The Ramayana

Canto XXX. Khara’s Death.

When Ráma, pride of Raghu’s race, Virtue’s dear son, had cleft the mace, Thus with superior smile the best Of chiefs the furious fiend addressed:

“Thou, worst of giant blood, at length Hast shown the utmost of thy strength, And forced by greater might to bow, Thy vaunting threats are idle now. My shafts have cut thy club in twain: Useless it lies upon the plain, And all thy pride and haughty trust Lie with it levelled in the dust. The words that thou hast said to-day, That thou wouldst wipe the tears away Of all the giants I have slain, My deeds shall render void and vain. Thou meanest of the giants’ breed, Evil in thought and word and deed, My hand shall take that life of thine As Garuḍ(476) seized the juice divine. Thou, rent by shafts, this day shalt die: Low on the ground thy corse shall lie, And bubbles from the cloven neck With froth and blood thy skin shall deck. With dust and mire all rudely dyed, Thy torn arms lying by thy side, While streams of blood each limb shall steep, Thou on earth’s breast shalt take thy sleep Like a fond lover when he strains The beauty whom at length he gains. Now when thy heavy eyelids close For ever in thy deep repose, Again shall Daṇḍak forest be Safe refuge for the devotee. Thou slain, and all thy race who held The realm of Janasthán expelled, Again shall happy hermits rove, Fearing no danger, through the grove. Within those bounds, their brethren slain, No giant shall this day remain, But all shall fly with many a tear And fearing, rid the saints of fear. This bitter day shall misery bring On all the race that calls thee king. Fierce as their lord, thy dames shall know, Bereft of joys, the taste of woe. Base, cruel wretch, of evil mind, Plaguer of Bráhmans and mankind, With trembling hands each devotee Feeds holy fires in dread of thee.”

Thus with wild fury unrepressed Raghu’s brave son the fiend addressed; And Khara, as his wrath grew high, Thus thundered forth his fierce reply:

“By senseless pride to madness wrought, By danger girt thou fearest naught, Nor heedest, numbered with the dead, What thou shouldst say and leave unsaid. When Fate’s tremendous coils enfold The captive in resistless hold, He knows not right from wrong, each sense Numbed by that deadly influence.”

He spoke, and when his speech was done Bent his fierce brows on Raghu’s son. With eager eyes he looked around If lethal arms might yet be found. Not far away and full in view A Sál-tree towering upward grew. His lips in mighty strain compressed, He tore it up with root and crest, With huge arms waved it o’er his head And hurled it shouting, Thou art dead. But Ráma, unsurpassed in might, Stayed with his shafts its onward flight, And furious longing seized his soul The giant in the dust to roll. Great drops of sweat each limb bedewed, His red eyes showed his wrathful mood. A thousand arrows, swiftly sent, The giant’s bosom tore and rent. From every gash his body showed The blood in foamy torrents flowed, As springing from their caverns leap Swift rivers down the mountain steep. When Khara felt each deadened power Yielding beneath that murderous shower, He charged, infuriate with the scent Of blood, in dire bewilderment. But Ráma watched, with ready bow, The onset of his bleeding foe, And ere the monster reached him, drew Backward in haste a yard or two. Then from his side a shaft he took Whose mortal stroke no life might brook: Of peerless might, it bore the name Of Brahmá’s staff, and glowed with flame: Lord Indra, ruler of the skies, Himself had given the glorious prize. His bow the virtuous hero drew, And at the fiend the arrow flew. Hissing and roaring like the blast Of tempest through the air it passed, And fixed, by Ráma’s vigour sped, In the foe’s breast its pointed head. Then fell the fiend: the quenchless flame Burnt furious in his wounded frame. So burnt by Rudra Andhak(477) fell In Śvetáraṇya’s silvery dell: So Namuchi and Vritra(478) died By steaming bolts that tamed their pride: So Bala(479) fell by lightning sent By Him who rules the firmament.

Then all the Gods in close array With the bright hosts who sing and play, Filled full of rapture and amaze, Sang hymns of joy in Ráma’s praise, Beat their celestial drums and shed Rain of sweet flowers upon his head. For three short hours had scarcely flown, And by his pointed shafts o’erthrown The twice seven thousand fiends, whose will Could change their shapes, in death were still, With Triśirás and Dúshaṇ slain, And Khara, leader of the train. “O wondrous deed,” the bards began, “The noblest deed of virtuous man! Heroic strength that stood alone, And firmness e’en as Vishṇu’s own!”

Thus having sung, the shining train Turned to their heavenly homes again. Then the high saints of royal race And loftiest station sought the place, And by the great Agastya led, With reverence to Ráma said:

“For this, Lord Indra, glorious sire, Majestic as the burning fire, Who crushes cities in his rage, Sought Śarabhanga’s hermitage. Thou wast, this great design to aid, Led by the saints to seek this shade, And with thy mighty arm to kill The giants who delight in ill. Thou Daśaratha’s noble son, The battle for our sake hast won, And saints in Daṇḍak’s wild who live Their days to holy tasks can give.”

Forth from the mountain cavern came The hero Lakshmaṇ with the dame. And rapture beaming from his face, Resought the hermit dwelling-place. Then when the mighty saints had paid Due honour for the victor’s aid, The glorious Ráma honoured too By Lakshmaṇ to his cot withdrew. When Sítá looked upon her lord, His foemen slain, the saints restored, In pride and rapture uncontrolled She clasped him in her loving hold. On the dead fiends her glances fell: She saw her lord alive and well, Victorious after toil and pain, And Janak’s child was blest again. Once more, once more with new delight Her tender arms she threw Round Ráma whose victorious might Had crushed the demon crew. Then as his grateful reverence paid Each saint of lofty soul, O’er her sweet face, all fears allayed, The flush of transport stole.

Canto XXXI. Rávan.

But of the host of giants one, Akampan, from the field had run And sped to Lanká(480) to relate In Rávaṇ’s ear the demons’ fate:

“King, many a giant from the shade Of Janasthán in death is laid: Khara the chief is slain, and I Could scarcely from the battle fly.”

Fierce anger, as the monarch heard, Inflamed his look, his bosom stirred, And while with scorching glance he eyed The messenger, he thus replied:

“What fool has dared, already dead, Strike Janasthán, the general dread? Who is the wretch shall vainly try In earth, heaven, hell, from me to fly? Vaiśravaṇ,(481) Indra, Vishṇu, He Who rules the dead, must reverence me; For not the mightiest lord of these Can brave my will and live at ease. Fate finds in me a mightier fate To burn the fires that devastate. With unresisted influence I Can force e’en Death himself to die, With all-surpassing might restrain The fury of the hurricane, And burn in my tremendous ire The glory of the sun and fire.”

As thus the fiend’s hot fury blazed, His trembling hands Akampan raised, And with a voice which fear made weak, Permission craved his tale to speak. King Rávaṇ gave the leave he sought, And bade him tell the news he brought. His courage rose, his voice grew bold, And thus his mournful tale he told:

“A prince with mighty shoulders, sprung From Daśaratha, brave and young, With arms well moulded, bears the name Of Ráma with a lion’s frame. Renowned, successful, dark of limb, Earth has no warrior equals him. He fought in Janasthán and slew Dúshaṇ the fierce and Khara too.”

Rávaṇ the giants’ royal chief. Received Akampan’s tale of grief. Then, panting like an angry snake, These words in turn the monarch spake:

“Say quick, did Ráma seek the shade Of Janasthán with Indra’s aid, And all the dwellers in the skies To back his hardy enterprise?”

Akampan heard, and straight obeyed His master, and his answer made. Then thus the power and might he told Of Raghu’s son the lofty-souled:

“Best is that chief of all who know With deftest art to draw the bow. His are strange arms of heavenly might, And none can match him in the fight. His brother Lakshmaṇ brave as he, Fair as the rounded moon to see, With eyes like night and voice that comes Deep as the roll of beaten drums, By Ráma’s side stands ever near, Like wind that aids the flame’s career. That glorious chief, that prince of kings, On Janasthán this ruin brings. No Gods were there,—dismiss the thought No heavenly legions came and fought. His swift-winged arrows Ráma sent, Each bright with gold and ornament. To serpents many-faced they turned: The giant hosts they ate and burned. Where’er these fled in wild dismay Ráma was there to strike and slay. By him O King of high estate, Is Janasthán left desolate.”

Akampan ceased: in angry pride The giant monarch thus replied: “To Janasthán myself will go And lay these daring brothers low.”

Thus spoke the king in furious mood: Akampan then his speech renewed: “O listen while I tell at length The terror of the hero’s strength. No power can check, no might can tame Ráma, a chief of noblest fame. He with resistless shafts can stay The torrent foaming on its way. Sky, stars, and constellations, all To his fierce might would yield and fall. His power could earth itself uphold Down sinking as it sank of old.(482) Or all its plains and cities drown, Breaking the wild sea’s barrier down; Crush the great deep’s impetuous will, Or bid the furious wind be still. He glorious in his high estate The triple world could devastate, And there, supreme of men, could place His creatures of a new-born race. Never can mighty Ráma be O’ercome in fight, my King, by thee. Thy giant host the day might win From him, if heaven were gained by sin. If Gods were joined with demons, they Could ne’er, I ween, that hero slay, But guile may kill the wondrous man; Attend while I disclose the plan. His wife, above all women graced, Is Sítá of the dainty waist, With limbs to fair proportion true, And a soft skin of lustrous hue, Round neck and arm rich gems are twined: She is the gem of womankind. With her no bright Gandharví vies, No nymph or Goddess in the skies; And none to rival her would dare ’Mid dames who part the long black hair. That hero in the wood beguile, And steal his lovely spouse the while. Reft of his darling wife, be sure, Brief days the mourner will endure.”

With flattering hope of triumph moved The giant king that plan approved, Pondered the counsel in his breast, And then Akampan thus addressed: “Forth in my car I go at morn, None but the driver with me borne, And this fair Sítá will I bring Back to my city triumphing.”

Forth in his car by asses drawn The giant monarch sped at dawn, Bright as the sun, the chariot cast Light through the sky as on it passed. Then high in air that best of cars Traversed the path of lunar stars, Sending a fitful radiance pale As moonbeams shot through cloudy veil. Far on his airy way he flew: Near Táḍakeya’s(483) grove he drew. Márícha welcomed him, and placed Before him food which giants taste, With honour led him to a seat, And brought him water for his feet; And then with timely words addressed Such question to his royal guest:

“Speak, is it well with thee whose sway The giant multitudes obey? I know not all, and ask in fear The cause, O King, why thou art here.”

Ráva, the giants’ mighty king, Heard wise Márícha’s questioning, And told with ready answer, taught In eloquence, the cause he sought: “My guards, the bravest of my band, Are slain by Ráma’s vigorous hand, And Janasthán, that feared no hate Of foes, is rendered desolate. Come, aid me in the plan I lay To steal the conqueror’s wife away.”

Márícha heard the king’s request, And thus the giant chief addressed:

“What foe in friendly guise is he Who spoke of Sítá’s name to thee? Who is the wretch whose thought would bring Destruction on the giants’ king? Whose is the evil counsel, say, That bids thee bear his wife away, And careless of thy life provoke Earth’s loftiest with threatening stroke? A foe is he who dared suggest This hopeless folly to thy breast, Whose ill advice would bid thee draw The venomed fang from serpent’s jaw. By whose unwise suggestion led Wilt thou the path of ruin tread? Whence falls the blow that would destroy Thy gentle sleep of ease and joy? Like some wild elephant is he That rears his trunk on high, Lord of an ancient pedigree, Huge tusks, and furious eye. Rávaṇ, no rover of the night With bravest heart can brook, Met in the front of deadly fight, On Raghu’s son to look. The giant hosts were brave and strong, Good at the bow and spear: But Ráma slew the routed throng, A lion ’mid the deer. No lion’s tooth can match his sword, Or arrows fiercely shot: He sleeps, he sleeps—the lion lord; Be wise and rouse him not. O Monarch of the giants, well Upon my counsel think, Lest thou for ever in the hell Of Ráma’s vengeance sink: A hell, where deadly shafts are sent From his tremendous-bow, While his great arms all flight prevent, Like deepest mire below: Where the wild floods of battle rave Above the foeman’s head, And each with many a feathery wave Of shafts is garlanded. O, quench the flames that in thy breast With raging fury burn; And pacified and self-possessed To Lanká’s town return. Rest thou in her imperial bowers With thine own wives content, And in the wood let Ráma’s hours With Sítá still be spent.”

The lord of Lanká’s isle obeyed The counsel, and his purpose stayed. Borne on his car he parted thence And gained his royal residence.

Canto XXXII. Rávan Roused.

But Śúrpaṇakhá saw the plain Spread with the fourteen thousand slain, Doers of cruel deeds o’erthrown By Ráma’s mighty arm alone, Add Triśirás and Dúshaṇ dead, And Khara, with the hosts they led. Their death she saw, and mad with pain, Roared like a cloud that brings the rain, And fled in anger and dismay To Lanká, seat of Rávaṇ’s sway. There on a throne of royal state Exalted sat the potentate, Begirt with counsellor and peer, Like Indra with the Storm Gods near. Bright as the sun’s full splendour shone The glorious throne he sat upon, As when the blazing fire is red Upon a golden altar fed. Wide gaped his mouth at every breath, Tremendous as the jaws of Death. With him high saints of lofty thought, Gandharvas, Gods, had vainly fought. The wounds were on his body yet From wars where Gods and demons met. And scars still marked his ample chest By fierce Airávat’s(484) tusk impressed. A score of arms, ten necks, had he, His royal gear was brave to see. His massive form displayed each sign That marks the heir of kingly line. In stature like a mountain height, His arms were strong, his teeth were white, And all his frame of massive mould Seemed lazulite adorned with gold. A hundred seams impressed each limp Where Vishṇu’s arm had wounded him, And chest and shoulder bore the print Of sword and spear and arrow dint, Where every God had struck a blow In battle with the giant foe. His might to wildest rage could wake The sea whose faith naught else can shake, Hurl towering mountains to the earth, And crush e’en foes of heavenly birth. The bonds of law and right he spurned: To others’ wives his fancy turned. Celestial arms he used in fight, And loved to mar each holy rite. He went to Bhogavatí’s town,(485) Where Vásuki was beaten down, And stole, victorious in the strife, Lord Takshaka’s beloved wife. Kailása’s lofty crest he sought, And when in vain Kuvera fought, Stole Pushpak thence, the car that through The air, as willed the master, flew. Impelled by furious anger, he Spoiled Nandan’s(486) shade and Naliní, And Chaitraratha’s heavenly grove, The haunts where Gods delight to rove. Tall as a hill that cleaves the sky, He raised his mighty arms on high To check the blessed moon, and stay The rising of the Lord of Day. Ten thousand years the giant spent On dire austerities intent, And of his heads an offering, laid Before the Self-existent, made. No God or fiend his life could take, Gandharva, goblin, bird, or snake: Safe from all fears of death, except From human arm, that life was kept. Oft when the priests began to raise Their consecrating hymns of praise, He spoiled the Soma’s sacred juice Poured forth by them in solemn use. The sacrifice his hands o’erthrew, And cruelly the Bráhmans slew. His was a heart that naught could melt, Joying in woes which others felt.

