ocean’s fearful voice was drowned,

As o’er the bridge by Nala planned

They hastened on to Lanká’s strand,

Where, by the pleasant brooks, mid trees

Loaded with fruit, they took their ease.

Canto XXIII. The Omens.

Then Ráma, peerless in the skill

That marks each sign of good and ill,

Strained his dear brother to his breast,

And thus with prudent words addressed:

“Now, Lakshmaṇ, by the water’s side

In fruitful groves the host divide,

That warriors of each woodland race

May keep their own appointed place.

Dire is the danger: loss of friends,

Of Vánars and of bears, impends.

Distained with dust the breezes blow,

And earth is shaken from below.

The tall hills rock from foot to crown,

And stately trees come toppling down.

In threatening shape, with voice of fear,

The clouds like cannibals appear,

And rain in fitful torrents, red

With sanguinary drops, is shed.

Long streaks of lurid light invest

The evening skies from east to west.

And from the sun at times a ball

Of angry fire is seen to fall.

From every glen and brake is heard

The boding voice of beast and bird:

From den and lair night-prowlers run

And shriek against the falling sun.

Up springs the moon, but hot and red

Kills the sad night with woe and dread;

No gentle lustre, but the gloom

That heralds universal doom.

A cloud of dust and vapour mars

The beauty of the evening stars,

And wild and fearful is the sky

As though the wreck of worlds were nigh.

Around our heads in boding flight

Wheel hawk and vulture, crow and kite;

And every bird of happy note

Shrieks terror from his altered throat.

Sword, spear and shaft shall strew the plain

Dyed red with torrents of the slain.

To-day the Vánar troops shall close

Around the city of our foes.”

Canto XXIV. The Spy’s Return.

As shine the heavens with autumn’s moon

Refulgent in the height of noon,

So shone with light which Ráma gave

That army of the bold and brave,

As from the sea it marched away

In war’s magnificent array,

And earth was shaken by the beat

And trampling of unnumbered feet.

Then to the giants’ ears were borne,

The mingled notes of drum and horn,

And clash of tambours smote the sky,

And shouting and the battle cry.

The sound of martial strains inspired

Each chieftain, and his bosom fired:

While giants from their walls replied,

And answering shouts the foe defied,

Then Ráma looked on Lanká where

Bright banners floated in the air,

And, pierced with anguish at the view,

His loving thoughts to Sítá flew.

“There, prisoned by the giant, lies

My lady of the tender eyes,

Like Rohiṇí the queen of stars

O’erpowered by the fiery Mars.”

Then turned he to his brother chief

And cried in agony of grief:

“See on the hill, divinely planned

And built by Viśvakarmá’s hand,

The towers and domes of Lanká rise

In peerless beauty to the skies.

Bright from afar the city shines

With gleam of palaces and shrines,

Like pale clouds through the region spread

By Vishṇu’s self inhabited.

Fair gardens grow, and woods between

The stately domes are fresh and green,

Where trees their bloom and fruit display,

And sweet birds sing on every spray.

Each bird is mad with joy, and bees

Sing labouring in the bloomy trees

On branches by the breezes bowed,

Where the gay Koïl’s voice is loud.”

This said, he ranged with warlike art

Each body of the host apart.

“There in the centre,” Ráma cried,

“Be Angad’s place by Níla’s side.

Let Rishabh of impetuous might

Be lord and leader on the right,

And Gandhamádan, next in rank,

Be captain of the farther flank.

Lakshmaṇ and I the hosts will lead,

And Jámbaván of ursine breed,

With bold Susheṇ unused to fear,

And Vegadarśí, guide the rear.”

Thus Ráma spoke: the chiefs obeyed;

And all the Vánar hosts arrayed

Showed awful as the autumn sky

When clouds embattled form on high.

Their arms were mighty trees o’erthrown,

And massy blocks of mountain stone.

One hope in every warlike breast,

One firm resolve, they onward pressed,

To die in fight or batter down

The walls and towers of Lanká’s town.

Those marshalled legions Ráma eyed,

And thus to King Sugríva cried:

“Now, Monarch, ere the hosts proceed,

Let Śuka, Rávaṇ’s spy, be freed.”

He spoke: the Vánar gave consent

And loosed him from imprisonment:

And Śuka, trembling and afraid,

His homeward way to Rávaṇ made.

Loud laughed the lord of Lanká’s isle:

“Where hast thou stayed this weary while?

Why is thy plumage marred, and why

Do twisted cords thy pinions tie?

Say, comest thou in evil plight

The victim of the Vánars’ spite?”

He ceased: the spy his fear controlled,

And to the king his story told:

“I reached the ocean’s distant shore,

Thy message to the king I bore.

In sudden wrath the Vánars rose,

They struck me down with furious blows;

They seized me helpless on the ground,

My plumage rent, my pinions bound.

They would not, headlong in their ire,

Consider, listen, or inquire;

So fickle, wrathful, rough and rude

Is the wild forest multitude.

There, marshalling the Vánar bands,

King Ráma with Sugríva stands,

Ráma the matchless warrior, who

Virádha and Kabandha slew,

Khara, and countless giants more,

And tracks his queen to Lanká’s shore.

A bridge athwart the sea was cast,

And o’er it have his legions passed.

Hark! heralded by horns and drums

The terrible avenger comes.

E’en now the giants’ isle he fills

With warriors huge as clouds and hills,

And burning with vindictive hate

Will thunder soon at Lanká’s gate.

Yield or oppose him: choose between

Thy safety and the Maithil queen.”

He ceased: the tyrant’s eyeballs blazed

With fury as his voice he raised:

“No, if the dwellers of the sky,

Gandharvas, fiends assail me, I

Will keep the Maithil lady still,

Nor yield her back for fear of ill.

When shall my shafts with iron hail

My foeman, Raghu’s son, assail,

Thick as the bees with eager wing

Beat on the flowery trees of spring?

O, let me meet my foe at length,

And strip him of his vaunted strength,

Fierce as the sun who shines afar

Stealing the light of every star.

Strong as the sea’s impetuous might

My ways are like the tempest’s flight;

But Ráma knows not this, or he

In terror from my face would flee.”

Canto XXV. Rávan’s Spies.(938)

When Ráma and the host he led

Across the sea had safely sped,

Thus Rávaṇ, moved by wrath and pride,

To Śuka and to Sáraṇ cried:

“O counsellors, the Vánar host

Has passed the sea from coast to coast,

And Daśaratha’s son has wrought

A wondrous deed surpassing thought.

And now in truth I needs must know

The strength and number of the foe.

Go ye, to Ráma’s host repair

And count me all the legions there.

Learn well what power each captain leads

His name and fame for warlike deeds.

Learn by what artist’s wondrous aid

That bridge athwart the sea was made;

Learn how the Vánar host came o’er

And halted on the island shore.

Mark Ráma son of Raghu well;

His valour, strength, and weapons tell.

Watch his advisers one by one,

And Lakshmaṇ, Raghu’s younger son.

Learn with observant eyes, and bring

“Unerring tidings to your king.

He ceased: then swift in Vánar guise

Forth on their errand sped the spies.

They reached the Vánars, and, dismayed,

Their never-ending lines surveyd:

Nor would they try, in mere despair,

To count the countless legions there,

That crowded valley, plain and hill,

That pressed about each cave and rill.

Though sea-like o’er the land were spread

The endless hosts which Ráma led,

The bridge by thousands yet was lined,

And eager myriads pressed behind.

But sage Vibhishaṇ’s watchful eyes

Had marked the giants in disguise.

He gave command the pair to seize,

And told the tale in words like these:

“O Ráma these, well known erewhile,

Are giant sons of Lanká’s isle,

Two counsellors of Rávaṇ sent

To watch the invading armament.”

Vibhishaṇ ceased: at Ráma’s look

The Rákshas envoys quailed and shook;

Then suppliant hand to hand they pressed

And thus Ikshváku’s son addressed:

“O Ráma, bear the truth we speak:

Our monarch Rávaṇ bade us seek

The Vánar legions and survey

Their numbers, strength, and vast array.”

Then Ráma, friend and hope and guide

Of suffering creatures, thus replied:

“Now giants, if your eyes have scanned

Our armies, numbering every band,

Marked lord and chief, and gazed their fill,

Return to Rávaṇ when ye will.

If aught remain, if aught anew

Ye fain would scan with closer view,

Vibhishaṇ, ready at your call,

Will lead you forth and show you all.

Think not of bonds and capture; fear

No loss of life, no peril here:

For, captive, helpless and unarmed,

An envoy never should be harmed.

Again to Lanká’s town repair,

Speed to the giant monarch there,

And be these words to Rávaṇ told,

Fierce brother of the Lord of Gold:

“Now, tyrant, tremble for thy sin:

Call up thy friends, thy kith and kin,

And let the power and might be seen

Which made thee bold to steal my queen.

To-morrow shall thy mournful eye

Behold thy bravest warriors die,

And Lanká’s city, tower and wall,

Struck by my fiery shafts, will fall.

Then shall my vengeful blow descend

Its rage on thee and thine to spend,

Fierce as the fiery bolt that flew

From heaven against the Dánav crew,

Mid those rebellious demons sent

By him who rules the firmament.”

Thus spake Ikshváku’s son, and ceased:

The giants from their bonds released

Lauded the King with glad accord,

And hasted homeward to their lord.

Before the tyrant side by side

Śuka and Sáraṇ stood and cried:

“Vibhishaṇ seized us, King, and fain

His helpless captives would have slain.

But glorious Ráma saw us; he,

Great-hearted hero, made us free.

There in one spot our eyes beheld

Four chiefs on earth unparalleled,

Who with the guardian Gods may vie

Who rule the regions of the sky.

There Ráma stood, the boast and pride

Of Raghu’s race, by Lakshmaṇ’s side.

There stood the sage Vibhishaṇ, there

Sugríva strong beyond compare.

These four alone can batter down

Gate, rampart, wall, and Lanká’s town.

Nay, Ráma matchless in his form,

A single foe, thy town would storm:

So wondrous are his weapons, he

Needs not the succour of the three.

Why speak we of the countless train

That fills the valley, hill and plain,

The millions of the Vánar breed

Whom Ráma and Sugríva lead?

O King, be wise, contend no more,

And Sítá to her lord restore.”

Canto XXVI. The Vánar Chiefs.

“Not if the Gods in heaven who dwell,

Gandharvas, and the fiends of hell

In banded opposition rise

Against me, will I yield my prize.

Still trembling from the ungentle touch

Of Vánar hands ye fear too much,

And bid me, heedless of the shame,

Give to her lord the Maithil dame.”

Thus spoke the king in stern reproof;

Then mounted to his palace roof

Aloft o’er many a story raised,

And on the lands beneath him gazed.

There by his faithful spies he stood

And looked on sea and hill and wood.

There stretched before him far away

The Vánars’ numberless array:

Scarce could the meadows’ tender green

Beneath their trampling feet be seen.

He looked a while with furious eye,

Then questioned thus the nearer spy:

“Bend, Sáraṇ, bend thy gaze, and show

The leaders of the Vánar foe.

Tell me their heroes’ names, and teach

The valour, power and might of each.”