She saw the ruthless monster there, Dread of the worlds, unused to spare. In robes of heavenly texture dressed, Celestial wreaths adorned his breast. He sat a shape of terror, like Destruction ere the worlds it strike. She saw him in his pride of place, The joy of old Pulastya’s(487) race, Begirt by counsellor and peer, Rávaṇ, the foeman’s mortal fear, And terror in her features shown, The giantess approached the throne. Then Śúrpaṇakhá bearing yet Each deeply printed trace Where the great-hearted chief had set A mark upon her face, Impelled by terror and desire, Still fierce, no longer bold, To Rávaṇ of the eyes of fire Her tale, infuriate, told.

Canto XXXIII. Súrpanakhá’s Speech.

Burning with anger, in the ring Of counsellors who girt their king, To Rávaṇ, ravener of man, With bitter words she thus began:

“Wilt thou absorbed in pleasure, still Pursue unchecked thy selfish will: Nor turn thy heedless eyes to see The coming fate which threatens thee? The king who days and hours employs In base pursuit of vulgar joys Must in his people’s sight be vile As fire that smokes on funeral pile. He who when duty calls him spares No time for thought of royal cares, Must with his realm and people all Involved in fatal ruin fall. As elephants in terror shrink From the false river’s miry brink, Thus subjects from a monarch flee Whose face their eyes may seldom see, Who spends the hours for toil ordained In evil courses unrestrained. He who neglects to guard and hold His kingdom by himself controlled, Sinks nameless like a hill whose head Is buried in the ocean’s bed. Thy foes are calm and strong and wise, Fiends, Gods, and warriors of the skies,— How, heedless, wicked, weak, and vain, Wilt thou thy kingly state maintain? Thou, lord of giants, void of sense, Slave of each changing influence, Heedless of all that makes a king, Destruction on thy head wilt bring. O conquering chief, the prince, who boasts, Of treasury and rule and hosts, By others led, though lord of all, Is meaner than the lowest thrall. For this are monarchs said to be Long-sighted, having power to see Things far away by faithful eyes Of messengers and loyal spies. But aid from such thou wilt not seek: Thy counsellors are blind and weak, Or thou from these hadst surely known Thy legions and thy realm o’erthrown. Know, twice seven thousand, fierce in might, Are slain by Ráma in the fight, And they, the giant host who led, Khara and Dúshaṇ, both are dead. Know, Ráma with his conquering arm Has freed the saints from dread of harm, Has smitten Janasthán and made Asylum safe in Daṇḍak’s shade. Enslaved and dull, of blinded sight, Intoxicate with vain delight, Thou closest still thy heedless eyes To dangers in thy realm that rise. A king besotted, mean, unkind, Of niggard hand and slavish mind. Will find no faithful followers heed Their master in his hour of need. The friend on whom he most relies, In danger, from a monarch flies, Imperious in his high estate, Conceited, proud, and passionate; Who ne’er to state affairs attends With wholesome fear when woe impends Most weak and worthless as the grass, Soon from his sway the realm will pass. For rotting wood a use is found, For clods and dust that strew the ground, But when a king has lost his sway, Useless he falls, and sinks for aye. As raiment by another worn, As faded garland crushed and torn, So is, unthroned, the proudest king, Though mighty once, a useless thing. But he who every sense subdues And each event observant views, Rewards the good and keeps from wrong, Shall reign secure and flourish long. Though lulled in sleep his senses lie He watches with a ruler’s eye, Untouched by favour, ire, and hate, And him the people celebrate. O weak of mind, without a trace Of virtues that a king should grace, Who hast not learnt from watchful spy That low in death the giants lie. Scorner of others, but enchained By every base desire, By thee each duty is disdained Which time and place require. Soon wilt thou, if thou canst not learn, Ere yet it be too late, The good from evil to discern, Fall from thy high estate.” As thus she ceased not to upbraid The king with cutting speech, And every fault to view displayed, Naming and marking each, The monarch of the sons of night, Of wealth and power possessed, And proud of his imperial might, Long pondered in his breast.

Canto XXXIV. Súrpanakhá’s Speech.

Then forth the giant’s fury broke As Śúrpaṇakhá harshly spoke. Girt by his lords the demon king Looked on her, fiercely questioning:

“Who is this Ráma, whence, and where? His form, his might, his deeds declare. His wandering steps what purpose led To Daṇḍak forest, hard to tread? What arms are his that he could smite In fray the rovers of the night, And Triśirás and Dúshaṇ lay Low on the earth, and Khara slay? Tell all, my sister, and declare Who maimed thee thus, of form most fair.”

Thus by the giant king addressed, While burnt her fury unrepressed, The giantess declared at length The hero’s form and deeds and strength:

“Long are his arms and large his eyes: A black deer’s skin his dress supplies. King Daśaratha’s son is he, Fair as Kandarpa’s self to see. Adorned with many a golden band, A bow, like Indra’s, arms his hand, And shoots a flood of arrows fierce As venomed snakes to burn and pierce. I looked, I looked, but never saw His mighty hand the bowstring draw That sent the deadly arrows out, While rang through air his battle-shout. I looked, I looked, and saw too well How with that hail the giants fell, As falls to earth the golden grain, Struck by the blows of Indra’s rain. He fought, and twice seven thousand, all Terrific giants, strong and tall, Fell by the pointed shafts o’erthrown Which Ráma shot on foot, alone. Three little hours had scarcely fled,— Khara and Dúshaṇ both were dead, And he had freed the saints and made Asylum sure in Daṇḍak’s shade. Me of his grace the victor spared, Or I the giants’ fate had shared. The high-souled Ráma would not deign His hand with woman’s blood to stain. The glorious Lakshmaṇ, justly dear, In gifts and warrior might his peer, Serves his great brother with the whole Devotion of his faithful soul: Impetuous victor, bold and wise, First in each hardy enterprise, Still ready by his side to stand, A second self or better hand. And Ráma has a large-eyed spouse, Pure as the moon her cheek and brows, Dearer than life in Ráma’s sight, Whose happiness is her delight. With beauteous hair and nose the dame From head to foot has naught to blame. She shines the wood’s bright Goddess, Queen Of beauty with her noble mien. First in the ranks of women placed Is Sítá of the dainty waist. In all the earth mine eyes have ne’er Seen female form so sweetly fair. Goddess nor nymph can vie with her, Nor bride of heavenly chorister. He who might call this dame his own, Her eager arms about him thrown, Would live more blest in Sítá’s love Than Indra in the world above. She, peerless in her form and face And rich in every gentle grace, Is worthy bride, O King, for thee, As thou art meet her lord to be. I even I, will bring the bride In triumph to her lover’s side— This beauty fairer than the rest, With rounded limb and heaving breast. Each wound upon my face I owe To cruel Lakshmaṇ’s savage blow. But thou, O brother, shalt survey Her moonlike loveliness to-day, And Káma’s piercing shafts shall smite Thine amorous bosom at the sight. If in thy breast the longing rise To make thine own the beauteous prize, Up, let thy better foot begin The journey and the treasure win. If, giant Lord, thy favouring eyes Regard the plan which I advise, Up, cast all fear and doubt away And execute the words I say Come, giant King, this treasure seek, For thou art strong and they are weak. Let Sítá of the faultless frame Be borne away and be thy dame. Thy host in Janasthán who dwelt Forth to the battle hied. And by the shafts which Ráma dealt They perished in their pride. Dúshaṇ and Khara breathe no more, Laid low upon the plain. Arise, and ere the day be o’er Take vengeance for the slain.”

Canto XXXV. Rávan’s Journey.

When Rávaṇ, by her fury spurred, That terrible advice had heard, He bade his nobles quit his side, And to the work his thought applied. He turned his anxious mind to scan On every side the hardy plan: The gain against the risk he laid, Each hope and fear with care surveyed, And in his heart at length decreed To try performance of the deed. Then steady in his dire intent The giant to the courtyard went. There to his charioteer he cried, “Bring forth the car whereon I ride.” Aye ready at his master’s word The charioteer the order heard, And yoked with active zeal the best Of chariots at his lord’s behest. Asses with heads of goblins drew That wondrous car where’er it flew. Obedient to the will it rolled Adorned with gems and glistering gold. Then mounting, with a roar as loud As thunder from a labouring cloud, The mighty monarch to the tide Of Ocean, lord of rivers, hied. White was the shade above him spread, White chouris waved around his head, And he with gold and jewels bright Shone like the glossy lazulite. Ten necks and twenty arms had he: His royal gear was good to see. The heavenly Gods’ insatiate foe, Who made the blood of hermits flow, He like the Lord of Hills appeared With ten huge heads to heaven upreared. In the great car whereon he rode, Like some dark cloud the giant showed, When round it in their close array The cranes ’mid wreaths of lightning play. He looked, and saw, from realms of air, The rocky shore of ocean, where Unnumbered trees delightful grew With flower and fruit of every hue. He looked on many a lilied pool With silvery waters fresh and cool, And shores like spacious altars meet For holy hermits’ lone retreat. The graceful palm adorned the scene, The plantain waved her glossy green. There grew the sál and betel, there On bending boughs the flowers were fair. There hermits dwelt who tamed each sense By strictest rule of abstinence: Gandharvas, Kinnars,(488) thronged the place, Nágas and birds of heavenly race. Bright minstrels of the ethereal quire, And saints exempt from low desire, With Ájas, sons of Brahmá’s line, Maríchipas of seed divine, Vaikhánasas and Máshas strayed, And Bálakhilyas(489) in the shade. The lovely nymphs of heaven were there, Celestial wreaths confined their hair, And to each form new grace was lent By wealth of heavenly ornament. Well skilled was each in play and dance And gentle arts of dalliance. The glorious wife of many a God Those beautiful recesses trod, There Gods and Dánavs, all who eat The food of heaven, rejoiced to meet. The swan and Sáras thronged each bay With curlews, ducks, and divers gay, Where the sea spray rose soft and white O’er rocks of glossy lazulite. As his swift way the fiend pursued Pale chariots of the Gods he viewed, Bearing each lord whose rites austere Had raised him to the heavenly sphere. Thereon celestial garlands hung, There music played and songs were sung. Then bright Gandharvas met his view, And heavenly nymphs, as on he flew. He saw the sandal woods below, And precious trees of odorous flow, That to the air around them lent Their riches of delightful scent; Nor failed his roving eye to mark Tall aloe trees in grove and park. He looked on wood with cassias filled, And plants which balmy sweets distilled, Where her fair flowers the betel showed And the bright pods of pepper glowed. The pearls in many a silvery heap Lay on the margin of the deep. And grey rocks rose amid the red Of coral washed from ocean’s bed. High soared the mountain peaks that bore Treasures of gold and silver ore, And leaping down the rocky walls Came wild and glorious waterfalls. Fair towns which grain and treasure held, And dames who every gem excelled, He saw outspread beneath him far, With steed, and elephant, and car. That ocean shore he viewed that showed Fair as the blessed Gods’ abode Where cool delightful breezes played O’er levels in the freshest shade. He saw a fig-tree like a cloud With mighty branches earthward bowed. It stretched a hundred leagues and made For hermit bands a welcome shade. Thither the feathered king of yore An elephant and tortoise bore, And lighted on a bough to eat The captives of his taloned feet. The bough unable to sustain The crushing weight and sudden strain, Loaded with sprays and leaves of spring Gave way beneath the feathered king. Under the shadow of the tree Dwelt many a saint and devotee, Ájas, the sons of Brahmá’s line, Máshas, Maríchipas divine. Vaikhánasas, and all the race Of Bálakhilyas, loved the place. But pitying their sad estate The feathered monarch raised the weight Of the huge bough, and bore away The loosened load and captured prey. A hundred leagues away he sped, Then on his monstrous booty fed, And with the bough he smote the lands Where dwell the wild Nisháda bands. High joy was his because his deed From jeopardy the hermits freed. That pride for great deliverance wrought A double share of valour brought. His soul conceived the high emprise To snatch the Amrit from the skies. He rent the nets of iron first, Then through the jewel chamber burst, And bore the drink of heaven away That watched in Indra’s palace lay.

Such was the hermit-sheltering tree Which Rávaṇ turned his eye to see. Still marked where Garuḍ sought to rest, The fig-tree bore the name of Blest.

When Rávaṇ stayed his chariot o’er The ocean’s heart-enchanting shore, He saw a hermitage that stood Sequestered in the holy wood. He saw the fiend Márícha there With deerskin garb, and matted hair Coiled up in hermit guise, who spent His days by rule most abstinent. As guest and host are wont to meet, They met within that lone retreat. Before the king Márícha placed Food never known to human taste. He entertained his guest with meat And gave him water for his feet, And then addressed the giant king With timely words of questioning:

“Lord, is it well with thee, and well With those in Lanká’s town who dwell? What sudden thought, what urgent need Has brought thee with impetuous speed?”

The fiend Márícha thus addressed Rávaṇ the king, his mighty guest, And he, well skilled in arts that guide The eloquent, in turn replied:

Canto XXXVI. Rávan’s Speech.

“Hear me, Márícha, while I speak, And tell thee why thy home I seek. Sick and distressed am I, and see My surest hope and help in thee. Of Janasthán I need not tell, Where Śúrpaṇakhá, Khara, dwell, And Dúshaṇ with the arm of might, And Triśirás, the fierce in fight, Who feeds on human flesh and gore, And many noble giants more, Who roam in dark of midnight through The forest, brave and strong and true. By my command they live at ease And slaughter saints and devotees. Those twice seven thousand giants, all Obedient to their captain’s call, Joying in war and ruthless deeds Follow where mighty Khara leads. Those fearless warrior bands who roam Through Janasthán their forest home, In all their terrible array Met Ráma in the battle fray. Girt with all weapons forth they sped With Khara at the army’s head. The front of battle Ráma held: With furious wrath his bosom swelled. Without a word his hate to show He launched the arrows from his bow. On the fierce hosts the missiles came, Each burning with destructive flame, The twice seven thousand fell o’erthrown By him, a man, on foot, alone. Khara the army’s chief and pride, And Dúshaṇ, fearless warrior, died, And Triśirás the fierce was slain, And Daṇḍak wood was free again.

He, banished by his angry sire, Roams with his wife in mean attire. This wretch, his Warrior tribe’s disgrace Has slain the best of giant race. Harsh, wicked, fierce and greedy-souled, A fool, with senses uncontrolled, No thought of duty stirs his breast: He joys to see the world distressed. He sought the wood with fair pretence Of truthful life and innocence, But his false hand my sister left Mangled, of nose and ears bereft. This Ráma’s wife who bears the name Of Sítá, in her face and frame Fair as a daughter of the skies,— Her will I seize and bring the prize Triumphant from the forest shade: For this I seek thy willing aid. If thou, O mighty one, wilt lend Thy help and stand beside thy friend, I with my brothers may defy All Gods embattled in the sky. Come, aid me now, for thine the power To succour in the doubtful hour. Thou art in war and time of fear, For heart and hand, without a peer. For thou art skilled in art and wile, A warrior brave and trained in guile. With this one hope, this only aim, O Rover of the Night, I came. Now let me tell what aid I ask To back me in my purposed task. In semblance of a golden deer Adorned with silver spots appear. Go, seek his dwelling: in the way Of Ráma and his consort stray. Doubt not the lady, when she sees The wondrous deer amid the trees, Will bid her lord and Lakshmaṇ take The creature for its beauty’s sake. Then when the chiefs have parted thence, And left her lone, without defence, As Ráhu storms the moonlight, I Will seize the lovely dame and fly. Her lord will waste away and weep For her his valour could not keep. Then boldly will I strike the blow And wreak my vengeance on the foe.”

When wise Márícha heard the tale His heart grew faint, his cheek was pale, He stared with open orbs, and tried To moisten lips which terror dried, And grief, like death, his bosom rent As on the king his look he bent. The monarch’s will he strove to stay, Distracted with alarm, For well he knew the might that lay In Ráma’s matchless arm. With suppliant hands Márícha stood And thus began to tell His counsel for the tyrant’s good, And for his own as well:

Canto XXXVII. Márícha’s Speech.

Márícha gave attentive ear The ruler of the fiends to hear: Then, trained in all the rules that teach The eloquent, began his speech: “’Tis easy task, O King, to find Smooth speakers who delight the mind. But they who urge and they who do Distasteful things and wise, are few. Thou hast not learnt, by proof untaught, And borne away by eager thought, That Ráma, formed for high emprise, With Varuṇ or with Indra vies. Still let thy people live in peace, Nor let their name and lineage cease, For Ráma with his vengeful hand Can sweep the giants from the land. O, let not Janak’s daughter bring Destruction on the giant king. Let not the lady Sítá wake A tempest, on thy head to break. Still let the dame, by care untried, Be happy by her husband’s side, Lest swift avenging ruin fall On glorious Lanká, thee, and all. Men such as thou with wills unchained, Advised by sin and unrestrained, Destroy themselves, the king, the state, And leave the people desolate. Ráma, in bonds of duty held, Was never by his sire expelled. He is no wretch of greedy mind, Dishonour of his Warrior kind. Free from all touch of rancorous spite, All creatures’ good is his delight. He saw his sire of truthful heart Deceived by Queen Kaikeyí’s art, And said, a true and duteous son, “What thou hast promised shall be done.” To gratify the lady’s will, His father’s promise to fulfil, He left his realm and all delight For Daṇḍak wood, an anchorite. No cruel wretch, no senseless fool Is Ráma, unrestrained by rule. This groundless charge has ne’er been heard, Nor shouldst thou speak the slanderous word. Ráma in truth and goodness bold Is Virtue’s self in human mould, The sovereign of the world confessed As Indra rules among the Blest. And dost thou plot from him to rend The darling whom his arms defend? Less vain the hope to steal away The glory of the Lord of Day. O Rávaṇ, guard thee from the fire Of vengeful Ráma’s kindled ire,— Each spark a shaft with deadly aim, While bow and falchion feed the flame. Cast not away in hopeless strife Thy realm, thy bliss, thine own dear life. O Rávaṇ of his might beware, A God of Death who will not spare. That bow he knows so well to draw Is the destroyer’s flaming jaw, And with his shafts which flash and glow He slays the armies of the foe. Thou ne’er canst win—the thought forego— From the safe guard of shaft and bow King Janak’s child, the dear delight Of Ráma unapproached in might. The spouse of Raghu’s son, confessed Lion of men with lion chest,— Dearer than life, through good and ill Devoted to her husband’s will, The slender-waisted, still must be From thy polluting touches free. Far better grasp with venturous hand The flame to wildest fury fanned. What, King of giants, canst thou gain From this attempt so wild and vain? If in the fight his eye he bend Upon thee, Lord, thy days must end, So life and bliss and royal sway, Lost beyond hope, will pass away. Summon each lord of high estate, And chief, Vibhishaṇ(490) to debate. With peers in lore of counsel tried Consider, reason, and decide Scan strength and weakness, count the cost, What may be gained and what be lost. Examine and compare aright Thy proper power and Ráma’s might, Then if thy weal be still thy care, Thou wilt be prudent and forbear. O giant King, the contest shun, Thy force is all too weak The lord of Kosál’s mighty son In deadly fray to seek. King of the hosts that rove at night, O hear what I advise: My prudent counsel do not slight; Be patient and be wise.”

Canto XXXVIII. Márícha’s Speech.

“Once in my strength and vigour’s pride I roamed this earth from side to side, And towering like a mountain’s crest, A thousand Nágas’(491) might possessed. Like some vast sable cloud I showed: My golden armlets flashed and glowed. A crown I wore, an axe I swayed, And all I met were sore afraid. I roved where Daṇḍak wood is spread; On flesh of slaughtered saints I fed. Then Viśvámitra, sage revered, Holy of heart, my fury feared. To Daśaratha’s court he sped And went before the king and said:(492)

“With me, my lord, thy Ráma send On holy days his aid to lend. Márícha fills my soul with dread And keeps me sore disquieted.”

The monarch heard the saint’s request And thus the glorious sage addressed:

“My boy as yet in arms untrained The age of twelve has scarce attained. But I myself a host will lead To guard thee in the hour of need. My host with fourfold troops complete, The rover of the night shall meet, And I, O best of saints, will kill Thy foeman and thy prayer fulfil.” The king vouchsafed his willing aid: The saint again this answer made:

“By Ráma’s might, and his alone, Can this great fiend be overthrown. I know in days of yore the Blest Thy saving help in fight confessed. Still of thy famous deeds they tell In heaven above, in earth, and hell, A mighty host obeys thy hest: Here let it still, I pray thee, rest. Thy glorious son, though yet a boy, Will in the fight that fiend destroy. Ráma alone with me shall go: Be happy, victor of the foe.”

He spoke: the monarch gave assent, And Ráma to the hermit lent. So to his woodland home in joy Went Viśvámitra with the boy. With ready bow the champion stood To guard the rites in Daṇḍak wood. With glorious eyes, most bright to view, Beardless as yet and dark of hue; A single robe his only wear, His temples veiled with waving hair, Around his neck a chain of gold, He grasped the bow he loved to hold; And the young hero’s presence made A glory in the forest shade. Thus Ráma with his beauteous mien, Like the young rising moon was seen, I, like a cloud which tempest brings, My arms adorned with golden rings, Proud of the boon which lent me might, Approached where dwelt the anchorite. But Ráma saw me venturing nigh, Raising my murderous axe on high; He saw, and fearless of the foe, Strung with calm hand his trusty bow. By pride of conscious strength beguiled, I scorned him as a feeble child, And rushed with an impetuous bound On Viśvámitra’s holy ground. A keen swift shaft he pointed well, The foeman’s rage to check and quell, And hurled a hundred leagues away Deep in the ocean waves I lay. He would not kill, but, nobly brave, My forfeit life he chose to save. So there I lay with wandering sense Dazed by that arrow’s violence. Long in the sea I lay: at length Slowly returned my sense and strength, And rising from my watery bed To Lanká’s town again I sped. Thus was I spared, but all my band Fell slain by Ráma’s conquering hand,— A boy, untrained in warrior’s skill, Of iron arm and dauntless will. If thou with Ráma still, in spite Of warning and of prayer, wilt fight, I see terrific woes impend, And dire defeat thy days will end. Thy giants all will feel the blow And share the fatal overthrow, Who love the taste of joy and play, The banquet and the festal day. Thine eyes will see destruction take Thy Lanká, lost for Sítá’s sake, And stately pile and palace fall With terrace, dome, and jewelled wall. The good will die: the crime of kings Destruction on the people brings: The sinless die, as in the lake The fish must perish with the snake. The prostrate giants thou wilt see Slain for this folly wrought by thee, Their bodies bright with precious scent And sheen of heavenly ornament; Or see the remnant of thy train Seek refuge far, when help is vain And with their wives, or widowed, fly To every quarter of the sky; Thy mournful eyes, where’er they turn, Will see thy stately city burn, When royal homes with fire are red, And arrowy nets around are spread. A sin that tops all sins in shame Is outrage to another’s dame, A thousand wives thy palace fill, And countless beauties wait thy will. O rest contented with thine own, Nor let thy race be overthrown. If thou, O King, hast still delight In rank and wealth and power and might, In noble wives, in troops of friends, In all that royal state attends, I warn thee, cast not all away, Nor challenge Ráma to the fray. If deaf to every friendly prayer, Thou still wilt seek the strife, And from the side of Ráma tear His lovely Maithil wife, Soon will thy life and empire end Destroyed by Ráma’s bow, And thou, with kith and kin and friend, To Yáma’s realm must go.”

Canto XXXIX. Márícha’s Speech.

“I told thee of that dreadful day When Ráma smote and spared to slay. Now hear me, Rávaṇ, while I tell What in the after time befell. At length, restored to strength and pride, I and two mighty fiends beside Assumed the forms of deer and strayed Through Daṇḍak wood in lawn and glade, I reared terrific horns: beneath Were flaming tongue and pointed teeth. I roamed where’er my fancy led, And on the flesh of hermits fed, In sacred haunt, by hallowed tree, Where’er the ritual fires might be. A fearful shape, I wandered through The wood, and many a hermit slew. With ruthless rage the saints I killed Who in the grove their tasks fulfilled. When smitten to the earth they sank, Their flesh I ate, their blood I drank, And with my cruel deeds dismayed All dwellers in the forest shade, Spoiling their rites in bitter hate, With human blood inebriate. Once in the wood I chanced to see Ráma again, a devotee, A hermit, fed on scanty fare, Who made the good of all his care. His noble wife was by his side, And Lakshmaṇ in the battle tried. In senseless pride I scorned the might Of that illustrious anchorite, And heedless of a hermit foe, Recalled my earlier overthrow. I charged him in my rage and scorn To slay him with my pointed horn, In heedless haste, to fury wrought As on my former wounds I thought. Then from the mighty bow he drew Three foe-destroying arrows flew, Keen-pointed, leaping from the string, Swift as the wind or feathered king. Dire shafts, on flesh of foemen fed, Like rushing thunderbolts they sped, With knots well smoothed and barbs well bent, Shot e’en as one, the arrows went. But I who Ráma’s might had felt, And knew the blows the hero dealt, Escaped by rapid flight. The two Who lingered on the spot, he slew. I fled from mortal danger, freed From the dire shaft by timely speed. Now to deep thought my days I give, And as a humble hermit live. In every shrub, in every tree I view that noblest devotee. In every knotted trunk I mark His deerskin and his coat of bark, And see the bow-armed Ráma stand Like Yáma with his noose in hand. I tell thee Rávaṇ, in my fright A thousand Rámas mock my sight, This wood with every bush and bough Seems all one fearful Ráma now. Throughout the grove there is no spot So lonely where I see him not. He haunts me in my dreams by night, And wakes me with the wild affright. The letter that begins his name Sends terror through my startled frame. The rapid cars whereon we ride, The rich rare jewels, once my pride, Have names(493) that strike upon mine ear With hated sound that counsels fear. His mighty strength too well I know, Nor art thou match for such a foe. Too strong were Raghus’s son in fight For Namuchi or Bali’s might. Then Ráma to the battle dare, Or else be patient and forbear; But, wouldst thou see me live in peace, Let mention of the hero cease. The good whose holy lives were spent In deepest thought, most innocent, With all their people many a time Have perished through another’s crime. So in the common ruin, I Must for another’s folly die, Do all thy strength and courage can, But ne’er will I approve the plan. For he, in might supremely great, The giant world could extirpate, Since, when impetuous Khara sought The grove of Janasthán and fought For Śúrpaṇakhá’s sake, he died By Ráma’s hand in battle tried. How has he wronged thee? Soothly swear, And Ráma’s fault and sin declare. I warn thee, and my words are wise, I seek thy people’s weal: But if this rede thou wilt despise, Nor hear my last appeal, Thou with thy kin and all thy friends In fight this day wilt die, When his great bow the hero bends, And shafts unerring fly.”

Canto XL. Rávan’s Speech.

But Rávaṇ scorned the rede he gave In timely words to warn and save, E’en as the wretch who hates to live Rejects the herb the leeches give. By fate to sin and ruin spurred, That sage advice the giant heard, Then in reproaches hard and stern Thus to Márícha spoke in turn:

“Is this thy counsel, weak and base, Unworthy of thy giant race? Thy speech is fruitless, vain, thy toil Like casting seed on barren soil. No words of thine shall drive me back From Ráma and the swift attack. A fool is he, inured to sin, And more, of human origin. The craven, at a woman’s call To leave his sire, his mother, all The friends he loved, the power and sway, And hasten to the woods away! But now his anger will I rouse, Stealing away his darling spouse. I in thy sight will ravish her From Khara’s cruel murderer. Upon this plan my soul is bent, And naught shall move my firm intent, Not if the way through demons led And Gods with Indra at their head. ’Tis thine, when questioned, to explain The hope and fear, the loss and gain, And, when thy king thy thoughts would know, The triumph or the danger show. A prudent counsellor should wait, And speak when ordered in debate, With hands uplifted, calm and meek, If honour and reward he seek. Or, when some prudent course he sees Which, spoken, may his king displease He should by hints of dexterous art His counsel to his lord impart. But prudent words are said in vain When the blunt speech brings grief and pain. A high-souled king will scarcely thank The man who shames his royal rank. Five are the shapes that kings assume, Of majesty, of grace, and gloom: Like Indra now, or Agni, now Like the dear Moon, with placid brow: Like mighty Varuṇ now they show, Now fierce as He who rules below. O giant, monarchs lofty-souled Are kind and gentle, stern and bold, With gracious love their gifts dispense And swiftly punish each offence. Thus subjects should their rulers view With all respect and honour due. But folly leads thy heart to slight Thy monarch and neglect his right. Thou hast in lawless pride addressed With bitter words thy royal guest. I asked thee not my strength to scan, Or loss and profit in the plan. I only spoke to tell the deed O mighty one, by me decreed, And bid thee in the peril lend Thy succour to support thy friend. Hear me again, and I will tell How thou canst aid my venture well. In semblance of a golden deer Adorned with silver drops, appear: And near the cottage in the way Of Ráma and his consort stray. Draw nigh, and wandering through the brake With thy strange form her fancy take. The Maithil dame with wondering eyes Will took upon thy fair disguise, And quickly bid her husband go And bring the deer that charms her so, When Raghu’s son has left the place, Still pressing onward in the chase, Cry out, “O Lakshmaṇ! Ah, mine own!” With voice resembling Ráma’s tone. When Lakshmaṇ hears his brother’s cry, Impelled by Sítá he will fly, Restless with eager love, to aid The hunter in the distant shade. When both her guards have left her side, Even as Indra, thousand-eyed, Clasps Śachí, will I bear away The Maithil dame an easy prey. When thou, my friend, this aid hast lent, Go where thou wilt and live content. True servant, faithful to thy vow, With half my realm I thee endow. Go forth, may luck thy way attend That leads thee to the happy end. I in my car will quickly be In Daṇḍak wood, and follow thee. So will I cheat this Ráma’s eyes And win without a blow the prize; And safe return to Lanká’s town With thee, my friend, this day shall crown. But if thou wilt not aid my will, My hand this day thy blood shall spill. Yea, thou must share the destined task, For force will take the help I ask. No bliss that rebel’s life attends Whose stubborn will his lord offends. Thy life, if thou the task assay, In jeopardy may stand; Oppose me, and this very day Thou diest by this hand. Now ponder all that thou hast heard Within thy prudent breast: Reflect with care on every word, And do what seems the best.”