Obedient Sáraṇ eyed the van,

The leaders marked, and thus began:

“That chief conspicuous at the head

Of warriors in the forest bred,

Who hither bends his ruthless eye

And shouts his fearful battle cry:

Whose voice with pealing thunder shakes

All Lanká, with the groves and lakes

And hills that tremble at the sound,

Is Níla, for his might renowned:

First of the Vánar lords controlled

By King Sugríva lofty-souled.

He who his mighty arm extends,

And his fierce eye on Lanká bends,

In stature like a stately tower,

In colour like a lotus flower,

Who with his wild earth-shaking cries

Thee, Rávaṇ, to the field defies,

Is Angad, by Sugríva’s care

Anointed his imperial heir:

In wondrous strength, in martial fire

Peer of King Báli’s self, his sire;

For Ráma’s sake in arms arrayed

Like Varuṇ called to Śakra’s aid.

Behind him, girt by warlike bands,

Nala the mighty Vánar stands,

The son of Viśvakarmá, he

Who built the bridge athwart the sea.

Look farther yet, O King, and mark

That chieftain clothed in Sandal bark.

’Tis Śweta, famed among his peers,

A sage whom all his race reveres.

See, in Sugríva’s ear he speaks,

Then, hasting back, his post reseeks,

And turns his practised eye to view

The squadrons he has formed anew.

Next Kumud stands who roamed of yore

On Gomatí’s(939) delightful shore,

Feared where the waving woods invest

His seat on Mount Sanrochan’s crest.

Next him a chieftain strong and dread,

Comes Chaṇḍa at his legions’ head;

Exulting in his warrior might

He hastens, burning for the fight,

And boasts that his unaided powers

Shall cast to earth thy walls and towers.

Mark, mark that chief of lion gait,

Who views thee with a glance of hate

As though his very eyes would burn

The city walls to which they turn:

’Tis Rambha, Vánar king; he dwells

In Krishṇagiri’s tangled dells,

Where Vindhya’s pleasant slopes are spread

And fair Sudarśan lifts his head.

There, listening with erected ears,

Śarabha, mighty chief, appears.

His soul is burning for the strife,

Nor dreads the jeopardy of life.

He trembles as he moves, for ire,

And bends around his glance of fire.

Next, like a cloud that veils the skies,

A chieftain of terrific size,

Conspicuous mid the Vánars, comes

With battle shout like rolling drums,

’Tis Panas, trained in war and tried,

Who dwells on Páriyátra’s side.

He, far away, the chief who throws

A glory o’er the marshalled rows

That ranged behind their captain stand

Exulting on the ocean strand,

Is Vinata the fierce in fight,

Preëminent like Dardur’s height.

That chieftain bending down to drink

On lovely Veṇá’s verdant brink,

Is Krathan; now he lifts his eyes

And thee to mortal fray defies.

Next Gavaya comes, whose haughty mind

Scorns all the warriors of his kind.

He comes to trample—such his boast—

On Lanká with his single host.”

Canto XXVII. The Vánar Chiefs.

“Yet more remain, brave chiefs who stake

Their noble lives for Ráma’s sake.

See, glorious, golden-coated, one

Who glisters like the morning sun,

Whom thousands of his race surround,

’Tis Hara for his strength renowned.

Next comes a mighty chieftain, he

Whose legions, armed with rock and tree,

Press on, in numbers passing tale,

The ramparts of our town to scale.

O Rávaṇ, see the king advance

Terrific with his fiery glance,

Girt by the bravest of his train,

Majestic as the God of Rain,

Parjanya, when his host of clouds

About the king, embattled, crowds:

On Rikshaván’s high mountain nursed,

In Narmadá(940) he slakes his thirst,

Dhúmra, proud ursine chief, who leads

Wild warriors whom the forest breeds.

His brother, next in strength and age,

In Jámbaván the famous sage.

Of yore his might and skill he lent

To him who rules the firmament,

And Indra’s liberal boons repaid

The chieftain for the timely aid.

There like a gloomy cloud that flies

Borne by the tempest through the skies,

Pramáthí stands: he roamed of yore

The forest wilds on Gangá’s shore,

Where elephants were struck with dread

And trembling at his coming fled.

There on his foes he loved to sate

The old hereditary hate.(941)

Look, Gaja and Gaváksha show

Their lust of battle with the foe.

See Nala burning for the fray,

And Níla chafing at delay.

Behind the eager captains press

Wild hosts in numbers numberless,

And each for Ráma’s sake would fall

Or force his way through Lanká’s wall.”

Canto XXVIII. The Chieftains.

There Sáraṇ ceased: then Śuka broke

The silence and to Rávaṇ spoke:

“O Monarch, yonder chiefs survey:

Like elephants in size are they,

And tower like stately trees that grow

Where Gangá’s nursing waters flow;

Yea, tall as mountain pines that fling

Long shadows o’er the snow-crowned king.

They all in wild Kishkindhá dwell

And serve their lord Sugríva well.

The Gods’ and bright Gandharvas’ seed,

They take each form that suits their need.

Now farther look, O Monarch, where

Those chieftains stand, a glorious pair,

Conspicuous for their godlike frames;

Dwivid and Mainda are their names.

Their lips the drink of heaven have known,

And Brahmá claims them for his own.

That chieftain whom thine eyes behold

Refulgent like a hill of gold,

Before whose wrathful might the sea

Roused from his rest would turn and flee,

The peerless Vánar, he who came

To Lanká for the Maithil dame,

The Wind-God’s son Hanumán; thou

Hast seen him once, behold him now.

Still nearer let thy glance be bent,

And mark that prince preëminent

Mid chieftains for his strength and size

And splendour of his lotus eyes.

Far through the worlds his virtues shine,

The glory of Ikshváku’s line.

The path of truth he never leaves,

And still through all to duty cleaves.

Deep in the Vedas, skilled to wield

The mystic shafts to him revealed:

Whose flaming darts to heaven ascend,

And through the earth a passage rend:

In might like him who rules the sky;

Like Yáma, when his wrath grows high:

Whose queen, the darling of his soul,

Thy magic art deceived and stole:

There royal Ráma stands and longs

For battle to avenge his wrongs.

Near on his right a prince, in hue

Like pure gold freshly burnished, view:

Broad is his chest, his eye is red,

His black hair curls about his head:

’Tis Lakshmaṇ, faithful friend, who shares

His brother’s joys, his brother’s cares.

By Ráma’s side he loves to stand

And serve him as his better hand,

For whose dear sake without a sigh

The warrior youth would gladly die.

On Ráma’s left Vibhishaṇ view,

With giants for his retinue:

King-making drops have dewed his head,

Appointed monarch in thy stead.

Behold that chieftain sternly still,

High towering like a rooted hill,

Supreme in power and pride of place,

The monarch of the Vánar race.

Raised high above his woodland kind,

In might and glory, frame and mind,

His head above his host he shows

Conspicuous as the Lord of Snows.

His home is far from hostile eyes

Where deep in woods Kishkindhá lies.

A glistering chain which flowers bedeck

With burnished gold adorns his neck.

Queen Fortune, loved by Gods and kings,

To him her chosen favourite clings.

That chain he owes to Ráma’s grace,

And Tárá and his kingly place.

In him the great Sugríva know,

Whom Ráma rescued from his foe.”(942)

Canto XXIX. Sárdúla Captured.

The giant viewed with earnest ken

The Vánars and the lords of men;

Then thus, with grief and anger moved,

In bitter tone the spies reproved:

“Can faithful servants hope to please

Their master with such fates as these?

Or hope ye with wild words to wring

The bosom of your lord and king?

Such words were better said by those

Who come arrayed our mortal foes.

In vain your ears have heard the sage,

And listened to the lore of age,

Untaught, though lectured many a day,

The first great lesson, to obey,

’Tis marvel Rávaṇ reigns and rules

Whose counsellors are blind and fools.

Has death no terrors that ye dare

To tempt your monarch to despair,

From whose imperial mandate flow

Disgrace and honour, weal and woe?

Yea, forest trees, when flames are fanned

About their scorching trunks, may stand;

But naught can set the sinner free

When kings the punishment decree.

I would not in mine anger spare

The traitorous foe-praising pair,

But years of faithful service plead

For pardon, and they shall not bleed.

Henceforth to me be dead: depart,

Far from my presence and my heart.”

Thus spoke the angry king: the two

Cried, Long live Rávaṇ, and withdrew,

The giant monarch turned and cried

To strong Mahodar at his side:

“Go thou, and spies more faithful bring.

More duteous to their lord the king.”

Swift at his word Mahodar shed,

And came returning at the head

Of long tried messengers, who bent

Before their monarch reverent.

“Go quickly hence,” said Rávaṇ “scan

With keenest eyes the foeman’s plan.

Learn who, as nearest friends, advise

And mould each secret enterprise.

Learn when he wakes and goes to rest,

Sound every purpose of his breast.

Learn what the prince intends to-day:

Watch keenly all, and come away.”

With joy they heard the words he said:

Then with Śárdúla at their head

About the giant king they went

With circling paces reverent.

By fair Suvela’s grassy side

The chiefs of Raghu’s race they spied,

Where, shaded by the waving wood,

Vibhishaṇ and Sugríva stood.

A while they rested there and viewed

The Vánars’ countless multitude.

Vibhishaṇ with observant eyes

Knew at a glance the giant spies,

And bade the warriors of his train

Bind the rash foes with cord and chain:

“Śárdúla’s is the sin,” he cried.

He neath the Vánars’ hands had died,

But Ráma from their fury freed

The captive in his utmost need,

And, merciful at sight of woe,

Loosed all the spies and bade them go.

Then home to Lanká’s monarch fled

The giant chiefs discomfited.

Canto XXX. Sárdúla’s Speech.

They told their lord that Ráma still

Lay waiting by Suvela’s hill.

The tyrant, flushed with angry glow,

Heard of the coming of the foe,

And thus with close inquiry pressed

Śárdúla spokesman for the rest:

“Why art thou sad, night-rover? speak:

Has grief or terror changed thy cheek?

Have the wild Vánars’ hostile bands

Assailed thee with their mighty hands?”

Śárdúla heard, but scarce might speak;

His trembling tones were faint and weak:

“O Giant King, in vain we try

The purpose of the foe to spy.

Their strength and number none may tell,

And Ráma guards his legions well.

He leaves no hope to prying eyes,

And parley with the chiefs denies:

Each road and path a Vánar guard,

Of mountain size, has closed and barred.

Soon as my feet an entrance found

By giants was I seized and bound,

And wounded sore I fell beneath

Their fists and knees and hands and teeth.

Then trembling, bleeding, wellnigh dead

To Ráma’s presence was I led.

He in his mercy stooped to save,

And freedom to the captive gave.

With rocks and shattered mountains he

Has bridged his way athwart the sea,

And he and all his legions wait

Embattled close to Lanká’s gate.

Soon will the host thy wall assail,

And, swarming on, the rampart scale.

Now, O my King, his consort yield,

Or arm thee with the sword and shield.

This choice is left thee: choose between

Thy safety and the Maithil queen.”(943)

Canto XXXI. The Magic Head.

The tyrant’s troubled eye confessed

The secret fear that filled his breast.

With dread of coming woe dismayed

He called his counsellors to aid;

Then sternly silent, deep in thought,

His chamber in the palace sought.

Then, as the surest hope of all,

The monarch bade his servants call

Vidyujjihva, whom magic skill

Made master of the means of ill.