Canto XLI. Márícha’s Reply.

Against his judgment sorely pressed By his imperious lord’s behest, Márícha threats of death defied And thus with bitter words replied: “Ah, who, my King, with sinful thought This wild and wicked counsel taught, By which destruction soon will fall On thee, thy sons, thy realm and all? Who is the guilty wretch who sees With envious eye thy blissful ease, And by this plan, so falsely shown, Death’s gate for thee has open thrown? With souls impelled by mean desire Thy foes against thy life conspire. They urge thee to destruction’s brink, And gladly would they see thee sink. Who with base thought to work thee woe This fatal road has dared to show, And, triumph in his wicked eye, Would see thee enter in and die? To all thy counsellors, untrue, The punishment of death is due, Who see thee tempt the dangerous way, Nor strain each nerve thy foot to stay. Wise lords, whose king, by passion led, The path of sin begins to tread, Restrain him while there yet is time: But thine,—they see nor heed the crime. These by their master’s will obtain Merit and fame and joy and gain. ’Tis only by their master’s grace That servants hold their lofty place. But when the monarch stoops to sin They lose each joy they strive to win, And all the people people high and low Fall in the common overthrow. Merit and fame and honour spring, Best of the mighty, from the king. So all should strive with heart and will To keep the king from every ill. Pride, violence, and sullen hate Will ne’er maintain a monarch’s state, And those who cruel deeds advise Must perish when their master dies, Like drivers with their cars o’erthrown In places rough with root and stone. The good whose holy lives were spent On duty’s highest laws intent, With wives and children many a time Have perished for another’s crime. Hapless are they whose sovereign lord, Opposed to all, by all abhorred, Is cruel-hearted, harsh, severe: Thus might a jackal tend the deer. Now all the giant race await, Destroyed by thee, a speedy fate, Ruled by a king so cruel-souled, Foolish in heart and uncontrolled. Think not I fear the sudden blow That threatens now to lay me low: I mourn the ruin that I see Impending o’er thy host and thee. Me first perchance will Ráma kill, But soon his hand thy blood will spill. I die, and if by Ráma slain And not by thee, I count it gain. Soon as the hero’s face I see His angry eyes will murder me, And if on her thy hands thou lay Thy friends and thou are dead this day. If with my help thou still must dare The lady from her lord to tear, Farewell to all our days are o’er, Lanká and giants are no more. In vain, in vain, an earnest friend, I warn thee, King, and pray. Thou wilt not to my prayers attend, Or heed the words I say So men, when life is fleeting fast And death’s sad hour is nigh, Heedless and blinded to the last Reject advice and die.”

Canto XLII. Márícha Transformed.

Márícha thus in wild unrest With bitter words the king addressed. Then to his giant lord in dread, “Arise, and let us go,” he said. “Ah, I have met that mighty lord Armed with his shafts and bow and sword, And if again that bow he bend Our lives that very hour will end. For none that warrior can provoke And think to fly his deadly stroke. Like Yáma with his staff is he, And his dread hand will slaughter thee. What can I more? My words can find No passage to thy stubborn mind. I go, great King, thy task to share, And may success attend thee there.”

With that reply and bold consent The giant king was well content. He strained Márícha to his breast And thus with joyful words addressed: “There spoke a hero dauntless still, Obedient to his master’s will, Márícha’s proper self once more: Some other took thy shape before. Come, mount my jewelled car that flies. Will-governed, through the yielding skies. These asses, goblin-faced, shall bear Us quickly through the fields of air. Attract the lady with thy shape, Then through the wood, at will, escape. And I, when she has no defence, Will seize the dame and bear her thence.”

Again Márícha made reply, Consent and will to signify. With rapid speed the giants two From the calm hermit dwelling flew, Borne in that wondrous chariot, meet For some great God’s celestial seat. They from their airy path looked down On many a wood and many a town, On lake and river, brook and rill, City and realm and towering hill. Soon he whom giant hosts obeyed, Márícha by his side, surveyed The dark expanse of Daṇḍak wood Where Ráma’s hermit cottage stood. They left the flying car, whereon The wealth of gold and jewels shone, And thus the giant king addressed Márícha as his hand he pressed:

“Márícha, look! before our eyes Round Ráma’s home the plantains rise. His hermitage is now in view: Quick to the work we came to do!”

Thus Rávaṇ spoke, Márícha heard Obedient to his master’s word, Threw off his giant shape and near The cottage strayed a beauteous deer. With magic power, by rapid change, His borrowed form was fair and strange. A sapphire tipped each horn with light; His face was black relieved with white. The turkis and the ruby shed A glory from his ears and head. His arching neck was proudly raised, And lazulites beneath it blazed. With roseate bloom his flanks were dyed, And lotus tints adorned his hide. His shape was fair, compact, and slight; His hoofs were carven lazulite. His tail with every changing glow Displayed the hues of Indra’s bow. With glossy skin so strangely flecked, With tints of every gem bedecked. A light o’er Ráma’s home he sent, And through the wood, where’er he went. The giant clad in that strange dress That took the soul with loveliness, To charm the fair Videhan’s eyes With mingled wealth of mineral dyes, Moved onward, cropping in his way, The grass and grain and tender spray. His coat with drops of silver bright, A form to gaze on with delight, He raised his fair neck as he went To browse on bud and filament. Now in the Cassia grove he strayed, Now by the cot in plantains’ shade. Slowly and slowly on he came To catch the glances of the dame, And the tall deer of splendid hue Shone full at length in Sítá’s view. He roamed where’er his fancy chose Where Ráma’s leafy cottage rose. Now near, now far, in careless ease, He came and went among the trees. Now with light feet he turned to fly, Now, reassured, again drew nigh: Now gambolled close with leap and bound, Now lay upon the grassy ground: Now sought the door, devoid of fear, And mingled with the troop of deer; Led them a little way, and thence Again returned with confidence. Now flying far, now turning back Emboldened on his former track, Seeking to win the lady’s glance He wandered through the green expanse. Then thronging round, the woodland deer Gazed on his form with wondering fear; A while they followed where he led, Then snuffed the tainted gale and fled. The giant, though he longed to slay The startled quarry, spared the prey, And mindful of the shape he wore To veil his nature, still forbore. Then Sítá of the glorious eye, Returning from her task drew nigh; For she had sought the wood to bring Each loveliest flower of early spring. Now would the bright-eyed lady choose Some gorgeous bud with blending hues, Now plucked the mango’s spray, and now The bloom from an Aśoka bough. She with her beauteous form, unmeet For woodland life and lone retreat, That wondrous dappled deer beheld Gemmed with rich pearls, unparalleled, His silver hair the lady saw, His radiant teeth and lips and jaw, And gazed with rapture as her eyes Expanded in their glad surprise. And when the false deer’s glances fell On her whom Ráma loved so well, He wandered here and there, and cast A luminous beauty as he passed; And Janak’s child with strange delight Kept gazing on the unwonted sight.

Canto XLIII. The Wondrous Deer.

She stooped, her hands with flowers to fill, But gazed upon the marvel still: Gazed on its back and sparkling side Where silver hues with golden vied. Joyous was she of faultless mould, With glossy skin like polished gold. And loudly to her husband cried And bow-armed Lakshmaṇ by his side: Again, again she called in glee: “O come this glorious creature see; Quick, quick, my lord, this deer to view. And bring thy brother Lakshmaṇ too.” As through the wood her clear tones rang, Swift to her side the brothers sprang. With eager eyes the grove they scanned, And saw the deer before them stand. But doubt was strong in Lakshmaṇ’s breast, Who thus his thought and fear expressed:

“Stay, for the wondrous deer we see The fiend Márícha’s self may be. Ere now have kings who sought this place To take their pastime in the chase, Met from his wicked art defeat, And fallen slain by like deceit. He wears, well trained in magic guile, The figure of a deer a while, Bright as the very sun, or place Where dwell the gay Gandharva race. No deer, O Ráma, e’er was seen Thus decked with gold and jewels’ sheen. ’Tis magic, for the world has ne’er, Lord of the world, shown aught so fair.”

But Sítá of the lovely smile, A captive to the giant’s wile, Turned Lakshmaṇ’s prudent speech aside And thus with eager words replied: “My honoured lord, this deer I see With beauty rare enraptures me. Go, chief of mighty arm, and bring For my delight this precious thing. Fair creatures of the woodland roam Untroubled near our hermit home. The forest cow and stag are there, The fawn, the monkey, and the bear, Where spotted deer delight to play, And strong and beauteous Kinnars(494) stray. But never, as they wandered by, Has such a beauty charmed mine eye As this with limbs so fair and slight, So gentle, beautiful and bright. O see, how fair it is to view With jewels of each varied hue: Bright as the rising moon it glows, Lighting the wood where’er it goes. Ah me, what form and grace are there! Its limbs how fine, its hues how fair! Transcending all that words express, It takes my soul with loveliness. O, if thou would, to please me, strive To take the beauteous thing alive, How thou wouldst gaze with wondering eyes Delighted on the lovely prize! And when our woodland life is o’er, And we enjoy our realm once more, The wondrous animal will grace The chambers of my dwelling-place, And a dear treasure will it be To Bharat and the queens and me, And all with rapture and amaze Upon its heavenly form will gaze. But if the beauteous deer, pursued, Thine arts to take it still elude, Strike it, O chieftain, and the skin Will be a treasure, laid within. O, how I long my time to pass Sitting upon the tender grass, With that soft fell beneath me spread Bright with its hair of golden thread! This strong desire, this eager will, Befits a gentle lady ill: But when I first beheld, its look My breast with fascination took. See, golden hair its flank adorns, And sapphires tip its branching horns. Resplendent as the lunar way, Or the first blush of opening day, With graceful form and radiant hue It charmed thy heart, O chieftain, too.”

He heard her speech with willing ear, He looked again upon the deer. Its lovely shape his breast beguiled Moved by the prayer of Janak’s child, And yielding for her pleasure’s sake, To Lakshmaṇ Ráma turned and spake:

“Mark, Lakshmaṇ, mark how Sítá’s breast With eager longing is possessed. To-day this deer of wondrous breed Must for his passing beauty bleed, Brighter than e’er in Nandan strayed, Or Chaitraratha’s heavenly shade. How should the groves of earth possess Such all-surpassing loveliness! The hair lies smooth and bright and fine, Or waves upon each curving line, And drops of living gold bedeck The beauty of his side and neck. O look, his crimson tongue between His teeth like flaming fire is seen, Flashing, whene’er his lips he parts, As from a cloud the lightning darts. O see his sunlike forehead shine With emerald tints and almandine, While pearly light and roseate glow Of shells adorn his neck below. No eye on such a deer can rest But soft enchantment takes the breast: No man so fair a thing behold Ablaze with light of radiant gold, Celestial, bright with jewels’ sheen, Nor marvel when his eyes have seen. A king equipped with bow and shaft Delights in gentle forest craft, And as in boundless woods he strays The quarry for the venison slays. There as he wanders with his train A store of wealth he oft may gain. He claims by right the precious ore, He claims the jewels’ sparkling store. Such gains are dearer in his eyes Than wealth that in his chamber lies, The dearest things his spirit knows, Dear as the bliss which Śukra chose. But oft the rich expected gain Which heedless men pursue in vain, The sage, who prudent counsels know, Explain and in a moment show. This best of deer, this gem of all, To yield his precious spoils must fall, And tender Sítá by my side Shall sit upon the golden hide. Ne’er could I find so rich a coat On spotted deer or sheep or goat. No buck or antelope has such, So bright to view, so soft to touch. This radiant deer and one on high That moves in glory through the sky, Alike in heavenly beauty are, One on the earth and one a star. But, brother, if thy fears be true, And this bright creature that we view Be fierce Márícha in disguise, Then by this hand he surely dies. For that dire fiend who spurns control With bloody hand and cruel soul, Has roamed this forest and dismayed The holiest saints who haunt the shade. Great archers, sprung of royal race, Pursuing in the wood the chase, Have fallen by his wicked art, And now my shaft shall strike his heart. Vatápi, by his magic power Made heedless saints his flesh devour, Then, from within their frames he rent Forth bursting from imprisonment. But once his art in senseless pride Upon the mightiest saint he tried, Agastya’s self, and caused him taste The baited meal before him placed. Vátápi, when the rite was o’er, Would take the giant form he wore, But Saint Agastya knew his wile And checked the giant with smile. “Vátápi, thou with cruel spite Hast conquered many an anchorite The noblest of the Bráhman caste,— And now thy ruin comes at last.” Now if my power he thus defies, This giant, like Vátápi dies, Daring to scorn a man like me, A self subduing devotee. Yea, as Agastya slew the foe, My hand shall lay Márícha low Clad in thine arms thy bow in hand, To guard the Maithil lady stand, With watchful eye and thoughtful breast Keeping each word of my behest I go, and hunting through the brake This wondrous deer will bring or take. Yea surely I will bring the spoil Returning from my hunter’s toil See, Lakshmaṇ how my consort’s eyes Are longing for the lovely prize. This day it falls, that I may win The treasure of so fair a skin. Do thou and Sítá watch with care Lest danger seize you unaware. Swift from my bow one shaft will fly; The stricken deer will fall and die Then quickly will I strip the game And bring the trophy to my dame. Jaṭáyus, guardian good and wise, Our old and faithful friend, The best and strongest bird that flies, His willing aid will lend The Maithil lady well protect, For every chance provide, And in thy tender care suspect A foe on every side.”

Canto XLIV. Márícha’s Death.

Thus having warned his brother bold He grasped his sword with haft of gold, And bow with triple flexure bent, His own delight and ornament; Then bound two quivers to his side, And hurried forth with eager stride. Soon as the antlered monarch saw The lord of monarchs near him draw, A while with trembling heart he fled, Then turned and showed his stately head. With sword and bow the chief pursued Where’er the fleeing deer he viewed Sending from dell and lone recess The splendour of his loveliness. Now full in view the creature stood Now vanished in the depth of wood; Now running with a languid flight, Now like a meteor lost to sight. With trembling limbs away he sped; Then like the moon with clouds o’erspread Gleamed for a moment bright between The trees, and was again unseen. Thus in the magic deer’s disguise Márícha lured him to the prize, And seen a while, then lost to view, Far from his cot the hero drew. Still by the flying game deceived The hunter’s heart was wroth and grieved, And wearied with the fruitless chase He stayed him in a shady place. Again the rover of the night Enraged the chieftain, full in sight, Slow moving in the coppice near, Surrounded by the woodland deer. Again the hunter sought the game That seemed a while to court his aim: But seized again with sudden dread, Beyond his sight the creature fled. Again the hero left the shade, Again the deer before him strayed. With surer hope and stronger will The hunter longed his prey to kill. Then as his soul impatient grew, An arrow from his side he drew, Resplendent at the sunbeam’s glow, The crusher of the smitten foe. With skillful heed the mighty lord Fixed well shaft and strained the cord. Upon the deer his eyes he bent, And like a fiery serpent went The arrow Brahma’s self had framed, Alive with sparks that hissed and flamed, Like Indra’s flashing levin, true To the false deer the missile flew Cleaving his flesh that wonderous dart Stood quivering in Márícha’s heart. Scarce from the ground one foot he sprang, Then stricken fell with deadly pang. Half lifeless, as he pressed the ground, He gave a roar of awful sound And ere the wounded giant died He threw his borrowed form aside Remembering still his lord’s behest He pondered in his heart how best Sítá might send her guard away, And Rávaṇ seize the helpless prey. The monster knew the time was nigh, And called aloud with eager cry, “Ho, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ” and the tone He borrowed was like Ráma’s own.

So by that matchless arrow cleft, The deer’s bright form Márícha left, Resumed his giant shape and size And closed in death his languid eyes. When Ráma saw his awful foe Gasp, smeared with blood, in deadly throe, His anxious thoughts to Sítá sped, And the wise words that Lakshmaṇ said, That this was false Márícha’s art, Returned again upon his heart. He knew the foe he triumphed o’er The name of great Márícha bore. “The fiend,” he pondered, ’ere he died, “Ho, Lakshmaṇ! ho, my Sítá!” cried Ah, if that cry has reached her ear, How dire must be my darling’s fear! And Lakshmaṇ of the mighty arm, What thinks he in his wild alarm? As thus he thought in sad surmise, Each startled hair began to rise, And when he saw the giant slain And thought upon that cry again, His spirit sank and terror pressed Full sorely on the hero’s breast. Another deer he chased and struck, He bore away the the fallen buck, To Janasthán then turned his face And hastened to his dwelling place.

Canto XLV. Lakshman’s Departure.

But Sítá hearing as she thought, Her husband’s cry with anguish fraught, Called to her guardian, “Lakshmaṇ, run And in the wood seek Raghu’s son. Scarce can my heart retain its throne, Scarce can my life be called mine own, As all my powers and senses fail At that long, loud and bitter wail. Haste to the wood with all thy speed And save thy brother in his need. Go, save him in the distant glade Where loud he calls, for timely aid. He falls beneath some giant foe— A bull whom lions overthrow.”

Deaf to her prayer, no step he stirred Obedient to his mother’s word, Then Janak’s child, with ire inflamed, In words of bitter scorn exclaimed exclaimed

“Sumitrá’s son, a friend in show, Thou art in truth thy brother’s foe, Who canst at such any hour deny Thy succour and neglect his cry. Yes, Lakshmaṇ, smit with love of me Thy brother’s death thou fain wouldst see. This guilty love thy heart has swayed And makes thy feet so loth to aid. Thou hast no love for Ráma, no: Thy joy is vice, thy thoughts are low Hence thus unmoved thou yet canst stay While my dear lord is far away. If aught of ill my lord betide Who led thee here, thy chief and guide, Ah, what will be my hapless fate Left in the wild wood desolate!”

Thus spoke the lady sad with fear, With many a sigh and many a tear, Still trembling like a captured doe: And Lakshmaṇ spoke to calm her woe:

“Videhan Queen, be sure of this,— And at the thought thy fear dismiss,— Thy husband’s mightier power defies All Gods and angels of the skies, Gandharvas, and the sons of light, Serpents, and rovers of the night. I tell thee, of the sons of earth, Of Gods who boast celestial birth, Of beasts and birds and giant hosts, Of demigods, Gandharvas, ghosts, Of awful fiends, O thou most fair, There lives not one whose heart would dare To meet thy Ráma in the fight, Like Indra’s self unmatched in might. Such idle words thou must not say Thy Ráma lives whom none may slay. I will not, cannot leave thee here In the wild wood till he be near. The mightiest strength can ne’er withstand His eager force, his vigorous hand. No, not the triple world allied With all the immortal Gods beside. Dismiss thy fear, again take heart, Let all thy doubt and woe depart. Thy lord, be sure, will soon be here And bring thee back that best of deer. Not his, not his that mournful cry, Nor haply came it from the sky. Some giant’s art was busy there And framed a castle based on air. A precious pledge art thou, consigned To me by him of noblest mind, Nor can I fairest dame, forsake The pledge which Ráma bade me take. Upon our heads, O Queen, we drew The giants’ hate when Ráma slew Their chieftain Khara, and the shade Of Janasthán in ruin laid. Through all this mighty wood they rove With varied cries from grove to grove On rapine bent they wander here: But O, dismiss thy causeless fear.”

Bright flashed her eye as Lakshmaṇ spoke And forth her words of fury broke Upon her truthful guardian, flung With bitter taunts that pierced and stung: “Shame on such false compassion, base Defiler of thy glorious race! ’Twere joyous sight I ween to thee My lord in direst strait to see. Thou knowest Ráma sore bested, Or word like this thou ne’er hadst said. No marvel if we find such sin In rivals false to kith and kin. Wretches like thee of evil kind, Concealing crime with crafty mind. Thou, wretch, thine aid wilt still deny, And leave my lord alone to die. Has love of me unnerved thy hand, Or Bharat’s art this ruin planned? But be the treachery his or thine, In vain, in vain the base design. For how shall I, the chosen bride Of dark-hued Ráma, lotus-eyed, The queen who once called Ráma mine, To love of other men decline? Believe me, Lakshmaṇ, Ráma’s wife Before thine eyes will quit this life, And not a moment will she stay If her dear lord have passed away.”

The lady’s bitter speech, that stirred Each hair upon his frame, he heard. With lifted hands together laid, His calm reply he gently made:

“No words have I to answer now: My deity, O Queen, art thou. But ’tis no marvel, dame, to find Such lack of sense in womankind. Throughout this world, O Maithil dame, Weak women’s hearts are still the same. Inconstant, urged by envious spite, They sever friends and hate the right. I cannot brook, Videhan Queen, Thy words intolerably keen. Mine ears thy fierce reproaches pain As boiling water seethes the brain. And now to bear me witness all The dwellers in the wood I call, That, when with words of truth I plead, This harsh reply is all my meed. Ah, woe is thee! Ah, grief, that still Eager to do my brother’s will, Mourning thy woman’s nature, I Must see thee doubt my truth and die. I fly to Ráma’s side, and Oh, May bliss attend thee while I go! May all attendant wood-gods screen Thy head from harm, O large-eyed Queen! And though dire omens meet my sight And fill my soul with wild affright, May I return in peace and see The son of Raghu safe with thee!”

The child of Janak heard him speak, And the hot tear-drops down her cheek, Increasing to a torrent, ran, As thus once more the dame began: “O Lakshmaṇ, if I widowed be Godávarí’s flood shall cover me, Or I will die by cord, or leap, Life weary, from yon rocky steep; Or deadly poison will I drink, Or ’neath the kindled flames will sink, But never, reft of Ráma, can Consent to touch a meaner man.”

The Maithil dame with many sighs, And torrents pouring from her eyes, The faithful Lakshmaṇ thus addressed, And smote her hands upon her breast. >Sumitrá’s son, o’erwhelmed by fears, Looked on the large-eyed queen: He saw that flood of burning tears, He saw that piteous mien. He yearned sweet comfort to afford, He strove to soothe her pain; But to the brother of her lord She spoke no word again. His reverent hands once more he raised, His head he slightly bent, Upon her face he sadly gazed, And then toward Ráma went.

Canto XLVI. The Guest.

The angry Lakshmaṇ scarce could brook Her bitter words, her furious look. With dark forebodings in his breast To Ráma’s side he quickly pressed.

Then ten necked Rávaṇ saw the time Propitious for his purposed crime. A mendicant in guise he came And stood before the Maithil dame. His garb was red, with tufted hair And sandalled feet a shade he bare, And from the fiend’s left shoulder slung A staff and water-vessel hung. Near to the lovely dame he drew, While both the chiefs were far from view, As darkness takes the evening air When neither sun nor moon is there. He bent his eye upon the dame, A princess fair, of spotless fame: So might some baleful planet be Near Moon-forsaken Rohiṇí.(495) As the fierce tyrant nearer drew, The trees in Janasthán that grew Waved not a leaf for fear and woe, And the hushed wind forbore to blow. Godávarí’s waters as they fled, Saw his fierce eye-balls flashing red, And from each swiftly-gliding wave A melancholy murmur gave. Then Rávaṇ, when his eager eye Beheld the longed-for moment nigh, In mendicant’s apparel dressed Near to the Maithil lady pressed. In holy guise, a fiend abhorred, He found her mourning for her lord. Thus threatening draws Śaniśchar(496) nigh To Chitrá(497) in the evening sky; Thus the deep well by grass concealed Yawns treacherous in the verdant field. He stood and looked upon the dame Of Ráma, queen of spotless fame With her bright teeth and each fair limb Like the full moon she seemed to him, Sitting within her leafy cot, Weeping for woe that left her not. Thus, while with joy his pulses beat, He saw her in her lone retreat, Eyed like the lotus, fair to view In silken robes of amber hue. Pierced to the core by Káma’s dart He murmured texts with lying art, And questioned with a soft address The lady in her loneliness. The fiend essayed with gentle speech The heart of that fair dame to reach, Pride of the worlds, like Beauty’s Queen Without her darling lotus seen:

“O thou whose silken robes enfold A form more fair than finest gold, With lotus garland on thy head, Like a sweet spring with bloom o’erspread, Who art thou, fair one, what thy name, Beauty, or Honour, Fortune, Fame, Spirit, or nymph, or Queen of love Descended from thy home above? Bright as the dazzling jasmine shine Thy small square teeth in level line. Like two black stars aglow with light Thine eyes are large and pure and bright. Thy charms of smile and teeth and hair And winning eyes, O thou most fair, Steal all my spirit, as the flow Of rivers mines the bank below. How bright, how fine each flowing tress! How firm those orbs beneath thy dress! That dainty waist with ease were spanned, Sweet lady, by a lover’s hand. Mine eyes, O beauty, ne’er have seen Goddess or nymph so fair of mien, Or bright Gandharva’s heavenly dame, Or woman of so perfect frame. In youth’s soft prime thy years are few, And earth has naught so fair to view. I marvel one like thee in face Should make the woods her dwelling-place. Leave, lady, leave this lone retreat In forest wilds for thee unmeet, Where giants fierce and strong assume All shapes and wander in the gloom. These dainty feet were formed to tread Some palace floor with carpets spread, Or wander in trim gardens where Each opening bud perfumes the air. The richest robe thy form should deck, The rarest gems adorn thy neck, The sweetest wreath should bind thy hair, The noblest lord thy bed should share. Art thou akin, O fair of form, To Rudras,(498) or the Gods of storm,(499) Or to the glorious Vasus(500)? How Can less than these be bright as thou? But never nymph or heavenly maid Or Goddess haunts this gloomy shade. Here giants roam, a savage race; What led thee to so dire a place? Here monkeys leap from tree to tree, And bears and tigers wander free; Here ravening lions prowl, and fell Hyenas in the thickets yell, And elephants infuriate roam, Mighty and fierce, their woodland home. Dost thou not dread, so soft and fair, Tiger and lion, wolf and bear? Hast thou, O beauteous dame, no fear In the wild wood so lone and drear? Whose and who art thou? whence and why Sweet lady, with no guardian nigh, Dost thou this awful forest tread By giant bands inhabited?”

The praise the high-souled Rávaṇ spoke No doubt within her bosom woke. His saintly look and Bráhman guise Deceived the lady’s trusting eyes. With due attention on the guest Her hospitable rites she pressed. She bade the stranger to a seat, And gave him water for his feet. The bowl and water-pot he bare, And garb which wandering Bráhmans wear Forbade a doubt to rise. Won by his holy look she deemed The stranger even as he seemed To her deluded eyes. Intent on hospitable care, She brought her best of woodland fare, And showed her guest a seat. She bade the saintly stranger lave His feet in water which she gave, And sit and rest and eat. He kept his eager glances bent On her so kindly eloquent, Wife of the noblest king; And longed in heart to steal her thence, Preparing by the dire offence, Death on his head to bring. The lady watched with anxious face For Ráma coming from the chase With Lakshmaṇ by his side: But nothing met her wandering glance Save the wild forest’s green expanse Extending far and wide.

Canto XLVII. Rávan’s Wooing.

As, clad in mendicant’s disguise, He questioned thus his destined prize, She to the seeming saintly man The story of her life began. “My guest is he,” she thought, “and I, To ’scape his curse, must needs reply:” “Child of a noble sire I spring From Janak, fair Videha’s king. May every good be thine! my name Is Sítá, Ráma’s cherished dame. Twelve winters with my lord I spent Most happily with sweet content In the rich home of Raghu’s line, And every earthly joy was mine. Twelve pleasant years flew by, and then His peers advised the king of men, Ráma, my lord, to consecrate Joint ruler of his ancient state. But when the rites were scarce begun, To consecrate Ikshváku’s son, The queen Kaikeyí, honoured dame, Sought of her lord an ancient claim. Her plea of former service pressed, And made him grant her new request, To banish Ráma to the wild And consecrate instead her child. This double prayer on him, the best And truest king, she strongly pressed: “Mine eyes in sleep I will not close, Nor eat, nor drink, nor take repose. This very day my death shall bring If Ráma be anointed king.” As thus she spake in envious ire, The aged king, my husband’s sire, Besought with fitting words; but she Was cold and deaf to every plea. As yet my days are few; eighteen The years of life that I have seen; And Ráma, best of all alive, Has passed of years a score and five— Ráma the great and gentle, through All region famed as pure and true, Large-eyed and mighty-armed and tall, With tender heart that cares for all. But Daśaratha, led astray By woman’s wile and passion’s sway, By his strong love of her impelled, The consecrating rites withheld. When, hopeful of the promised grace, My Ráma sought his father’s face, The queen Kaikeyí, ill at ease, Spoke to my lord brief words like these: “Hear, son of Raghu, hear from me The words thy father says to thee: “I yield this day to Bharat’s hand, Free from all foes, this ancient land. Fly from this home no longer thine, And dwell in woods five years and nine. Live in the forest and maintain Mine honour pure from falsehood’s stain.’ ” Then Ráma spoke, untouched by dread: “Yea, it shall be as thou hast said.” And answered, faithful to his vows, Obeying Daśaratha’s spouse: “The offered realm I would not take, But still keep true the words he spake.” Thus, gentle Bráhman, Ráma still Clung to his vow with firmest will. And valiant Lakshmaṇ, dear to fame, His brother by a younger dame, Bold victor in the deadly fray, Would follow Ráma on his way. On sternest vows his heart was set, And he, a youthful anchoret, Bound up in twisted coil his hair And took the garb which hermits wear; Then with his bow to guard us, he Went forth with Ráma and with me. By Queen Kaikeyí’s art bereft The kingdom and our home we left, And bound by stern religious vows We sought this shade of forest boughs. Now, best of Bráhmans, here we tread These pathless regions dark and dread. But come, refresh thy soul, and rest Here for a while an honoured guest, For he, my lord, will soon be here With fresh supply of woodland cheer, Large store of venison of the buck, Or some great boar his hand has struck. Meanwhile, O stranger, grant my prayer: Thy name, thy race, thy birth declare, And why with no companion thou Roamest in Daṇḍak forest now.”