Then spake the lord of Lanká’s isle:

“Come, Sítá with thine arts beguile.

With magic skill and deftest care

A head like Ráma’s own prepare.

This head, long shafts and mighty bow,

To Janak’s daughter will we show.”

He ceased: Vidyujjihva obeyed,

And wondrous magic skill displayed;

And Rávaṇ for the art he showed

An ornament of price bestowed.

Then to the grove where Sítá lay

The lord of Lanká took his way.

Pale, wasted, weeping, on the ground

The melancholy queen he found,

Whose thoughts in utmost stress of ill

Were fixed upon her husband still.

The giant king approached the dame,

Declared in tones of joy his name;

Then heeding naught her wild distress

Bespake her, stern and pitiless:

“The prince to whom thy fancies cling

Though loved and wooed by Lanká’s king,

Who slew the noble Khara,—he

Is slain by warriors sent by me.

Thy living root is hewn away,

Thy scornful pride is tamed to-day.

Thy lord in battle’s front has died,

And Sítá shall be Rávaṇ’s bride.

Hence, idle thoughts: thy hope is fled;

What wilt thou, Sítá, with the dead?

Rise, child of Janak, rise and be

The queen of all my queens and me.

Incline thine ear, and I will tell,

Dear lady, how thy husband fell.

He bridged his way across the sea

With countless troops to fight with me.

The setting sun had flushed the west

When on the shore they took their rest.

Weary with toil no watch they kept,

Securely on the sands they slept.

Prahasta’s troops assailed our foes,

And smote them in their deep repose.

Scarce could their bravest prove their might:

They perished in the dark of night.

Axe, spear, and sword, directed well,

Upon the sleeping myriads fell.

First in the fight Prahasta’s sword

Reft of his head thy slumbering lord.

Roused at the din Vibhishaṇ rose,

The captive of surrounding foes,

And Lakshmaṇ through the woods that spread

Around him with his Vánars fled.

Hanúmán fell: one deadly stroke

The neck of King Sugríva broke,

And Mainda sank, and Dwivid lay

Gasping in blood his life away.

The Vánars died, or fled dispersed

Like cloudlets when the storm has burst.

Some rose aloft in air, and more

Ran to the sea and filled the shore.

On shore, in woods, on hill and plain

Our conquering giants left the slain.

Thus my victorious host o’erthrew

The Vánars, and thy husband slew:

See, rudely stained with dust, and red

With dropping blood, the severed head.”

Then, turning to a Rákshas slave,

The ruthless king his mandate gave,

And straight Vidyujjihva who bore

The head still wet with dripping gore,

The arrows and the mighty bow,

Bent down before his master low.

“Vidyujjihva,” cried Rávaṇ, “place

The head before the lady’s face,

And let her see with weeping eyes

That low in death her husband lies.”

Before the queen the giant laid

The beauteous head his art had made.

And Rávaṇ cried: “Thine eyes will know

These arrows and the mighty bow.

With fame of this by Ráma strung

The earth and heaven and hell have rung.

Prahasta brought it hither when

His hand had slain thy prince of men.

Now, widowed Queen, thy hopes resign:

Forget thy husband and be mine.”

Canto XXXII. Sítá’s Lament.

Again her eyes with tears o’erflowed:

She gazed upon the head he showed,

Gazed on the bow so famed of yore,

The glorious bow which Ráma bore.

She gazed upon his cheek and brows,

The eyes of her beloved spouse;

His lips, the lustre of his hair,

The priceless gem that glittered there.

The features of her lord she knew,

And, pierced with anguish at the view,

She lifted up her voice and cried:

“Kaikeyí, art thou satisfied?

Now all thy longings are fulfilled;

The joy of Raghu’s race is killed,

And ruined is the ancient line,

Destroyer, by that fraud of thine.

Ah, what offence, O cruel dame,

What fault in Ráma couldst thou blame,

To drive him clad in hermit dress

With Sítá to the wilderness?”

Great trembling seized her frame, and she

Fell like a stricken plantain tree.

As lie the dead she lay; at length

Slowly regaining sense and strength,

On the dear head she fixed her eye

And cried with very bitter cry:

“Ah, when thy cold dead cheek I view,

My hero, I am murdered too.

Then first a faithful woman’s eyes

See sorrow, when her husband dies.

When thou, my lord, wast nigh to save,

Some stealthy hand thy death wound gave.

Thou art not dead: rise, hero, rise;

Long life was thine, as spake the wise

Whose words, I ween, are ever true,

For faith lies open to their view.

Ah lord, and shall thy head recline

On earth’s cold breast, forsaking mine,

Counting her chill lap dearer far

Than I and my caresses are?

Ah, is it thus these eyes behold

Thy famous bow adorned with gold,

Whereon of yore I loved to bind

Sweet garlands that my hands had twined?

And hast thou sought in heaven a place

Amid the founders of thy race,

Where in the home deserved so well

Thy sires and Daśaratha dwell?

Or dost thou shine a brighter star

In skies where blest immortals are,

Forsaking in thy lofty scorn

The race wherein thy sires were born?

Turn to my gaze, O turn thine eye:

Why are thy cold lips silent, why?

When first we met as youth and maid,

When in thy hand my hand was laid,

Thy promise was thy steps should be

Through life in duty’s path with me.

Remember, faithful still, thy vow,

And take me with thee even now.

Is that broad bosom where I hung,

That neck to which I fondly clung,

Where flowery garlands breathed their scent

By hungry dogs and vultures rent?

Shall no funereal honours grace

The parted lord of Raghu’s race,

Whose bounty liberal fees bestowed,

For whom the fires of worship glowed?

Kauśalyá wild with grief will see

One sole survivor of the three

Who in their hermit garments went

To the dark woods in banishment.

Then at her cry shall Lakshmaṇ tell

How, slain by night, the Vánars fell;

How to thy side the giants crept,

And slew the hero as he slept.

Thy fate and mine the queen will know,

And broken-hearted die of woe.

For my unworthy sake, for mine,

Ráma, the glory of his line,

Who bridged his way across the main,

Is basely in a puddle slain;

And I, the graceless wife he wed,

Have brought this ruin on his head.

Me, too, on him, O Rávaṇ, slay:

The wife beside her husband lay.

By his dear body let me rest,

Cheek close to cheek and breast to breast,

My happy eyes I then will close,

And follow whither Ráma goes.”

Thus cried the miserable dame;

When to the king a warder came,

Before the giant monarch bowed

And said that, followed by a crowd

Of counsellors and lords of state,

Prahasta stood before the gate,

And, sent by some engrossing care,

Craved audience of his master there.

The anxious tyrant left his seat

And hastened forth the chief to meet:

Then summoning his nobles all,

Took counsel in his regal hall.

When Lanká’s lord had left the queen,

The head and bow no more were seen.

The giant king his nobles eyed,

And, terrible as Yáma, cried:

“O faithful lords, the time is come:

Gather our hosts with beat of drum.

Nigh to the town our foeman draws:

Be prudent, nor reveal the cause.”

The nobles listened and obeyed:

Swift were the gathered troops arrayed,

And countless rovers of the night

Stood burning for the hour of fight.

Canto XXXIII. Saramá.

But Saramá, of gentler mood,

With pitying eyes the mourner viewed,

Stole to her side and softly told

Glad tidings that her heart consoled,

Revealing with sweet voice and smile

The secret of the giant’s guile.

She, one of those who night and day

Watching in turns by Sítá lay,

Though Rákshas born felt pity’s touch,

And loved the hapless lady much.

“I heard,” she said, “thy bitter cry,

Heard Rávaṇ’s speech and thy reply,

For, hiding in the thicket near,

No word or tone escaped mine ear.

When Rávaṇ hastened forth I bent

My steps to follow as he went,

And learnt the secret cause that drove

The monarch from the Aśoka grove.

Believe me, Queen, thou needst not weep

For Ráma slaughtered in his sleep.

Thy lion lord of men defies

By day attack, by night surprise.

Can even giants slay with ease

Vast hosts who fight with brandished trees,

For whom, with eye that never sleeps,

His constant watch thy Ráma keeps?

Lord of the mighty arm and chest,

Of earthly warriors first and best,

Whose fame through all the regions rings,

Proud scion of a hundred kings;

Who guards his life and loves to lend

His saving succour to a friend:

Whose bow no hand but his can strain,—

Thy lord, thy Ráma is not slain.

Obedient to his master’s will,

A great magician, trained in ill,

With deftest art surpassing thought

That marvellous illusion wrought.

Let rising hope thy grief dispel:

Look up and smile, for all is well,

And gentle Lakshmí, Fortune’s Queen,

Regards thee with a favouring mien.

Thy Ráma with his Vánar train

Has thrown a bridge athwart the main,

Has led his countless legions o’er,

And ranged them on this southern shore.

These eyes have seen the hero stand

Girt by his hosts on Lanká’s strand,

And breathless spies each moment bring

Fresh tidings to the giant king;

And every peer and lord of state

Is called to counsel and debate.”

She ceased: the sound, long loud and clear,

Of gathering armies smote her ear,

Where call of drum and shell rang out,

The tambour and the battle shout;

And, while the din the echoes woke,

Again to Janak’s child she spoke:

“Hear, lady, hear the loud alarms

That call the Rákshas troops to arms,

From stable and from stall they lead

The elephant and neighing steed,

Brace harness on with deftest care,

And chariots for the fight prepare.

Swift o’er the trembling ground career

Mailed horsemen armed with axe and spear,

And here and there in road and street

The terrible battalions meet.

I hear the gathering near and far,

The snorting steed, the rattling car.

Bold chieftains, leaders of the brave,

Press densely on, like wave on wave,

And bright the evening sunbeams glance

On helm and shield, on sword and lance.

Hark, lady, to the ringing steel,

Hark to the rolling chariot wheel:

Hark to the mettled courser’s neigh

And drums’ loud thunder far away.

The Queen of Fortune holds thee dear,

For Lanká’s troops are struck with fear,

And Ráma with the lotus eyes,

Like Indra monarch of the skies,

With conquering arm will slay his foe

And free his lady from her woe.

Soon will his breast support thy head,

And tears of joy thine eyes will shed.

Soon by his mighty arm embraced

The long-lost rapture wilt thou taste,

And Ráma, meet for highest bliss,

Will gain his guerdon in thy kiss.”

Canto XXXIV. Saramá’s Tidings.

Thus Saramá her story told:

And Sítá’s spirit was consoled,

As when the first fresh rain is shed

The parching earth is comforted.

Then, filled with zeal for Sítá’s sake,

Again in gentle tones she spake,

And, skilled in arts that soothe and please,

Addressed the queen in words like these:

“Thy husband, lady, will I seek,

Say the fond words thy lips would speak,

And then, unseen of any eye,

Back to thy side will swiftly fly.

My airy flights are speedier far

Than Garuḍa’s and the tempest are.”

Then Sítá spake: her former woe

Still left her accents faint and low:

“I know thy steps, which naught can stay,

Can urge through heaven and hell their way.

Then if thy love and changeless will

Would serve the helpless captive still,

Go forth and learn each plot and guile

Planned by the lord of Lanká’s isle.

With magic art like maddening wine

He cheats these weeping eyes of mine,

Torments me with his suit, nor spares

Reproof or flattery, threats or prayers.