Thus questioned Sítá, Ráma’s dame. Then fierce the stranger’s answer came: “Lord of the giant legions, he From whom celestial armies flee,— The dread of hell and earth and sky, Rávaṇ the Rákshas king am I. Now when thy gold-like form I view Arrayed in silks of amber hue, My love, O thou of perfect mould, For all my dames is dead and cold. A thousand fairest women, torn From many a land my home adorn. But come, loveliest lady, be The queen of every dame and me. My city Lanká, glorious town, Looks from a mountain’s forehead down Where ocean with his flash and foam Beats madly on mine island home. With me, O Sítá, shalt thou rove Delighted through each shady grove, Nor shall thy happy breast retain Fond memory of this life of pain. In gay attire, a glittering band, Five thousand maids shall round thee stand, And serve thee at thy beck and sign, If thou, fair Sítá, wilt be mine.”

Then forth her noble passion broke As thus in turn the lady spoke: “Me, me the wife of Ráma, him The lion lord with lion’s limb, Strong as the sea, firm as the rock, Like Indra in the battle shock. The lord of each auspicious sign, The glory of his princely line, Like some fair Bodh tree strong and tall, The noblest and the best of all, Ráma, the heir of happy fate Who keeps his word inviolate, Lord of the lion gait, possessed Of mighty arm and ample chest, Ráma the lion-warrior, him Whose moon bright face no fear can dim, Ráma, his bridled passions’ lord, The darling whom his sire adored,— Me, me the true and loving dame Of Ráma, prince of deathless fame— Me wouldst thou vainly woo and press? A jackal woo a lioness! Steal from the sun his glory! such Thy hope Lord Ráma’s wife to touch. Ha! Thou hast seen the trees of gold, The sign which dying eyes behold, Thus seeking, weary of thy life, To win the love of Ráma’s wife. Fool! wilt thou dare to rend away The famished lion’s bleeding prey, Or from the threatening jaws to take The fang of some envenomed snake? What, wouldst thou shake with puny hand Mount Mandar,(501) towering o’er the land, Put poison to thy lips and think The deadly cup a harmless drink? With pointed needle touch thine eye, A razor to thy tongue apply, Who wouldst pollute with impious touch The wife whom Ráma loves so much? Be round thy neck a millstone tied, And swim the sea from side to side; Or raising both thy hands on high Pluck sun and moon from yonder sky; Or let the kindled flame be pressed, Wrapt in thy garment, to thy breast; More wild the thought that seeks to win Ráma’s dear wife who knows not sin. The fool who thinks with idle aim To gain the love of Ráma’s dame, With dark and desperate footing makes His way o’er points of iron stakes. As Ocean to a bubbling spring, The lion to a fox, the king Of all the birds that ply the wing To an ignoble crow As gold to lead of little price, As to the drainings of the rice The drink they quaff in Paradise, The Amrit’s heavenly flow, As sandal dust with perfume sweet Is to the mire that soils our feet, A tiger to a cat, As the white swan is to the owl, The peacock to the waterfowl, An eagle to a bat, Such is my lord compared with thee; And when with bow and arrows he, Mighty as Indra’s self shall see His foeman, armed to slay, Thou, death-doomed like the fly that sips The oil that on the altar drips, Shalt cast the morsel from thy lips And lose thy half-won prey.” Thus in high scorn the lady flung The biting arrows of her tongue In bitter words that pierced and stung The rover of the night. She ceased. Her gentle cheek grew pale, Her loosened limbs began to fail, And like a plantain in the gale She trembled with affright. He terrible as Death stood nigh, And watched with fierce exulting eye The fear that shook her frame. To terrify the lady more, He counted all his triumphs o’er, Proclaimed the titles that he bore, His pedigree and name.

Canto XLVIII. Rávan’s Speech.

With knitted brow and furious eye The stranger made his fierce reply: “In me O fairest dame, behold The brother of the King of Gold. The Lord of Ten Necks my title, named Rávaṇ, for might and valour famed. Gods and Gandharva hosts I scare; Snakes, spirits, birds that roam the air Fly from my coming, wild with fear, Trembling like men when Death is near. Vaiśravaṇ once, my brother, wrought To ire, encountered me and fought, But yielding to superior might Fled from his home in sore affright. Lord of the man-drawn chariot, still He dwells on famed Kailása’s hill. I made the vanquished king resign The glorious car which now is mine,— Pushpak, the far-renowned, that flies Will-guided through the buxom skies. Celestial hosts by Indra led Flee from my face disquieted, And where my dreaded feet appear The wind is hushed or breathless is fear. Where’er I stand, where’er I go The troubled waters cease to flow, Each spell-bound wave is mute and still And the fierce sun himself is chill. Beyond the sea my Lanká stands Filled with fierce forms and giant bands, A glorious city fair to see As Indra’s Amarávatí. A towering height of solid wall, Flashing afar, surrounds it all, Its golden courts enchant the sight, And gates aglow with lazulite. Steeds, elephants, and cars are there, And drums’ loud music fills the air, Fair trees in lovely gardens grow Whose boughs with varied fruitage glow. Thou, beauteous Queen, with me shalt dwell In halls that suit a princess well, Thy former fellows shall forget Nor think of women with regret, No earthly joy thy soul shall miss, And take its fill of heavenly bliss. Of mortal Ráma think no more, Whose terms of days will soon be o’er. King Daśaratha looked in scorn On Ráma though the eldest born, Sent to the woods the weakling fool, And set his darling son to rule. What, O thou large-eyed dame, hast thou To do with fallen Ráma now, From home and kingdom forced to fly, A wretched hermit soon to die? Accept thy lover, nor refuse The giant king who fondly woos. O listen, nor reject in scorn A heart by Káma’s arrows torn. If thou refuse to hear my prayer, Of grief and coming woe beware; For the sad fate will fall on thee Which came on hapless Urvaśí, When with her foot she chanced to touch Purúravas, and sorrowed much.(502) My little finger raised in fight Were more than match for Ráma’s might. O fairest, blithe and happy be With him whom fortune sends to thee.”

Such were the words the giant said, And Sítá’s angry eyes were red. She answered in that lonely place The monarch of the giant race:

“Art thou the brother of the Lord Of Gold by all the world adored, And sprung of that illustrious seed Wouldst now attempt this evil deed? I tell thee, impious Monarch, all The giants by thy sin will fall, Whose reckless lord and king thou art, With foolish mind and lawless heart. Yea, one may hope to steal the wife Of Indra and escape with life. But he who Ráma’s dame would tear From his loved side must needs despair. Yea, one may steal fair Śachí, dame Of Him who shoots the thunder flame, May live successful in his aim And length of day may see; But hope, O giant King, in vain, Though cups of Amrit thou may drain, To shun the penalty and pain Of wronging one like me.”

Canto XLIX. The Rape Of Sítá.

The Rákshas monarch, thus addressed, His hands a while together pressed, And straight before her startled eyes Stood monstrous in his giant size. Then to the lady, with the lore Of eloquence, he spoke once more: “Thou scarce,” he cried, “hast heard aright The glories of my power and might. I borne sublime in air can stand And with these arms upheave the land, Drink the deep flood of Ocean dry And Death with conquering force defy, Pierce the great sun with furious dart And to her depths cleave earth apart. See, thou whom love and beauty blind, I wear each form as wills my mind.”

As thus he spake in burning ire His glowing eyes were red with fire. His gentle garb aside was thrown And all his native shape was shown. Terrific, monstrous, wild, and dread As the dark God who rules the dead, His fiery eyes in fury rolled, His limbs were decked with glittering gold. Like some dark cloud the monster showed, And his fierce breast with fury glowed. The ten-faced rover of the night, With twenty arms exposed to sight, His saintly guise aside had laid And all his giant height displayed. Attired in robes of crimson dye He stood and watched with angry eye The lady in her bright array Resplendent as the dawn of day When from the east the sunbeams break, And to the dark-haired lady spake: “If thou would call that lord thine own Whose fame in every world is known, Look kindly on my love, and be Bride of a consort meet for thee. With me let blissful years be spent, For ne’er thy choice shalt thou repent. No deed of mine shall e’er displease My darling as she lives at ease. Thy love for mortal man resign, And to a worthier lord incline. Ah foolish lady, seeming wise In thine own weak and partial eyes, By what fair graces art thou held To Ráma from his realm expelled? Misfortunes all his life attend, And his brief days are near their end. Unworthy prince, infirm of mind! A woman spoke and he resigned His home and kingdom and withdrew From troops of friends and retinue. And sought this forest dark and dread By savage beasts inhabited.”

Thus Rávaṇ urged the lady meet For love, whose words were soft and sweet. Near and more near the giant pressed As love’s hot fire inflamed his breast. The leader of the giant crew His arm around the lady threw: Thus Budha(503) with ill-omened might Steals Rohiṇí’s delicious light. One hand her glorious tresses grasped, One with its ruthless pressure clasped The body of his lovely prize, The Maithil dame with lotus eyes. The silvan Gods in wild alarm Marked his huge teeth and ponderous arm, And from that Death-like presence fled, Of mountain size and towering head. Then seen was Rávaṇ’s magic car Aglow with gold which blazed afar,— The mighty car which asses drew Thundering as it onward flew. He spared not harsh rebuke to chide The lady as she moaned and cried, Then with his arm about her waist His captive in the car he placed. In vain he threatened: long and shrill Rang out her lamentation still, O Ráma! which no fear could stay: But her dear lord was far away. Then rose the fiend, and toward the skies Bore his poor helpless struggling prize: Hurrying through the air above The dame who loathed his proffered love. So might a soaring eagle bear A serpent’s consort through the air. As on he bore her through the sky She shrieked aloud her bitter cry. As when some wretch’s lips complain In agony of maddening pain; “O Lakshmaṇ, thou whose joy is still To do thine elder brother’s will, This fiend, who all disguises wears, From Ráma’s side his darling tears. Thou who couldst leave bliss, fortune, all, Yea life itself at duty’s call, Dost thou not see this outrage done To hapless me, O Raghu’s son? ’Tis thine, O victor of the foe, To bring the haughtiest spirit low, How canst thou such an outrage see And let the guilty fiend go free? Ah, seldom in a moment’s time Comes bitter fruit of sin and crime, But in the day of harvest pain Comes like the ripening of the grain. So thou whom fate and folly lead To ruin for this guilty deed, Shalt die by Ráma’s arm ere long A dreadful death for hideous wrong. Ah, too successful in their ends Are Queen Kaikeyí and her friends, When virtuous Ráma, dear to fame, Is mourning for his ravished dame. Ah me, ah me! a long farewell To lawn and glade and forest dell In Janasthán’s wild region, where The Cassia trees are bright and fair With all your tongues to Ráma say That Rávaṇ bears his wife away. Farewell, a long farewell to thee, O pleasant stream Godávarí, Whose rippling waves are ever stirred By many a glad wild water-bird! All ye to Ráma’s ear relate The giant’s deed and Sítá’s fate. O all ye Gods who love this ground Where trees of every leaf abound, Tell Ráma I am stolen hence, I pray you all with reverence. On all the living things beside That these dark boughs and coverts hide, Ye flocks of birds, ye troops of deer, I call on you my prayer to hear. All ye to Ráma’s ear proclaim That Rávaṇ tears away his dame With forceful arms,—his darling wife, Dearer to Ráma than his life. O, if he knew I dwelt in hell, My mighty lord, I know full well, Would bring me, conqueror, back to-day, Though Yáma’s self reclaimed his prey.”

Thus from the air the lady sent With piteous voice her last lament, And as she wept she chanced to see The vulture on a lofty tree. As Rávaṇ bore her swiftly by, On the dear bird she bent her eye, And with a voice which woe made faint Renewed to him her wild complaint:

“O see, the king who rules the race Of giants, cruel, fierce and base, Rávaṇ the spoiler bears me hence The helpless prey of violence. This fiend who roves in midnight shade By thee, dear bird, can ne’er be stayed, For he is armed and fierce and strong Triumphant in the power to wrong. For thee remains one only task, To do, kind friend, the thing I ask. To Ráma’s ear by thee be borne How Sítá from her home is torn, And to the valiant Lakshmaṇ tell The giant’s deed and what befell.”

Canto L. Jatáyus.