These guards surround me night and day;

My heart is sad, my senses stray;

And helpless in my woe I fear

The tyrant Rávaṇ even here.”

Then Saramá replied: “I go

To learn the purpose of thy foe,

Soon by thy side again to stand

And tell thee what the king has planned.”

She sped, she heard with eager ears

The tyrant speak his hopes and fears,

Where, gathered at their master’s call,

The nobles filled the council hall;

Then swiftly, to her promise true,

Back to the Aśoka grove she flew.

The lady on the grassy ground,

Longing for her return, she found;

Who with a gentle smile, to greet

The envoy, led her to a seat.

Through her worn frame a shiver ran

As Saramá her tale began:

“There stood the royal mother: she

Besought her son to set thee free,

And to her counsel, tears and prayers,

The elder nobles added theirs:

“O be the Maithil queen restored

With honour to her angry lord,

Let Janasthán’s unhappy fight

Be witness of the hero’s might.

Hanúmán o’er the waters came

And looked upon the guarded dame.

Let Lanká’s chiefs who fought and fell

The prowess of the leader tell.”

In vain they sued, in vain she wept,

His purpose still unchanged he kept,

As clings the miser to his gold,

He would not loose thee from his hold.

No, never till in death he lies,

Will Lanká’s lord release his prize.

Soon slain by Ráma’s arrows all

The giants with their king will fall,

And Ráma to his home will lead

His black-eyed queen from bondage freed.”

An awful sound that moment rose

From Lanká’s fast-approaching foes,

Where drum and shell in mingled peal

Made earth in terror rock and reel.

The hosts within the walls arrayed

Stood trembling, in their hearts dismayed;

Thought of the tempest soon to burst,

And Lanká’s lord, their ruin, cursed.

Canto XXXV. Malyaván’s Speech.

The fearful notes of drum and shell

Upon the ear of Rávaṇ fell.

One moment quailed his haughty look,

One moment in his fear he shook,

But soon recalling wonted pride,

His counsellors he sternly eyed,

And with a voice that thundered through

The council hall began anew:

“Lords, I have heard—your tongues have told—

How Raghu’s son is fierce and bold.

To Lanká’s shore has bridged his way

And hither leads his wild array.

I know your might, in battle tried,

Fighting and conquering by my side.

Why now, when such a foe is near,

Looks eye to eye in silent fear?”

He ceased, his mother’s sire well known

For wisdom in the council shown,

Malyaván, sage and faithful guide.

Thus to the monarch’s speech replied:

“Long reigns the king in safe repose,

Unmoved by fear of vanquished foes,

Whose feet by saving knowledge led

In justice path delight to tread:

Who knows to sheath the sword or wield,

To order peace, to strike or yield:

Prefers, when foes are stronger, peace,

And bids a doubtful conflict cease.

Now, King, the choice before thee lies,

Make peace with Ráma, and be wise.

This day the captive queen restore

Who brings the foe to Lanká’s shore.

The Sire by whom the worlds are swayed

Of yore the Gods and demons made.

With these Injustice sided; those

Fair Justice for her champions chose.

Still Justice dwells with Gods above;

Injustice, fiends and giants love.

Thou, through the worlds that fear thee, long

Hast scorned the right and loved the wrong,

And Justice, with thy foes allied,

Gives might resistless to their side.

Thou, guided by thy wicked will,

Hast found delight in deeds of ill,

And sages in their holy rest

Have trembled, by thy power oppressed.

But they, who check each vain desire,

Are clothed with might which burns like fire.

In them the power and glory live

Which zeal and saintly fervour give.

Their constant task, their sole delight

Is worship and each holy rite,

To chant aloud the Veda hymn,

Nor let the sacred fires grow dim.

Now through the air like thunder ring

The echoes of the chants they sing.

The vapours of their incense rise

And veil with cloudy pall the skies,

And Rákshas might grows weak and faint

Killed by the power of sage and saint.

By Brahmá’s boon thy life was screened

From God, Gandharva, Yaksha, fiend;

But Vánars, men, and bears, arrayed

Against thee now, thy shores invade.

Red meteors, heralds of despair

Flash frequent through the lurid air,

Foretelling to my troubled mind

The ruin of the Rákshas kind.

With awful thundering overhead

Clouds black as night are densely spread,

And oozing from the gloomy pall

Great drops of blood on Lanká fall.

Dogs roam through house and shrine to steal

The sacred oil and curd and meal,

Cats pair with tigers, hounds with swine,

And asses’ foals are born of kine.

In these and countless signs I trace

The ruin of the giant race.

’Tis Vishṇu’s self who comes to storm

Thy city, clothed in Ráma’s form;

For, well I ween, no mortal hand

The ocean with a bridge has spanned.

O giant King, the dame release,

And sue to Raghu’s son for peace”

Canto XXXVI. Rávan’s Reply.

But Rávaṇ’s breast with fury swelled,

And thus he spake by Death impelled,

While, under brows in anger bent,

Fierce glances from his eyes were sent:

“The bitter words which thou, misled

By friendly thought, hast fondly said,

Which praise the foe and counsel fear,

Unheeded fall upon mine ear.

How canst thou deem a mighty foe

This Ráma who, in stress of woe,

Seeks, banished as his sire decreed,

Assistance from the Vánar breed?

Am I so feeble in thine eyes,

Though feared by dwellers of the skies,—

Whose might in many a battle shown

The glorious race of giants own?

Shall I for fear of him restore

The lady whom I hither bore,

Exceeding fair like Beauty’s Queen(944)

Without her well-loved lotus seen?

Around the chief let Lakshmaṇ stand,

Sugríva, and each Vánar band,

Soon, Malyaván, thine eyes will see

This boasted Ráma slain by me.

I in the brunt of war defy

The mightiest warriors of the sky;

And if I stoop to combat men,

Shall I be weak and tremble then?

This mangled trunk the foe may rend,

But Rávaṇ ne’er can yield or bend,

And be it vice or virtue, I

This nature never will belie.

What marvel if he bridged the sea?

Why should this deed disquiet thee?

This, only this, I surely know,

Back with his life he shall not go.”

Thus in loud tones the king exclaimed,

And mute stood Malyaván ashamed,

His reverend head he humbly bent,

And slowly to his mansion went.

But Rávaṇ stayed, and deep in care

Held counsel with his nobles there,

All entrance to secure and close,

And guard the city from their foes.

He bade the chief Prahasta wait,

Commander at the eastern gate,

To fierce Mahodar, strong and brave,

To keep the southern gate, he gave,

Where Mahápárśva’s might should aid

The chieftain with his hosts arrayed.

To guard the west—no chief more fit—

He placed the warrior Indrajít,

His son, the giant’s joy and boast,

Surrounded by a Rákshas host:

And mighty Sáraṇ hastened forth

With Śuka to protect the north.(945)

“I will myself,” the monarch cried,

“Be present on the northern side.”

These orders for the walls’ defence

The tyrant gave, then parted thence,

And, by the hope of victory fired,

To chambers far within, retired.

Canto XXXVII. Preparations.

Lords of the legions of the wood,

The chieftains with Vibhishaṇ stood,

And, strangers in the foeman’s land,

Their hopes and fears in council scanned:

“See, see where Lanká’s towers ascend,

Which Rávaṇ’s power and might defend,

Which Gods, Gandharvas, fiends would fail

To conquer, if they durst assail.

How shall our legions pass within,

The city of the foe to win,

With massive walls and portals barred

Which Rávaṇ keeps with surest guard?”

With anxious looks the walls they eyed:

And sage Vibhishaṇ thus replied:

“These lords of mine(946) can answer: they

Within the walls have found their way,

The foeman’s plan and order learned,

And hither to my side returned.

Now, Ráma, let my tongue declare

How Rávaṇ’s hosts are stationed there.

Prahasta heads, in warlike state,

His legions at the eastern gate.

To guard the southern portal stands

Mahodar, girt by Rákshas bands,

Where mighty Mahápárśva, sent

By Rávaṇ’s hest, his aid has lent.

Guard of the gate that fronts the west

Is valiant Indrajít, the best

Of warriors, Rávaṇ’s joy and pride;

And by the youthful chieftain’s side

Are giants, armed for fierce attacks

With sword and mace and battle-axe.

North, where approach is dreaded most,

The king, encompassed with a host

Of giants trained in war, whose hands

Wield maces, swords and lances, stands.

All these are chiefs whom Rávaṇ chose

As mightiest to resist his foes;

And each a countless army(947) leads

With elephants and cars and steeds.”

Then Ráma, while his spirit burned

For battle, words like these returned:

“The eastern gate be Níla’s care,

Opponent of Prahasta there.

The southern gate, with troops arrayed

Let Angad, Báli’s son, invade.

The gate that fronts the falling sun

Shall be by brave Hanúmán won;

Soon through its portals shall he lead

His myriads of Vánar breed.

The gate that fronts the north shall be

Assailed by Lakshmaṇ and by me,

For I myself have sworn to kill

The tyrant who delights in ill.

Armed with the boon which Brahmá gave,

The Gods of heaven he loves to brave,

And through the trembling worlds he flies,

Oppressor of the just and wise.

Thou, Jámbaván, and thou, O King

Of Vánars, all your bravest bring,

And with your hosts in dense array

Straight to the centre force your way.

But let no Vánar in the storm

Disguise him in a human form,

Ye chiefs who change your shapes at will,

Retain your Vánar semblance still.

Thus, when we battle with the foe,

Both men and Vánars will ye know,

In human form will seven appear;

Myself, my brother Lakshmaṇ here;

Vibhishaṇ, and the four he led

From Lanká’s city when he fled.”

Thus Raghu’s son the chiefs addressed:

Then, gazing on Suvela’s crest,

Transported by the lovely sight,

He longed to climb the mountain height.

Canto XXXVIII. The Ascent Of Suvela.

“Come let us scale,” the hero cried,

“This hill with various metals dyed.

This night upon the breezy crest

Sugríva, Lakshmaṇ, I, will rest,

With sage Vibhishaṇ, faithful friend,

His counsel and his lore to lend.

From those tall peaks each eager eye

The foeman’s city shall espy,

Who from the wood my darling stole

And brought long anguish on my soul.”

Thus spake the lord of men, and bent

His footsteps to the steep ascent,

And Lakshmaṇ, true in weal and woe,

Next followed with his shafts and bow.

Vibhishaṇ followed, next in place,

The sovereign of the Vánar race,

And hundreds of the forest kind

Thronged with impetuous feet, behind.

The chiefs in woods and mountains bred

Fast followed to Suvela’s head,

And gazed on Lanká bright and fair

As some gay city in the air.

On glittering gates, on ramparts raised

By giant hands, the chieftains gazed.

They saw the mighty hosts that, skilled

In arts of war, the city filled,

And ramparts with new ramparts lined,

The swarthy hosts that stood behind.

With spirits burning for the fight

They saw the giants from the height,

And from a hundred throats rang out

Defiance and the battle shout.

Then sank the sun with dying flame,

And soft the shades of twilight came,

And the full moon’s delicious light

Was shed upon the tranquil night.

Canto XXXIX. Lanká.

They slept secure: the sun arose

And called the chieftains from repose.

Before the wondering Vánars, gay

With grove and garden, Lanká lay,

Where golden buds the Champak showed,

And bright with bloom Aśoka glowed,

And palm and Sál and many a tree

With leaf and flower were fair to see.

They looked on wood and lawn and glade,

On emerald grass and dusky shade,

Where creepers filled the air with scent,

And luscious fruit the branches bent,

Where bees inebriate loved to throng,

And each sweet bird was loud in song.

The wondering Vánars passed the bound

That circled that enchanting ground,

And as they came a sweet breeze through

The odorous alleys softly blew.

Some Vánars, at their king’s behest,

Onward to bannered Lanká pressed,

While, startled by the strangers’ tread,

The birds and deer before them fled.

Earth trembled at each step they took,

And Lanká at their shouting shook.

Bright rose before their wondering eyes

Trikúṭa’s peak that kissed the skies,

And, clothed with flowers of every hue,

Afar its golden radiance threw.

Most fair to see the mountain’s head

A hundred leagues in length was spread.

There Rávaṇ’s town, securely placed,

The summit of Trikúṭa graced.

O’er leagues of land she stretched in pride,

A hundred long and twenty wide.

They saw a lofty wall enfold

The city, built of blocks of gold,

They saw the beams of morning fall

On dome and fane within the wall,

Bright with the shine that mansion gives

Where Vishṇu in his glory lives.

White-crested like the Lord of Snows

Before them Rávaṇ’s palace rose.

High on a thousand pillars raised

With gold and precious stone it blazed,

Guarded by giant warders, crown

And ornament of Lanká’s town.

Canto XL. Rávan Attacked.

Still stood the son of Raghu where

Suvela’s peak rose high in air,

And with Sugríva turned his eye

To scan each quarter of the sky.

There on Trikúṭa, nobly planned

And built by Viśvakarmá’s hand,

He saw the lovely Lanká, dressed

In all her varied beauty, rest.

High on a tower above the gate

The tyrant stood in kingly state.

The royal canopy displayed

Above him lent its grateful shade,

And servants, from the giant band,

His cheek with jewelled chowries fanned.

Red sandal o’er his breast was spread,

His ornaments and robe were red:

Thus shows a cloud of darksome hue

With golden sunbeams flashing through.

While Ráma and the chiefs intent

Upon the king their glances bent,

Up sprang Sugríva from the ground

And reached the turret at a bound.

Unterrified the Vánar stood,

And wroth, with wondrous hardihood,

The king in bitter words addressed,

And thus his scorn and hate expressed:

“King of the giant race, in me

The friend and slave of Ráma see.

Lord of the world, he gives me power

To smite thee in thy fenced tower.”

While through the air his challenge rang,

At Rávaṇ’s face the Vánar sprang.

Snatched from his head the kingly crown

And dashed it in his fury down.

Straight at his foe the giant flew,

His mighty arms about him threw.

With strength resistless swung him round

And dashed him panting to the ground.

Unharmed amid the storm of blows

Swift to his feet Sugríva rose.

Again in furious fight they met:

With streams of blood their limbs were wet,

Each grasping his opponent’s waist.

Thus with their branches interlaced,

Which, crimson with the flowers of spring,

From side to side the breezes swing,

In furious wrestle you may see

The Kinśuk and the Seemal tree.(948)

They fought with fists and hands, alike

Prepared to parry and to strike.

Long time the doubtful combat, waged

With matchless strength and fury, raged.

Each fiercely struck, each guarded well,

Till, closing, from the tower they fell,

And, grasping each the other’s throat,

Lay for an instant in the moat.

They rose, and each in fiercer mood

The sanguinary strife renewed.

Well matched in size and strength and skill

They fought the dubious battle still.

While sweat and blood their limbs bedewed

They met, retreated, and pursued:

Each stratagem and art they tried,

Stood front to front and swerved aside.

His hand a while the giant stayed

And called his magic to his aid.

But brave Sugríva, swift to know

The guileful purpose of the foe,

Gained with light leap the upper air,

And breath and strength and spirit there;

Then, joyous as for victory won,

Returned to Raghu’s royal son.

Canto XLI. Ráma’s Envoy.

When Ráma saw each bloody trace

On King Sugríva’s limbs and face,

He cried, while, sorrowing at the view,

His arms about his friend he threw:

“Too venturous chieftain, kings like us

Bring not their lives in peril thus;

Nor, save when counsel shows the need,

Attempt so bold, so rash a deed.

Remember, I, Vibhishaṇ all

Have sorrowed fearing for thy fall.

O do not—for us all I speak—

These desperate adventures seek.”

“I could not,” cried Sugríva, “brook

Upon the giant king to look,

Nor challenge to the deadly strife

The fiend who robbed thee of thy wife.”

“Now Lakshmaṇ, marshal,” Ráma cried,

“Our legions where the woods are wide,

And stand we ready to oppose

The fury of our giant foes.

This day our armies shall ascend

The walls which Rávaṇ’s powers defend,

And floods of Rákshas blood shall stain

The streets encumbered with the slain.”

Down from the peak he came, and viewed

The Vánars’ ordered multitude.

Each captain there for battle burned,

Each fiery eye to Lanká turned.

On, where the royal brothers led

To Lanká’s walls the legions sped.

The northern gate, where giant foes

Swarmed round their monarch, Ráma chose

Where he in person might direct

The battle, and his troops protect.

What arm but his the post might keep

Where, strong as he who sways the deep,(949)

Mid thousands armed with bow and mace,

Stood Rávaṇ mightiest of his race?

The eastern gate was Níla’s post,

Where marshalled stood his Vánar host,

And Mainda with his troops arrayed,

And Dwivid stood to lend him aid.

The southern gate was Angad’s care,

Who ranged his bold battalions there.

Hanúmán by the port that faced

The setting sun his legions placed,

And King Sugríva held the wood

East of the gate where Rávaṇ stood.

On every side the myriads met,

And Lanká’s walls of close beset

That scarce the roving gale could win

A passage to the hosts within.

Loud as the angry ocean’s roar

When wild waves lash the rocky shore,

Ten thousand thousand throats upsent

A shout that tore the firmament,

And Lanká with each grove and brook

And tower and wall and rampart shook.

The giants heard, and were appalled:

Then Raghu’s son to Angad called,

And, led by kingly duty,(950) gave

This order merciful as brave:

“Go, Angad, Rávaṇ’s presence seek,

And thus my words of warning speak:

“How art thou changed and fallen now,

O Monarch of the giants, thou

Whose impious fury would not spare

Saint, nymph, or spirit of the air;

Whose foot in haughty triumph trod

On Yaksha, king, and Serpent God:

How art thou fallen from thy pride

Which Brahmá’s favour fortified!

With myriads at thy Lanká’s gate

I stand my righteous ire to sate,

And punish thee with sword and flame,

The tyrant fiend who stole my dame.

Now show the might, employ the guile,

O Monarch of the giants’ isle,

Which stole a helpless dame away:

Call up thy power and strength to-day.

Once more I warn thee, Rákshas King,

This hour the Maithil lady bring,

And, yielding while there yet is time,

Seek, suppliant, pardon for the crime,

Or I will leave beneath the sun

No living Rákshas, no, not one.

In vain from battle wilt thou fly,

Or borne on pinions seek the sky;

The hand of Ráma shall not spare;

His fiery shaft shall smite thee there.’ ”

He ceased: and Angad bowed his head;

Thence like embodied flame he sped,

And lighted from his airy road

Within the Rákshas king’s abode.

There sate, the centre of a ring

Of counsellors, the giant king.

Swift through the circle Angad pressed,

And spoke with fury in his breast:

“Sent by the lord of Kośal’s land,

His envoy here, O King, I stand,

Angad the son of Báli: fame

Has haply taught thine ears my name.

Thus in the words of Ráma I

Am come to warn thee or defy:

Come forth, and fighting in the van

Display the spirit of a man.

This arm shall slay thee, tyrant: all

Thy nobles, kith and kin shall fall:

And earth and heaven, from terror freed,

Shall joy to see the oppressor bleed.

Vibhishaṇ, when his foe is slain,

Anointed king in peace shall reign.

Once more I counsel thee: repent,

Avoid the mortal punishment,

With honour due the dame restore,

And pardon for thy sin implore.”

Loud rose the king’s infuriate cry:

“Seize, seize the Vánar, let him die.”

Four of his band their lord obeyed,

And eager hands on Angad laid.

He purposing his strength to show

Gave no resistance to the foe,

But swiftly round his captors cast

His mighty arms and held them fast.

Fierce shout and cry around him rang:

Light to the palace roof he sprang,

There his detaining arms unwound,

And hurled the giants to the ground.

Then, smiting with a fearful stroke,

A turret from the roof he broke,—

As when the fiery levin sent

By Indra from the clouds has rent

The proud peak of the Lord of Snow,—

And flung the stony mass below.

Again with loud terrific cry

He sprang exulting to the sky,

And, joyous for his errand done,

Stood by the side of Raghu’s son.

Canto XLII. The Sally.

Still was the cry, “The Vánar foes

Around the leaguered city close.”

King Rávaṇ from the terrace gazed

And saw, with eyes where fury blazed,

The Vánar host in serried ranks

Press to the moat and line the banks,

And, first in splendour and in place,

The lion lord of Raghu’s race.

And Ráma looked on Lanká where

Gay flags were streaming to the air,

And, while keen sorrow pierced him through,

His loving thoughts to Sítá flew:

“There, there in deep affliction lies

My darling with the fawn-like eyes.

There on the cold bare ground she keeps

Sad vigil and for Ráma weeps.”

Mad with the thought, “Charge, charge,” he cried.

“Let earth with Rákshas blood be dyed.”

Responsive to his call rang out

A loud, a universal shout,

As myriads filled the moat with stone,

Trees, rocks, and mountains overthrown,

And charging at their leader’s call

Pressed forward furious to the wall.

Some in their headlong ardour scaled

The rampart’s height, the guard assailed,

And many a ponderous fragment rent

From portal, tower, and battlement.

Huge gates adorned with burnished gold

Were loosed and lifted from their hold;

And post and pillar, with a sound

Like thunder, fell upon the ground.

At every portal, east and west

And north and south, the chieftains pressed

Each in his post appointed led

His myriads in the forest bred.

“Charge, let the gates be opened wide:

Charge, charge, my giants,” Rávaṇ cried.

They heard his voice, and loud and long

Rang the wild clamour of the throng,

And shell and drum their notes upsent,

And every martial instrument.

Forth, at the bidding of their lord

From every gate the giants poured,

As, when the waters rise and swell,

Huge waves preceding waves impel.

Again from every Vánar throat

A scream of fierce defiance smote

The welkin: earth and sea and sky

Reëchoed with the awful cry.

The roar of elephants, the neigh

Of horses eager for the fray.

The frequent clash of warriors’ steel,

The rattling of the chariot wheel.

Fierce was the deadly fight: opposed

In terrible array they closed,

As when the Gods of heaven enraged

With rebel fiends wild battle waged.

Axe, spear, and mace were wielded well:

At every blow a Vánar fell.

But shivered rock and brandished tree

Brought many a giant on his knee,

To perish in his turn beneath

The deadly wounds of nails and teeth.

Canto XLIII. The Single Combats.

Brave chiefs of each opposing side

Their strength in single combat tried.