The vulture from his slumber woke And heard the words which Sítá spoke He raised his eye and looked on her, Looked on her giant ravisher. That noblest bird with pointed beak, Majestic as a mountain peak, High on the tree addressed the king Of giants, wisely counselling: “O Ten-necked lord, I firmly hold To faith and laws ordained of old, And thou, my brother, shouldst refrain From guilty deeds that shame and stain. The vulture king supreme in air, Jaṭáyus is the name I bear. Thy captive, known by Sítá’s name, Is the dear consort and the dame Of Ráma, Daśaratha’s heir Who makes the good of all his care. Lord of the world in might he vies With the great Gods of seas and skies. The law he boasts to keep allows No king to touch another’s spouse, And, more than all, a prince’s dame High honour and respect may claim. Back to the earth thy way incline, Nor think of one who is not thine. Heroic souls should hold it shame To stoop to deeds which others blame, And all respect by them is shown To dames of others as their own. Not every case of bliss and gain The Scripture’s holy texts explain, And subjects, when that light is dim, Look to their prince and follow him. The king is bliss and profit, he Is store of treasures fair to see, And all the people’s fortunes spring, Their joy and misery, from the king. If, lord of giant race, thy mind Be fickle, false, to sin inclined, How wilt thou kingly place retain? High thrones in heaven no sinners gain. The soul which gentle passions sway Ne’er throws its nobler part away, Nor will the mansion of the base Long be the good man’s dwelling-place. Prince Ráma, chief of high renown, Has wronged thee not in field or town. Ne’er has he sinned against thee: how Canst thou resolve to harm him now? If moved by Śúrpaṇakhá’s prayer The giant Khara sought him there, And fighting fell with baffled aim, His and not Ráma’s is the blame. Say, mighty lord of giants, say What fault on Ráma canst thou lay? What has the world’s great master done That thou should steal his precious one? Quick, quick the Maithil dame release; Let Ráma’s consort go in peace, Lest scorched by his terrific eye Beneath his wrath thou fall and die Like Vritra when Lord Indra threw The lightning flame that smote and slew. Ah fool, with blinded eyes to take Home to thy heart a venomed snake! Ah foolish eyes, too blind to see That Death’s dire coils entangle thee! The prudent man his strength will spare, Nor lift a load too great to bear. Content is he with wholesome food Which gives him life and strength renewed, But who would dare the guilty deed That brings no fame or glorious meed, Where merit there is none to win And vengeance soon o’ertakes the sin? My course of life, Pulastya’s son, For sixty thousand years has run. Lord of my kind I still maintain Mine old hereditary reign. I, worn by years, am older far Than thou, young lord of bow and car, In coat of glittering mail encased And armed with arrows at thy waist, But not unchallenged shalt thou go, Or steal the dame without a blow. Thou canst not, King, before mine eyes Bear off unchecked thy lovely prize, Safe as the truth of Scripture bent By no close logic’s argument. Stay if thy courage let thee, stay And meet me in the battle fray, And thou shalt stain the earth with gore Falling as Khara fell before. Soon Ráma, clothed in bark, shall smite Thee, his proud foe, in deadly fight,— Ráma, from whom have oft times fled The Daitya hosts discomfited. No power have I to kill or slay: The princely youths are far away, But soon shalt thou with fearful eye Struck down beneath their arrows lie. But while I yet have life and sense, Thou shalt not, tyrant, carry hence Fair Sítá, Ramá’s honoured queen, With lotus eyes and lovely mien. Whate’er the pain, whate’er the cost, Though in the struggle life be lost, The will of Raghu’s noblest son And Daśaratha must be done. Stay for a while, O Rávaṇ, stay, One hour thy flying car delay, And from that glorious chariot thou Shalt fall like fruit from shaken bough, For I to thee, while yet I live, The welcome of a foe will give.”

Canto LI. The Combat.

Rávaṇ’s red eyes in fury rolled: Bright with his armlets’ flashing gold, In high disdain, by passion stirred He rushed against the sovereign bird. With clash and din and furious blows Of murderous battle met the foes: Thus urged by winds two clouds on high Meet warring in the stormy sky. Then fierce the dreadful combat raged As fiend and bird in war engaged, As if two winged mountains sped To dire encounter overhead. Keen pointed arrows thick and fast, In never ceasing fury cast, Rained hurtling on the vulture king And smote him on the breast and wing. But still that noblest bird sustained The cloud of shafts which Rávaṇ rained, And with strong beak and talons bent The body of his foeman rent. Then wild with rage the ten-necked king Laid ten swift arrows on his string,— Dread as the staff of Death were they, So terrible and keen to slay. Straight to his ear the string he drew, Straight to the mark the arrows flew, And pierced by every iron head The vulture’s mangled body bled. One glance upon the car he bent Where Sítá wept with shrill lament, Then heedless of his wounds and pain Rushed at the giant king again. Then the brave vulture with the stroke Of his resistless talons broke The giant’s shafts and bow whereon The fairest pearls and jewels shone. The monster paused, by rage unmanned: A second bow soon armed his hand, Whence pointed arrows swift and true In hundreds, yea in thousands, flew. The monarch of the vultures, plied With ceaseless darts on every side, Showed like a bird that turns to rest Close covered by the branch-built nest. He shook his pinions to repel The storm of arrows as it fell; Then with his talons snapped in two The mighty bow which Rávaṇ drew. Next with terrific wing he smote So fiercely on the giant’s coat, The harness, glittering with the glow Of fire, gave way beneath the blow. With storm of murderous strokes he beat The harnessed asses strong and fleet,— Each with a goblin’s monstrous face And plates of gold his neck to grace. Then on the car he turned his ire,— The will-moved car that shone like fire, And broke the glorious chariot, broke The golden steps and pole and yoke. The chouris and the silken shade Like the full moon to view displayed, Together with the guards who held Those emblems, to the ground he felled. The royal vulture hovered o’er The driver’s head, and pierced and tore With his strong beak and dreaded claws His mangled brow and cheek and jaws. With broken car and sundered bow, His charioteer and team laid low, One arm about the lady wound, Sprang the fierce giant to the ground. Spectators of the combat, all The spirits viewed the monster’s fall: Lauding the vulture every one Cried with glad voice, Well done! well done! But weak with length of days, at last The vulture’s strength was failing fast. The fiend again assayed to bear The lady through the fields of air. But when the vulture saw him rise Triumphant with his trembling prize, Bearing the sword that still was left When other arms were lost or cleft, Once more, impatient of repose, Swift from the earth her champion rose, Hung in the way the fiend would take, And thus addressing Rávaṇ spake: “Thou, King of giants, rash and blind, Wilt be the ruin of thy kind, Stealing the wife of Ráma, him With lightning scars on chest and limb. A mighty host obeys his will And troops of slaves his palace fill; His lords of state are wise and true, Kinsmen has he and retinue. As thirsty travellers drain the cup, Thou drinkest deadly poison up. The rash and careless fool who heeds No coming fruit of guilty deeds, A few short years of life shall see, And perish doomed to death like thee. Say whither wilt thou fly to loose Thy neck from Death’s entangling noose, Caught like the fish that finds too late The hook beneath the treacherous bait? Never, O King—of this be sure— Will Raghu’s fiery sons endure, Terrific in their vengeful rage, This insult to their hermitage. Thy guilty hands this day have done A deed which all reprove and shun, Unworthly of a noble chief, The pillage loved by coward thief. Stay, if thy heart allow thee, stay And meet me in the deadly fray. Soon shall thou stain the earth with gore, And fall as Khara fell before. The fruits of former deeds o’erpower The sinner in his dying hour: And such a fate on thee, O King, Thy tyranny and madness bring. Not e’en the Self-existent Lord, Who reigns by all the worlds adored, Would dare attempt a guilty deed Which the dire fruits of crime succeed.”

Thus brave Jaṭáyus, best of birds, Addressed the fiend with moving words, Then ready for the swift attack Swooped down upon the giant’s back. Down to the bone the talons went; With many a wound the flesh was rent: Such blows infuriate drivers deal Their elephants with pointed steel. Fixed in his back the strong beak lay, The talons stripped the flesh away. He fought with claws and beak and wing, And tore the long hair of the king. Still as the royal vulture beat The giant with his wings and feet, Swelled the fiend’s lips, his body shook With furious rage too great to brook. About the Maithil dame he cast One huge left arm and held her fast. In furious rage to frenzy fanned He struck the vulture with his hand. Jatáyus mocked the vain assay, And rent his ten left arms away. Down dropped the severed limbs: anew Ten others from his body grew: Thus bright with pearly radiance glide Dread serpents from the hillock side, Again in wrath the giant pressed The lady closer to his breast, And foot and fist sent blow on blow In ceaseless fury at the foe. So fierce and dire the battle, waged Between those mighty champions, raged: Here was the lord of giants, there The noblest of the birds of air. Thus, as his love of Ráma taught, The faithful vulture strove and fought. But Rávaṇ seized his sword and smote His wings and side and feet and throat. At mangled side and wing he bled; He fell, and life was almost fled. The lady saw her champion lie, His plumes distained with gory dye, And hastened to the vulture’s side Grieving as though a kinsman died. The lord of Lanká’s island viewed The vulture as he lay: Whose back like some dark cloud was hued, His breast a paly grey, Like ashes, when by none renewed, The flame has died away. The lady saw with mournful eye, Her champion press the plain,— The royal bird, her true ally Whom Rávaṇ’s might had slain. Her soft arms locked in strict embrace Around his neck she kept, And lovely with her moon-bright face Bent o’er her friend and wept.

Canto LII. Rávan’s Flight.

Fair as the lord of silvery rays Whom every star in heaven obeys, The Maithil dame her plaint renewed O’er him by Rávaṇ’s might subdued: “Dreams, omens, auguries foreshow Our coming lot of weal and woe: But thou, my Ráma, couldst not see The grievous blow which falls on thee. The birds and deer desert the brakes And show the path my captor takes, And thus e’en now this royal bird Flew to mine aid by pity stirred. Slain for my sake in death he lies, The broad-winged rover of the skies. O Ráma, haste, thine aid I crave: O Lakshmaṇ, why delay to save? Brave sons of old Ikshváku, hear And rescue in this hour of fear.”

Her flowery wreath was torn and rent, Crushed was each sparkling ornament. She with weak arms and trembling knees Clung like a creeper to the trees, And like some poor deserted thing With wild shrieks made the forest ring. But swift the giant reached her side, As loud on Ráma’s name she cried. Fierce as grim Death one hand he laid Upon her tresses’ lovely braid. “That touch, thou impious King, shall be The ruin of thy race and thee.” The universal world in awe That outrage on the lady saw, All nature shook convulsed with dread, And darkness o’er the land was spread. The Lord of Day grew dark and chill, And every breath of air was still. The Eternal Father of the sky Beheld the crime with heavenly eye, And spake with solemn voice, “The deed, The deed is done, of old decreed.” Sad were the saints within the grove, But triumph with their sorrow strove. They wept to see the Maithil dame Endure the outrage, scorn, and shame: They joyed because his life should pay The penalty incurred that day. Then Rávaṇ raised her up, and bare His captive through the fields of air, Calling with accents loud and shrill On Ráma and on Lakshmaṇ still. With sparkling gems on arm and breast, In silk of paly amber dressed, High in the air the Maithil dame Gleamed like the lightning’s flashing flame. The giant, as the breezes blew Upon her robes of amber hue, And round him twined that gay attire, Showed like a mountain girt with fire. The lady, fairest of the fair, Had wreathed a garland round her hair; Its lotus petals bright and sweet Rained down about the giant’s feet. Her vesture, bright as burning gold, Gave to the wind each glittering fold, Fair as a gilded cloud that gleams Touched by the Day-God’s tempered beams. Yet struggling in the fiend’s embrace, The lady with her sweet pure face, Far from her lord, no longer wore The light of joy that shone before. Like some sad lily by the side Of waters which the sun has dried; Like the pale moon uprising through An autumn cloud of darkest hue, So was her perfect face between The arms of giant Rávaṇ seen: Fair with the charm of braided tress And forehead’s finished loveliness; Fair with the ivory teeth that shed White lustre through the lips’ fine red, Fair as the lotus when the bud Is rising from the parent flood. With faultless lip and nose and eye, Dear as the moon that floods the sky With gentle light, of perfect mould, She seemed a thing of burnished gold, Though on her cheek the traces lay Of tears her hand had brushed away. But as the moon-beams swiftly fade Ere the great Day-God shines displayed, So in that form of perfect grace Still trembling in the fiend’s embrace, From her beloved Ráma reft, No light of pride or joy was left. The lady with her golden hue O’er the swart fiend a lustre threw, As when embroidered girths enfold An elephant with gleams of gold. Fair as the lily’s bending stem,— Her arms adorned with many a gem, A lustre to the fiend she lent Gleaming from every ornament, As when the cloud-shot flashes light The shadows of a mountain height. Whene’er the breezes earthward bore The tinkling of the zone she wore, He seemed a cloud of darkness hue Sending forth murmurs as it flew. As on her way the dame was sped From her sweet neck fair flowers were shed, The swift wind caught the flowery rain And poured it o’er the fiend again. The wind-stirred blossoms, sweet to smell, On the dark brows of Rávaṇ fell, Like lunar constellations set On Meru for a coronet. From her small foot an anklet fair With jewels slipped, and through the air, Like a bright circlet of the flame Of thunder, to the valley came. The Maithil lady, fair to see As the young leaflet of a tree Clad in the tender hues of spring, Flashed glory on the giant king, As when a gold-embroidered zone Around an elephant is thrown. While, bearing far the lady, through The realms of sky the giant flew, She like a gleaming meteor cast A glory round her as she passed. Then from each limb in swift descent Dropped many a sparkling ornament: On earth they rested dim and pale Like fallen stars when virtues fail.(504) Around her neck a garland lay Bright as the Star-God’s silvery ray: It fell and flashed like Gangá sent From heaven above the firmament.(505) The birds of every wing had flocked To stately trees by breezes rocked: These bowed their wind-swept heads and said: “My lady sweet, be comforted.” With faded blooms each brook within Whose waters moved no gleamy fin, Stole sadly through the forest dell Mourning the dame it loved so well. From every woodland region near Came lions, tigers, birds, and deer, And followed, each with furious look, The way her flying shadow took. For Sítá’s loss each lofty hill Whose tears were waterfall, and rill, Lifting on high each arm-like steep, Seemed in the general woe to weep. When the great sun, the lord of day, Saw Rávaṇ tear the dame away, His glorious light began to fail And all his disk grew cold and pale. “If Rávaṇ from the forest flies With Ráma’s Sítá as his prize, Justice and truth have vanished hence, Honour and right and innocence.” Thus rose the cry of wild despair From spirits as they gathered there. In trembling troops in open lawns Wept, wild with woe, the startled fawns, And a strange terror changed the eyes They lifted to the distant skies. On silvan Gods who love the dell A sudden fear and trembling fell, As in the deepest woe they viewed The lady by the fiend subdued. Still in loud shrieks was heard afar That voice whose sweetness naught could mar, While eager looks of fear and woe She bent upon the earth below. The lady of each winning wile With pearly teeth and lovely smile, Seized by the lord of Lanká’s isle, Looked down for friends in vain. She saw no friend to aid her, none, Not Ráma nor the younger son Of Daśaratha, and undone She swooned with fear and pain.

Canto LIII. Sítá’s Threats.