Fierce Indrajít the fight began

With Angad in the battle’s van.

Sampáti, strongest of his race,

Stood with Prajangha face to face.

Hanúmán, Jambumáli met

In mortal opposition set.

Vibhishaṇ, brother of the lord

Of Lanká, raised his threatening sword

And singled out, with eyes aglow

With wrath, Śatrughna for his foe.

The mighty Gaja Tapan sought,

And Níla with Nikumbha fought.

Sugríva, Vánar king, defied

Fierce Praghas long in battle tried,

And Lakshmaṇ fearless in the fight

Encountered Vírúpáksha’s might.

To meet the royal Ráma came

Wild Agniketu fierce as flame;

Mitraghana, he who loved to strike

His foeman and his friend alike:

With Raśmiketu, known and feared

Where’er his ponderous flag was reared;

And Yajnakopa whose delight

Was ruin of the sacred rite.

These met and fought, with thousands more,

And trampled earth was red with gore.

Swift as the bolt which Indra sends

When fire from heaven the mountain rends

Smote Indrajít with furious blows

On Angad queller of his foes.

But Angad from his foeman tore

The murderous mace the warrior bore,

And low in dust his coursers rolled,

His driver, and his car of gold.

Struck by the shafts Prajangha sped,

The Vánar chief Sampáti bled,

But, heedless of his gashes he

Crushed down the giant with a tree.

Then car-borne Jambumáli smote

Hanumán on the chest and throat;

But at the car the Vánar rushed,

And chariot, steeds, and rider crushed.

Sugríva whirled a huge tree round,

And struck fierce Praghas to the ground.

One arrow shot from Lakshmaṇ’s bow

Laid mighty Vírúpáksha low.

His giant foes round Ráma pressed

And shot their shafts at head and breast;

But, when the iron shower was spent,

Four arrows from his bow he sent,

And every missile, deftly sped;

Cleft from the trunk a giant head.(951)

Canto XLIV. The Night.

The lord of Light had sunk and set:

Night came; the foeman struggled yet;

And fiercer for the gloom of night

Grew the wild fury of the fight.

Scarce could each warrior’s eager eye

The foeman from the friend descry.

“Rákshas or Vánar? say;” cried each,

And foe knew foeman by his speech.

“Why wilt thou fly? O warrior, stay:

Turn on the foe, and rend and slay:”

Such were the cries, such words of fear

Smote through the gloom each listening ear.

Each swarthy rover of the night

Whose golden armour flashed with light,

Showed like a towering hill embraced

By burning woods about his waist.

The giants at the Vánars flew,

And ravening ate the foes they slew:

With mortal bite like serpent’s fang,

The Vánars at the giants sprang,

And car and steeds and they who bore

The pennons fell bedewed with gore.

No serried band, no firm array

The fury of their charge could stay.

Down went the horse and rider, down

Went giant lords of high renown.

Though midnight’s shade was dense and dark,

With skill that swerved not from the mark

Their bows the sons of Raghu drew,

And each keen shaft a chieftain slew.

Uprose the blinding dust from meads

Ploughed by the cars and trampling steeds,

And where the warriors fell the flood

Was dark and terrible with blood.

Six giants(952) singled Ráma out,

And charged him with a furious shout

Loud as the roaring of the sea

When every wind is raging free.

Six times he shot: six heads were cleft;

Six giants dead on earth were left.

Nor ceased he yet: his bow he strained,

And from the sounding weapon rained

A storm of shafts whose fiery glare

Filled all the region of the air;

And chieftains dropped before his aim

Like moths that perish in the flame.

Earth glistened where the arrows fell,

As shines in autumn nights a dell

Which fireflies, flashing through the gloom,

With momentary light illume.

But Indrajít, when Báli’s son(953)

The victory o’er the foe had won,

Saw with a fury-kindled eye

His mangled steeds and driver die;

Then, lost in air, he fled the fight,

And vanished from the victor’s sight.

The Gods and saints glad voices raised,

And Angad for his virtue praised;

And Raghu’s sons bestowed the meed

Of honour due to valorous deed.

Compelled his shattered car to quit,

Rage filled the soul of Indrajít,

Who brooked not, strong by Brahmá’s grace

Defeat from one of Vánar race.

In magic mist concealed from view

His bow the treacherous warrior drew,

And Raghu’s sons were first to feel

The tempest of his winged steel.

Then when his arrows failed to kill

The princes who defied him still,

He bound them with the serpent noose,(954)

The magic bond which none might loose.

Canto XLV. Indrajít’s Victory.

Brave Ráma, burning still to know

The station of his artful foe,

Gave to ten chieftains, mid the best

Of all the host, his high behest.

Swift rose in air the Vánar band:

Each region of the sky they scanned:

But Rávaṇ’s son by magic skill

Checked them with arrows swifter still,

When streams of blood from chest and side

The dauntless Vánars’ limbs had dyed,

The giant in his misty shroud

Showed like the sun obscured by cloud.

Like serpents hissing through the air,

His arrows smote the princely pair;

And from their limbs at every rent

A stream of rushing blood was sent.

Like Kinśuk trees they stood, that show

In spring their blossoms’ crimson glow.

Then Indrajít with fury eyed

Ikshváku’s royal sons, and cried:

“Not mighty Indra can assail

Or see me when I choose to veil

My form in battle: and can ye,

Children of earth, contend with me?

The arrowy noose this hand has shot

Has bound you with a hopeless knot;

And, slaughtered by my shafts and bow,

To Yáma’s hall this hour ye go.”

He spoke, and shouted. Then anew

The arrows from his bowstring flew,

And pierced, well aimed with perfect art,

Each limb and joint and vital part.

Transfixed with shafts in every limb,

Their strength relaxed, their eyes grew dim.

As two tall standards side by side,

With each sustaining rope untied,

Fall levelled by the howling blast,

So earth’s majestic lords at last

Beneath the arrowy tempest reeled,

And prostrate pressed the battle field.

Canto XLVI. Indrajít’s Triumph.

The Vánar chiefs whose piercing eyes

Scanned eagerly the earth and skies,

Saw the brave brothers wounded sore

Transfixed with darts and stained with gore.

The monarch of the Vánar race,

With wise Vibhishaṇ, reached the place;

Angad and Níla came behind,

And others of the forest kind,

And standing with Hanúmán there

Lamented for the fallen pair.

Their melancholy eyes they raised;

In fruitless search a while they gazed.

But magic arts Vibhishaṇ knew;

Not hidden from his keener view,

Though veiled by magic from the rest,

The son of Rávaṇ stood confessed.

Fierce Indrajít with savage pride

The fallen sons of Raghu eyed,

And every giant heart was proud

As thus the warrior cried aloud:

“Slain by mine arrows Ráma lies,

And closed in death are Lakshmaṇ’s eyes.

Dead are the mighty princes who

Dúshaṇ and Khara smote and slew.

The Gods and fiends may toil in vain

To free them from the binding chain.

The haughty chief, my father’s dread,

Who drove him sleepless from his bed,

While Lanká, troubled like a brook

In rain time, heard his name and shook:

He whose fierce hate our lives pursued

Lies helpless by my shafts subdued.

Now fruitless is each wondrous deed

Wrought by the race the forests breed,

And fruitless every toil at last

Like cloudlets when the rains are past.”

Then rose the shout of giants loud

As thunder from a bursting cloud,

When, deeming Ráma, dead, they raised

Their voices and the conqueror praised.

Still motionless, as lie the slain,

The brothers pressed the bloody plain,

No sigh they drew, no breath they heaved,

And lay as though of life bereaved.

Proud of the deed his art had done,

To Lanká’s town went Rávaṇ’s son,

Where, as he passed, all fear was stilled,

And every heart with triumph filled.

Sugríva trembled as he viewed

Each fallen prince with blood bedewed,

And in his eyes which overflowed

With tears the flame of anger glowed.

“Calm,” cried Vibhishaṇ, “calm thy fears,

And stay the torrent of thy tears.

Still must the chance of battle change,

And victory still delight to range.

Our cause again will she befriend

And bring us triumph in the end.

This is not death: each prince will break

The spell that holds him, and awake;

Nor long shall numbing magic bind

The mighty arm, the lofty mind.”

He ceased: his finger bathed in dew

Across Sugríva’s eyes he drew;

From dulling mist his vision freed,

And spoke these words to suit the need:

“No time is this for fear: away

With fainting heart and weak delay.

Now, e’en the tear which sorrow wrings

From loving eyes destruction brings.

Up, on to battle at the head

Of those brave troops which Ráma led.

Or guardian by his side remain

Till sense and strength the prince regain.

Soon shall the trance-bound pair revive,

And from our hearts all sorrow drive.

Though prostrate on the earth he lie,

Deem not that Ráma’s death is nigh;

Deem not that Lakshmí will forget

Or leave her darling champion yet.

Rest here and be thy heart consoled;

Ponder my words, be firm and bold.

I, foremost in the battlefield,

Will rally all who faint or yield.

Their staring eyes betray their fear;

They whisper each in other’s ear.

They, when they hear my cheering cry

And see the friend of Ráma nigh,

Will cast their gloom and fears away

Like faded wreaths of yesterday.”

Thus calmed he King Sugríva’s dread;

Then gave new heart to those who fled.

Fierce Indrajít, his soul on fire

With pride of conquest, sought his sire,

Raised reverent hands, and told him all,

The battle and the princes’ fall.

Rejoicing at his foes’ defeat

Upsprang the monarch from his seat,

Girt by his giant courtiers: round

His warrior son his arms he wound,

Close kisses on his head applied,

And heard again how Ráma died.

Canto XLVII. Sítá.

Still on the ground where Ráma slept

Their faithful watch the Vánars kept.

There Angad stood o’erwhelmed with grief

And many a lord and warrior chief;

And, ranged in densest mass around,

Their tree-armed legions held the ground.

Far ranged each Vánar’s eager eye,

Now swept the land, now sought the sky,

All fearing, if a leaf was stirred,

A Rákshas in the sound they heard.

The lord of Lanká in his hall,

Rejoicing at his foeman’s fall,

Commanded and the warders came

Who ever watched the Maithil dame.

“Go,” cried the Rákshas king, “relate

To Janak’s child her husband’s fate.

Low on the earth her Ráma lies,

And dark in death are Lakshmaṇ’s eyes.

Bring forth my car and let her ride

To view the chieftains side by side.

The lord to whom her fancy turned

For whose dear sake my love she spurned,

Lies smitten, as he fiercely led

The battle, with his brother dead.

Lead forth the royal lady: go

Her husband’s lifeless body show.

Then from all doubt and terror free

Her softening heart will turn to me.”

They heard his speech: the car was brought;

That shady grove the warders sought

Where, mourning Ráma night and day,

The melancholy lady lay.

They placed her in the car and through

The yielding air they swiftly flew.

The lady looked upon the plain,

Looked on the heaps of Vánar slain,

Saw where, triumphant in the fight,

Thronged the fierce rovers of the night,

And Vánar chieftains, mournful-eyed,

Watched by the fallen brothers’ side.

There stretched upon his gory bed

Each brother lay as lie the dead,

With shattered mail and splintered bow

Pierced by the arrows of the foe.

When on the pair her eyes she bent,

Burst from her lips a wild lament

Her eyes o’erflowed, she groaned and sighed

And thus in trembling accents cried:

Canto XLVIII. Sítá’s Lament.

“False are they all, proved false to-day,

The prophets of my fortune, they

Who in the tranquil time of old

A blessed life for me foretold,

Predicting I should never know

A childless dame’s, a widow’s woe,

False are they all, their words are vain,

For thou, my lord and life, art slain.

False was the priest and vain his lore

Who blessed me in those days of yore

By Ráma’s side in bliss to reign:

For thou, my lord and life, art slain.

They hailed me happy from my birth,

Proud empress of the lord of earth.

They blessed me—but the thought is pain—

For thou, my lord and life, art slain.

Ah, fruitless hope! each glorious sign

That stamps the future queen is mine,

With no ill-omened mark to show

A widow’s crushing hour of woe.

They say my hair is black and fine,

They praise my brows’ continuous line;

My even teeth divided well,

My bosom for its graceful swell.

They praise my feet and fingers oft;

They say my skin is smooth and soft,

And call me happy to possess

The twelve fair marks that bring success.(955)

But ah, what profit shall I gain?

Thou, O my lord and life, art slain.

The flattering seer in former days

My gentle girlish smile would praise,

And swear that holy water shed

By Bráhman hands upon my head

Should make me queen, a monarch’s bride:

How is the promise verified?

Matchless in might the brothers slew

In Janasthán the giant crew.

And forced the indomitable sea

To let them pass to rescue me.

Theirs was the fiery weapon hurled

By him who rules the watery world;(956)

Theirs the dire shaft by Indra sped;

Theirs was the mystic Brahmá’s Head.(957)

In vain they fought, the bold and brave:

A coward’s hand their death-wounds gave.

By secret shafts and magic spell

The brothers, peers of Indra, fell.

That foe, if seen by Ráma’s eye

One moment, had not lived to fly.

Though swift as thought, his utmost speed

Had failed him in the hour of need.

No might, no tear, no prayer may stay

Fate’s dark inevitable day.

Nor could their matchless valour shield

These heroes on the battle field.

I sorrow for the noble dead,

I mourn my hopes for ever fled;

But chief my weeping eyes o’erflow

For Queen Kauśalyá’s hopeless woe.

The widowed queen is counting now

Each hour prescribed by Ráma’s vow,

And lives because she longs to see

Once more her princely sons and me.”

Then Trijaṭá,(958) of gentler mould

Though Rákshas born, her grief consoled:

“Dear Queen, thy causeless woe dispel:

Thy husband lives, and all is well.

Look round: in every Vánar face

The light of joyful hope I trace.

Not thus, believe me, shine the eyes

Of warriors when their leader dies.

An Army, when the chief is dead,

Flies from the field dispirited.

Here, undisturbed in firm array,

The Vánars by the brothers stay.

Love prompts my speech; no longer grieve;

Ponder my counsel, and believe.

These lips of mine from earliest youth

Have spoken, and shall speak, the truth.

Deep in my heart thy gentle grace

And patient virtues hold their place.

Turn, lady, turn once more thine eye:

Though pierced with shafts the heroes lie,

On brows and cheeks with blood-drops wet

The light of beauty lingers yet.

Such beauty ne’er is found in death,

But vanishes with parting breath.

O, trust the hope these tokens give:

The heroes are not dead, but live.”

Then Sítá joined her hands, and sighed,

“O, may thy words be verified!”

The car was turned, which fleet as thought

The mourning queen to Lanká brought.

They led her to the garden, where

Again she yielded to despair,

Lamenting for the chiefs who bled

On earth’s cold bosom with the dead.

Canto XLIX. Ráma’s Lament.

Ranged round the spot where Ráma fell

Each Vánar chief stood sentinel.

At length the mighty hero broke

The trance that held him, and awoke.

He saw his senseless brother, dyed

With blood from head to foot, and cried:

“What have I now to do with life

Or rescue of my prisoned wife,

When thus before my weeping eyes,

Slain in the fight, my brother lies?

A queen like Sítá I may find

Among the best of womankind,

But never such a brother, tried

In war, my guardian, friend, and guide.

If he be dead, the brave and true,

I will not live but perish too.

How, reft of Lakshmaṇ, shall I meet

My mother, and Kaikeyí greet?

My brother’s eager question brook,

And fond Sumitrá’s longing look?

What shall I say, o’erwhelmed with shame

To cheer the miserable dame?

How, when she hears her son is dead,

Will her sad heart be comforted?

Ah me, for longer life unfit

This mortal body will I quit;

For Lakshmaṇ slaughtered for my sake,

From sleep of death will never wake.

Ah when I sank oppressed with care,

Thy gentle voice could soothe despair.

And art thou, O my brother, killed?

Is that dear voice for ever stilled?

Cold are those lips, my brother, whence

Came never word to breed offence?

Ah stretched upon the gory plain

My brother lies untimely slain:

Numbed is the mighty arm that slew

The leaders of the giant crew.

Transfixed with shafts, with blood-streams red,

Thou liest on thy lowly bed:

So sinks to rest, his journey done,

Mid arrowy rays the crimson sun.

Thou, when from home and sire I fled,

The wood’s wild ways with me wouldst tread:

Now close to thine my steps shall be,

For I in death will follow thee.

Vibhishaṇ now will curse my name,

And Ráma as a braggart blame,

Who promised—but his word is vain—

That he in Lanká’s isle should reign.

Return, Sugríva: reft of me

Lead back thy Vánars o’er the sea,

Nor hope to battle face to face

With him who rules the giant race.

Well have ye done and nobly fought,

And death in desperate combat sought.

All that heroic might can do,

Brave Vánars, has been done by you.

My faithful friends I now dismiss:

Return: my last farewell is this.”

Bedewed with tears was every cheek

As thus the Vánars heard him speak.

Vibhishaṇ on the field had stayed

The Vánar hosts who fled dismayed.

Now lifting up his mace on high

With martial step the chief drew nigh.

The hosts who watched by Ráma’s side

Beheld his shape and giant stride.

’Tis he, ’tis Rávaṇ’s son, they thought:

And all in flight their safety sought.

Canto L. The Broken Spell.

Sugríva viewed the flying crowd,

And thus to Angad cried aloud:

“Why run the trembling hosts, as flee

Storm-scattered barks across the sea?”

“Dost thou not mark,” the chief replied,

“Transfixed with shafts, with bloodstreams dyed,

With arrowy toils about them wound,

The sons of Raghu on the ground?”

That moment brought Vibhishaṇ near.

Sugríva knew the cause of fear,

And ordered Jámbaván, who led

The bears, to check the hosts that fled.

The king of bears his hest obeyed:

The Vánars’ headlong flight was stayed.

A little while Vibhishaṇ eyed

The brothers fallen side by side.

His giant fingers wet with dew

Across the heroes’ eyes he drew,

Still on the pair his sad look bent,

And spoke these word in wild lament:

“Ah for the mighty chiefs brought low

By coward hand and stealthy blow!

Brave pair who loved the open fight,

Slain by that rover of the night.

Dishonest is the victory won

By Indrajít my brother’s son.

I on their might for aid relied,

And in my cause they fought and died.

Lost is the hope that soothed each pain:

I live, but live no more to reign,

While Lanká’s lord, untouched by ill,

Exults in safe defiance still.”

“Not thus,” Sugríva said, “repine,

For Lanká’s isle shall still be thine.

Nor let the tyrant and his son

Exult before the fight be done.

These royal chiefs, though now dismayed,

Freed from the spell by Garuḍ’s aid,

Triumphant yet the foe shall meet

And lay the robber at their feet.”

His hope the Vánar monarch told,

And thus Vibhishaṇ’s grief consoled.

Then to Susheṇ who at his side

Expectant stood, Sugríva cried:

“When these regain their strength and sense,

Fly, bear them to Kishkindhá hence.

Here with my legions will I stay,

The tyrant and his kinsmen slay,

And, rescued from the giant king,

The Maithil lady will I bring,

Like Glory lost of old, restored

By Śakra, heaven’s almighty lord.”

Susheṇ made answer: “Hear me yet:

When Gods and fiends in battle met,

So fiercely fought the demon crew,

So wild a storm of arrows flew,

That heavenly warriors faint with pain,

Sank smitten by the ceaseless rain.

Vṛihaspati,(959) with herb and spell,

Cured the sore wounds of those who fell.

And, skilled in arts that heal and save,

New life and sense and vigour gave.

Far, on the Milky Ocean’s shore,

Still grow those herbs in boundless store;

Let swiftest Vánars thither speed

And bring them for our utmost need.

Those herbs that on the mountain spring

Let Panas and Sampáti bring,

For well the wondrous leaves they know,

That heal each wound and life bestow.

Beside that sea which, churned of yore,

The amrit on its surface bore,

Where the white billows lash the land,

Chandra’s fair height and Droṇa stand.

Planted by Gods each glittering steep

Looks down upon the milky deep.

Let fleet Hanúmán bring us thence

Those herbs of wondrous influence.”

Meanwhile the rushing wind grew loud,

Red lightnings flashed from banks of cloud.

The mountains shook, the wild waves rose,

And smitten with resistless blows

Unrooted fell each stately tree

That fringed the margin of the sea.

All life within the waters feared

Then, as the Vánars gazed, appeared

King Garuḍ’s self, a wondrous sight,

Disclosed in flames of fiery light.

From his fierce eye in sudden dread

All serpents in a moment fled.

And those transformed to shaft that bound

The princes vanished in the ground.

On Raghu’s sons his eyes he bent,

And hailed the lords armipotent.

Then o’er them stooped the feathered king,

And touched their faces with his wing.

His healing touch their pangs allayed,

And closed each rent the shafts had made.

Again their eyes were bright and bold,

Again the smooth skin shone like gold.

Again within their shell enshrined

Came memory and each power of mind:

And, from those numbing bonds released,

Their spirit, zeal, and strength increased.

Firm on their feet they stood, and then

Thus Ráma spake, the lord of men:

“By thy dear grace in sorest need

From deadly bonds we both are freed.

To these glad eyes as welcome now

As Aja(960) or my sire art thou.

Who art thou, mighty being? say,

Thus glorious in thy bright array.”

He ceased: the king of birds replied,

While flashed his eye with joy and pride:

“In me, O Raghu’s son, behold

One who has loved thee from of old:

Garuḍ, the lord of all that fly,

Thy guardian and thy friend am I.

Not all the Gods in heaven could loose

These numbing bonds, this serpent noose,

Wherewith fierce Rávaṇ’s son, renowned

For magic arts, your limbs had bound.

Those arrows fixed in every limb

Were mighty snakes, transformed by him.

Blood thirsty race, they live beneath

The earth, and slay with venomed teeth.

On, smite the lord of Lanká’s isle,

But guard you from the giants’ guile

Who each dishonest art employ

And by deceit brave foes destroy.

So shall the tyrant Rávaṇ bleed,

And Sítá from his power be freed.”

Thus Garuḍ spake: then, swift as thought,

The region of the sky he sought,

Where in the distance like a blaze

Of fire he vanished from the gaze.

Then the glad Vánars’ joy rang out

In many a wild tumultuous shout,

And the loud roar of drum and shell

Startled each distant sentinel.

Canto LI. Dhúmráksha’s Sally.

King Rávaṇ, where he sat within,

Heard from his hall the deafening din,

And with a spirit ill at ease

Addressed his lords in words like these:

“That warlike shout, those joyous cries,

Loud as the thunder of the skies,

Upsent from every Vánar throat,

Some new-born confidence denote.

Hark, how the sea and trembling shore

Re-echo with the Vánars’ roar.

Though arrowy chains, securely twined

Both Ráma and his brother bind,

Still must the fierce triumphant shout

Disturb my soul with rising doubt.

Swift envoys to the army send,

And learn what change these cries portend.”

Obedient, at their master’s call,

Fleet giants clomb the circling wall.

They saw the Vánars formed and led:

They saw Sugríva at their head,

The brothers from their bonds released:

And hope grew faint and fear increased.

Their faces pale with doubt and dread,

Back to the giant king they sped,

And to his startled ear revealed

The tidings of the battle field.

The flush of rage a while gave place

To chilling fear that changed his face:

“What?” cried the tyrant, “are my foes

Freed from the binding snakes that close

With venomed clasp round head and limb,

Bright as the sun and fierce like him:

The spell a God bestowed of yore,

The spell that never failed before?

If arts like these be useless, how

Shall giant strength avail us now?

Go forth, Dhúmráksha, good at need,

The bravest of my warriors lead:

Force through the foe thy conquering way,

And Ráma and the Vánars slay.”

Before his king with reverence due

Dhúmráksha bowed him, and withdrew.

Around him at his summons came

Fierce legions led by chiefs of fame.

Well armed with sword and spear and mace,

They hurried to the gathering place,

And rushed to battle, borne at speed

By elephant and car and steed.

Canto LII. Dhúmráksha’s Death.

The Vánars saw the giant foe

Pour from the gate in gallant show,

Rejoiced with warriors’ fierce delight

And shouted, longing for the fight.

Near came the hosts and nearer yet:

Dire was the tumult as they met,

As, serried line to line opposed,

The Vánars and the giants closed.

Fierce on the foe the Vánars rushed,

And, wielding trees, the foremost crushed;

But, feathered from the heron’s wing,

With eager flight from sounding string,

Against them shot with surest aim

A ceaseless storm of arrows came:

And, pierced in head and chest and side,

Full many a Vánar fell and died.

They perished slain in fierce attacks

With sword and pike and battle-axe;

But myriads following undismayed

Their valour in the fight displayed.

Unnumbered Vánars rent and torn

With shaft and spear to earth were borne.

But crushed by branchy trees and blocks

Of jagged stone and shivered rocks

Which the wild Vánars wielded well

The bravest of the giants fell.

Their trampled banners strewed the fields,

And broken swords and spears and shields;

And, crushed by blows which none might stay,

Cars, elephants, and riders lay.

Dhúmráksha turned his furious eye

And saw his routed legions fly.

Still dauntless, with terrific blows,

He struck and slew his foremost foes.

At every blow, at every thrust,

He laid a Vánar in the dust.

So fell they neath the sword and lance

In battle’s wild Gandharva(961) dance,

Where clang of bow and clash of sword

Did duty for the silvery chord,

And hoofs that rang and steeds that neighed

Loud concert for the dancers made.

So fiercely from Dhúmráksha’s bow

His arrows rained in ceaseless flow,

The Vánar legions turned and fled

To all the winds discomfited.

Hanúmán saw the Vánars fly;

He heaved a mighty rock on high.

His keen eyes flashed with wrathful fire,

And, rapid as the Wind his sire,

Strong as the rushing tempests are,

He hurled it at the advancing car.

Swift through the air the missile sang:

The giant from the chariot sprang,

Ere crushed by that terrific blow

Lay pole and wheel and flag and bow.

Hanúmán’s eyes with fury blazed:

A mountain’s rocky peak he raised,

Poised it on high in act to throw,

And rushed upon his giant foe.

Dhúmráksha saw: he raised his mace

And smote Hanúmán on the face,

Who maddened by the wound’s keen pang

Again upon his foeman sprang;

And on the giant’s head the rock

Descended with resistless shock.

Crushed was each limb: a shapeless mass

He lay upon the blood-stained grass.

Canto LIII. Vajradanshtra’s Sally.

When Rávaṇ in his palace heard

The mournful news, his wrath was stirred;

And, gasping like a furious snake,

To Vajradanshṭra thus he spake:

“Go forth, my fiercest captain, lead

The bravest of the giants’ breed.

Go forth, the sons of Raghu slay

And by their side Sugríva lay.”

He ceased: the chieftain bowed his head

And forth with gathered troops he sped.

Cars, camels, steeds were well arrayed,

And coloured banners o’er them played.

Rings decked his arms: about his waist

The life-protecting mail was braced,

And on the chieftain’s forehead set

Glittered his cap and coronet.

Borne on a bannered car that glowed

With golden sheen the warrior rode,

And footmen marched with spear and sword

And bow and mace behind their lord.

In pomp and pride of warlike state

They sallied from the southern gate,

But saw, as on their way they sped,

Dread signs around and overhead.

For there were meteors falling fast,

Though not a cloud its shadow cast;

And each ill-omened bird and beast,

Forboding death, the fear increased,

While many a giant slipped and reeled,

Falling before he reached the field.

They met in mortal strife engaged,

And long and fierce the battle raged.

Spears, swords uplifted, gleamed and flashed,

And many a chief to earth was dashed.

A ceaseless storm of arrows rained,

And limbs were pierced and blood-distained.

Terrific was the sound that filled

The air, and every heart was chilled,

As hurtling o’er the giants flew

The rocks and trees which Vánars threw.

Fierce as a hungry lion when

Unwary deer approach his den,

Angad, his eyes with fury red,

Waving a tree above his head,

Rushed with wild charge which none could stay

Where stood the giants’ dense array.

Like tall trees levelled by the blast

Before him fell the giants fast,

And earth that streamed with blood was strown

With warriors, steeds, and cars o’erthrown.

Canto LIV. Vajradanshtra’s Death.

The giant leader fiercely rained

His arrows and the fight maintained.

Each time the clanging cord he drew

His certain shaft a Vánar slew.

Then, as the creatures he has made

Fly to the Lord of Life for aid,

To Angad for protection fled

The Vánar hosts dispirited.

Then raged the battle fiercer yet

When Angad and the giant met.

A hundred thousand arrows, hot

With flames of fire, the giant shot;

And every shaft he deftly sent

His foeman’s body pierced and rent.

From Angad’s limbs ran floods of gore:

A stately tree from earth he tore,

Which, maddened as his gashes bled,

He hurled at his opponent’s head.

His bow the dauntless giant drew;

To meet the tree swift arrows flew,

Checked the huge missile’s onward way,

And harmless on the earth it lay.

A while the Vánar chieftain gazed,

Then from the earth a rock he raised

Rent from a thunder-splitten height,

And cast it with resistless might.

The giant marked, and, mace in hand,

Leapt from his chariot to the sand,

Ere the rough mass descending broke

The seat, the wheel, the pole and yoke.

Then Angad seized a shattered hill,

Whereon the trees were flowering still,

And with full force the jagged peak

Fell crashing on the giant’s cheek.

He staggered, reeled, and fell: the blood

Gushed from the giant in a flood.

Reft of his might, each sense astray,

A while upon the sand he lay.

But strength and wandering sense returned

Again his eyes with fury burned,

And with his mace upraised on high

He wounded Angad on the thigh.

Then from his hand his mace he threw,

And closer to his foeman drew.

Then with their fists they fought, and smote

On brow and cheek and chest and throat.

Worn out with toil, their limbs bedewed,

With blood, the strife they still renewed,

Like Mercury and fiery Mars

Met in fierce battle mid the stars.

A while the deadly fight was stayed:

Each armed him with his trusty blade

Whose sheath with tinkling bells supplied,

And golden net, adorned his side;

And grasped his ponderous leather shield

To fight till one should fall or yield.

Unnumbered wounds they gave and took:

Their wearied bodies reeled and shook.

At length upon the sand that drank

Streams of their blood the warriors sank,

But as a serpent rears his head

Sore wounded by a peasant’s tread,

So Angad, fallen on his knees,

Yet gathered strength his sword to seize;

And, severed by the glittering blade,

The giant’s head on earth was laid.

[I omit Cantos LV, LVI, LVII, and LVIII, which relate how Akampan and

Prahasta sally out and fall. There is little novelty of incident in these

Cantos and the results are exactly the same as before. In Canto LV,

Akampan, at the command of Rávaṇ, leads forth his troops. Evil omens are

seen and heard. The enemies meet, and many fall on each side, the Vánars

transfixed with arrows, the Rákshases crushed with rocks and trees.

In Canto LVI Akampan sees that the Rákshases are worsted, and fights with

redoubled rage and vigour. The Vánars fall fast under his “nets of

arrows.” Hanumán comes to the rescue. He throws mountain peaks at the

giant which are dexterously stopped with flights of arrows; and at last

beats him down and kills him with a tree.

In Canto LVII, Rávaṇ is seriously alarmed. He declares that he himself,

Kumbhakarṇa or Prahasta, must go forth. Prahasta sallies out vaunting that

the fowls of the air shall eat their fill of Vánar flesh.

In Canto LVIII, the two armies meet. Dire is the conflict; ceaseless is

the rain of stones and arrows. At last Níla meets Prahasta and breaks his

bow. Prahasta leaps from his car, and the giant and the Vánar fight on

foot. Níla with a huge tree crushes his opponent who falls like a tree

when its roots are cut.]

Canto LIX. Rávan’s Sally.

They told him that the chief was killed,

And Rávaṇ’s breast with rage was filled.

Then, fiercely moved by wrath and pride,

Thus to his lords the tyrant cried:

“No longer, nobles, may we show

This lofty scorn for such a foe

By whom our bravest, with his train

Of steeds and elephants, is slain.

Myself this day will take the field,

And Raghu’s sons their lives shall yield.”

High on the royal car, that glowed

With glory from his face, he rode;

And tambour shell and drum pealed out,

And joyful was each giant’s shout.

A mighty host, with eyeballs red

Like flames of kindled fire, he led.

He passed the city gate, and viewed,

Arrayed, the Vánar multitude,

Those wielding massy rocks, and these

Armed with the stems of uptorn trees,

And Ráma with his eyes aglow

With warlike ardour viewed the foe,

And thus the brave Vibhishaṇ, best

Of weapon-wielding chiefs, addressed:

“What captain leads this bright array

Where lances gleam and banners play,

And thousands armed with spear and sword

Await the bidding of their lord?”

“Seest, thou,” Vibhishaṇ answered, “one

Whose face is as the morning sun,

Preëminent for hugest frame?

Akampan(962) is the giant’s name.

Behold that chieftain, chariot-borne,

Whom Brahmá’s chosen gifts adorn.

He wields a bow like Indra’s own;

A lion on his flag is shown,

His eyes with baleful fire are lit:

’Tis Rávaṇ’s son, ’tis Indrajít.

There, brandishing in mighty hands

His huge bow, Atikáya stands.

And that proud warrior o’er whose head

A moon-bright canopy is spread:

Whose might, in many a battle tried,

Has tamed imperial Indra’s pride;

Who wears a crown of burnished gold,

Is Lanká’s lord the lofty-souled.”