Soon as the Maithil lady knew That high through air the giant flew, Distressed with grief and sore afraid Her troubled spirit sank dismayed. Then, as anew the waters welled From those red eyes which sorrow swelled, Forth in keen words her passion broke, And to the fierce-eyed fiend she spoke: “Canst thou attempt a deed so base, Untroubled by the deep disgrace,— To steal me from my home and fly, When friend or guardian none was nigh? Thy craven soul that longed to steal, Fearing the blows that warriors deal, Upon a magic deer relied To lure my husband from my side, Friend of his sire, the vulture king Lies low on earth with mangled wing, Who gave his aged life for me And died for her he sought to free. Ah, glorious strength indeed is thine, Thou meanest of thy giant line, Whose courage dared to tell thy name And conquer in the fight a dame. Does the vile deed that thou hast done Cause thee no shame, thou wicked one— A woman from her home to rend When none was near his aid to lend? Through all the worlds, O giant King, The tidings of this deed will ring, This deed in law and honour’s spite By one who claims a hero’s might. Shame on thy boasted valour, shame! Thy prowess is an empty name. Shame, giant, on this cursed deed For which thy race is doomed to bleed! Thou fliest swifter than the gale, For what can strength like thine avail? Stay for one hour, O Rávaṇ, stay; Thou shalt not flee with life away. Soon as the royal chieftains’ sight Falls on the thief who roams by night, Thou wilt not, tyrant, live one hour Though backed by all thy legions’ power. Ne’er can thy puny strength sustain The tempest of their arrowy rain: Have e’er the trembling birds withstood The wild flames raging in the wood? Hear me, O Rávaṇ, let me go, And save thy soul from coming woe. Or if thou wilt not set me free, Wroth for this insult done to me. With his brave brother’s aid my lord Against thy life will raise his sword. A guilty hope inflames thy breast His wife from Ráma’s home to wrest. Ah fool, the hope thou hast is vain; Thy dreams of bliss shall end in pain. If torn from all I love by thee My godlike lord no more I see, Soon will I die and end my woes, Nor live the captive of my foes. Ah fool, with blinded eyes to choose The evil and the good refuse! So the sick wretch with stubborn will Turns fondly to the cates that kill, And madly draws his lips away From medicine that would check decay. About thy neck securely wound The deadly coil of Fate is bound, And thou, O Rávaṇ, dost not fear Although the hour of death is near. With death-doomed sight thine eyes behold The gleaming of the trees of gold,— See dread Vaitaraṇi, the flood That rolls a stream of foamy blood,— See the dark wood by all abhorred— Its every leaf a threatening sword. The tangled thickets thou shall tread Where thorns with iron points are spread. For never can thy days be long, Base plotter of this shame and wrong To Ráma of the lofty soul: He dies who drinks the poisoned bowl. The coils of death around thee lie: They hold thee and thou canst not fly. Ah whither, tyrant, wouldst thou run The vengeance of my lord to shun? By his unaided arm alone Were twice seven thousand fiends o’erthrown: Yes, in the twinkling of an eye He forced thy mightiest fiends to die. And shall that lord of lion heart, Skilled in the bow and spear and dart, Spare thee, O fiend, in battle strife, The robber of his darling wife?”

These were her words, and more beside, By wrath and bitter hate supplied. Then by her woe and fear o’erthrown She wept again and made her moan. As long she wept in grief and dread, Scarce conscious of the words she said, The wicked giant onward fled And bore her through the air. As firm he held the Maithil dame, Still wildly struggling, o’er her frame With grief and bitter misery came The trembling of despair.

Canto LIV. Lanká.

He bore her on in rapid flight, And not a friend appeared in sight. But on a hill that o’er the wood Raised its high top five monkeys stood. From her fair neck her scarf she drew, And down the glittering vesture flew. With earring, necklet, chain, and gem, Descending in the midst of them: “For these,” she thought, “my path may show, And tell my lord the way I go.” Nor did the fiend, in wild alarm, Mark when she drew from neck and arm And foot the gems and gold, and sent To earth each gleaming ornament. The monkeys raised their tawny eyes That closed not in their first surprise, And saw the dark-eyed lady, where She shrieked above them in the air. High o’er their heads the giant passed Holding the weeping lady fast. O’er Pampa’s flashing flood he sped And on to Lanká’s city fled. He bore away in senseless joy The prize that should his life destroy, Like the rash fool who hugs beneath His robe a snake with venomed teeth. Swift as an arrow from a bow, Speeding o’er lands that lay below, Sublime in air his course he took O’er wood and rock and lake and brook. He passed at length the sounding sea Where monstrous creatures wander free,— Seat of Lord Varuṇ’s ancient reign, Controller of the eternal main. The angry waves were raised and tossed As Rávaṇ with the lady crossed, And fish and snake in wild unrest Showed flashing fin and gleaming crest. Then from the blessed troops who dwell In air celestial voices fell: “O ten-necked King,” they cried, “attend: This guilty deed will bring thine end.”

Then Rávaṇ speeding like the storm, Bearing his death in human form, The struggling Sítá, lighted down In royal Lanká’s glorious town; A city bright and rich, that showed Well-ordered street and noble road; Arranged with just division, fair With multitudes in court and square. Thus, all his journey done, he passed Within his royal home at last. There in a queenly bower he placed The black-eyed dame with dainty waist: Thus in her chamber Máyá laid The lovely Máyá, demon maid. Then Rávaṇ gave command to all The dread she-fiends who filled the hall: “This captive lady watch and guard From sight of man and woman barred. But all the fair one asks beside Be with unsparing hand supplied: As though ’twere I that asked, withhold No pearls or dress or gems or gold. And she among you that shall dare Of purpose or through want of care One word to vex her soul to say, Throws her unvalued life away.”

Thus spake the monarch of their race To those she-fiends who thronged the place, And pondering on the course to take Went from the chamber as he spake. He saw eight giants, strong and dread, On flesh of bleeding victims fed, Proud in the boon which Brahmá gave, And trusting in its power to save. He thus the mighty chiefs addressed Of glorious power and strength possessed: “Arm, warriors, with the spear and bow; With all your speed from Lanká go, For Janasthán, our own no more, Is now defiled with giants’ gore; The seat of Khara’s royal state Is left unto us desolate. In your brave hearts and might confide, And cast ignoble fear aside. Go, in that desert region dwell Where the fierce giants fought and fell. A glorious host that region held, For power and might unparalleled, By Dúshaṇ and brave Khara led,— All, slain by Ráma’s arrows, bled. Hence boundless wrath that spurns control Reigns paramount within my soul, And naught but Ráma’s death can sate The fury of my vengeful hate. I will not close my slumbering eyes Till by this hand my foeman dies. And when mine arm has slain the foe Who laid those giant princes low, Long will I triumph in the deed, Like one enriched in utmost need. Now go; that I this end may gain, In Janasthán, O chiefs, remain. Watch Ráma there with keenest eye, And all his deeds and movements spy. Go forth, no helping art neglect, Be brave and prompt and circumspect, And be your one endeavour still To aid mine arm this foe to kill. Oft have I seen your warrior might Proved in the forehead of the fight, And sure of strength I know so well Send you in Janasthán to dwell.” The giants heard with prompt assent The pleasant words he said, And each before his master bent For meet salute, his head. Then as he bade, without delay, From Lanká’s gate they passed, And hurried forward on their way Invisible and fast.

Canto LV. Sítá In Prison.

Thus Rávaṇ his commandment gave To those eight giants strong and brave, So thinking in his foolish pride Against all dangers to provide. Then with his wounded heart aflame With love he thought upon the dame, And took with hasty steps the way To the fair chamber where she lay. He saw the gentle lady there Weighed down by woe too great to bear, Amid the throng of fiends who kept Their watch around her as she wept: A pinnace sinking neath the wave When mighty winds around her rave: A lonely herd-forsaken deer, When hungry dogs are pressing near. Within the bower the giant passed: Her mournful looks were downward cast. As there she lay with streaming eyes The giant bade the lady rise, And to the shrinking captive showed The glories of his rich abode, Where thousand women spent their days In palaces with gold ablaze; Where wandered birds of every sort, And jewels flashed in hall and court. Where noble pillars charmed the sight With diamond and lazulite, And others glorious to behold With ivory, crystal, silver, gold. There swelled on high the tambour’s sound, And burnished ore was bright around He led the mournful lady where Resplendent gold adorned the stair, And showed each lattice fair to see With silver work and ivory: Showed his bright chambers, line on line, Adorned with nets of golden twine. Beyond he showed the Maithil dame His gardens bright as lightning’s flame, And many a pool and lake he showed Where blooms of gayest colour glowed. Through all his home from view to view The lady sunk in grief he drew. Then trusting in her heart to wake Desire of all she saw, he spake: “Three hundred million giants, all Obedient to their master’s call, Not counting young and weak and old, Serve me with spirits fierce and bold. A thousand culled from all of these Wait on the lord they long to please. This glorious power, this pomp and sway, Dear lady, at thy feet I lay: Yea, with my life I give the whole, O dearer than my life and soul. A thousand beauties fill my hall: Be thou my wife and rule them all. O hear my supplication! why This reasonable prayer deny? Some pity to thy suitor show, For love’s hot flames within me glow. This isle a hundred leagues in length, Encompassed by the ocean’s strength, Would all the Gods and fiends defy Though led by Him who rules the sky. No God in heaven, no sage on earth, No minstrel of celestial birth, No spirit in the worlds I see A match in power and might for me. What wilt thou do with Ráma, him Whose days are short, whose light is dim, Expelled from home and royal sway, Who treads on foot his weary way? Leave the poor mortal to his fate, And wed thee with a worthier mate. My timid love, enjoy with me The prime of youth before it flee. Do not one hour the hope retain To look on Ráma’s face again. For whom would wildest thought beguile To seek thee in the giants’ isle? Say who is he has power to bind In toils of net the rushing wind. Whose is the mighty hand will tame And hold the glory of the flame? In all the worlds above, below, Not one, O fair of form, I know Who from this isle in fight could rend The lady whom these arms defend. Fair Queen, o’er Lanká’s island reign, Sole mistress of the wide domain. Gods, rovers of the night like me, And all the world thy slaves will be. O’er thy fair brows and queenly head Let consecrating balm be shed, And sorrow banished from thy breast, Enjoy my love and take thy rest. Here never more thy soul shall know The memory of thy former woe, And here shall thou enjoy the meed Deserved by every virtuous deed. Here garlands glow of flowery twine, With gorgeous hues and scent divine. Take gold and gems and rich attire: Enjoy with me thy heart’s desire. There stand, of chariots far the best, The car my brother once possessed. Which, victor in the stricken field, I forced the Lord of Gold to yield. ’Tis wide and high and nobly wrought, Bright as the sun and swift as thought. Therein O Sítá, shalt thou ride Delighted by thy lover’s side. But sorrow mars with lingering trace The splendour of thy lotus face. A cloud of woe is o’er it spread, And all the light of joy is fled.”

The lady, by her woe distressed, One corner of her raiment pressed To her sad cheek like moonlight clear, And wiped away a falling tear. The rover of the night renewed His eager pleading as he viewed The lady stand like one distraught, Striving to fix her wandering thought:

“Think not, sweet lady, of the shame Of broken vows, nor fear the blame. The saints approve with favouring eyes This union knit with marriage ties. O beauty, at thy radiant feet I lay my heads, and thus entreat. One word of grace, one look I crave: Have pity on thy prostrate slave. These idle words I speak are vain, Wrung forth by love’s consuming pain, And ne’er of Rávaṇ be it said He wooed a dame with prostrate head.” Thus to the Maithil lady sued The monarch of the giant brood, And “She is now mine own,” he thought, In Death’s dire coils already caught.

Canto LVI. Sítá’s Disdain.

His words the Maithil lady heard Oppressed by woe but undeterred. Fear of the fiend she cast aside, And thus in noble scorn replied: “His word of honour never stained King Daśaratha nobly reigned, The bridge of right, the friend of truth. His eldest son, a noble youth, Is Ráma, virtue’s faithful friend, Whose glories through the worlds extend. Long arms and large full eyes has he, My husband, yea a God to me. With shoulders like the forest king’s, From old Ikshváku’s line he springs. He with his brother Lakshmaṇ’s aid Will smite thee with the vengeful blade. Hadst thou but dared before his eyes To lay thine hand upon the prize, Thou stretched before his feet hadst lain In Janasthán like Khara slain. Thy boasted rovers of the night With hideous shapes and giant might,— Like serpents when the feathered king Swoops down with his tremendous wing,— Will find their useless venom fail When Ráma’s mighty arms assail. The rapid arrows bright with gold, Shot from the bow he loves to hold, Will rend thy frame from flank to flank As Gangá’s waves erode the bank. Though neither God nor fiend have power To slay thee in the battle hour, Yet from his hand shall come thy fate, Struck down before his vengeful hate. That mighty lord will strike and end The days of life thou hast to spend. Thy days are doomed, thy life is sped Like victims to the pillar led. Yea, if the glance of Ráma bright With fury on thy form should light, Thou scorched this day wouldst fall and die Like Káma slain by Rudra’s eye.(506) He who from heaven the moon could throw, Or bid its bright rays cease to glow,— He who could drain the mighty sea Will set his darling Sítá free. Fled is thy life, thy glory, fled Thy strength and power: each sense is dead. Soon Lanká widowed by thy guilt Will see the blood of giants spilt. This wicked deed, O cruel King, No triumph, no delight will bring. Thou with outrageous might and scorn A woman from her lord hast torn. My glorious husband far away, Making heroic strength his stay, Dwells with his brother, void of fear, In Daṇḍak forest lone and drear. No more in force of arms confide: That haughty strength, that power and pride My hero with his arrowy rain From all thy bleeding limbs will drain. When urged by fate’s dire mandate, nigh Comes the fixt hour for men to die. Caught in Death’s toils their eyes are blind, And folly takes each wandering mind. So for the outrage thou hast done The fate is near thou canst not shun,— The fate that on thyself and all Thy giants and thy town shall fall. I spurn thee: can the altar dight With vessels for the sacred rite, O’er which the priest his prayer has said, Be sullied by an outcaste’s tread? So me, the consort dear and true Of him who clings to virtue too, Thy hated touch shall ne’er defile, Base tyrant lord of Lanká’s isle. Can the white swan who floats in pride Through lilies by her consort’s side, Look for one moment, as they pass, On the poor diver in the grass? This senseless body waits thy will, To torture, chain, to wound or kill. I will not, King of giants, strive To keep this fleeting soul alive But never shall they join the name Of Sítá with reproach and shame.”

Thus as her breast with fury burned Her bitter speech the dame returned. Such words of rage and scorn, the last She uttered, at the fiend she cast. Her taunting speech the giant heard, And every hair with anger stirred. Then thus with fury in his eye He made in threats his fierce reply: “Hear Maithil lady, hear my speech: List to my words and ponder each. If o’er thy head twelve months shall fly And thou thy love wilt still deny, My cooks shall mince thy flesh with steel And serve it for my morning meal.”

Thus with terrific threats to her Spake Rávaṇ, cruel ravener. Mad with the rage her answer woke He called the fiendish train and spoke: “Take her, ye Rákshas dames, who fright With hideous form and mien the sight, Who make the flesh of men your food,— And let her pride be soon subdued.” He spoke, and at his word the band Of fiendish monsters raised each hand In reverence to the giant king, And pressed round Sítá in a ring. Rávaṇ once more with stern behest To those she-fiends his speech addressed: Shaking the earth beneath his tread, He stamped his furious foot and said: “To the Aśoka garden bear The dame, and guard her safely there Until her stubborn pride be bent By mingled threat and blandishment. See that ye watch her well, and tame, Like some she-elephant, the dame.”

They led her to that garden where The sweetest flowers perfumed the air, Where bright trees bore each rarest fruit, And birds, enamoured, ne’er were mute. Bowed down with terror and distress, Watched by each cruel giantess,— Like a poor solitary deer When ravening tigresses are near,— The hapless lady lay distraught Like some wild thing but newly caught, And found no solace, no relief From agonizing fear and grief; Not for one moment could forget Each terrifying word and threat, Or the fierce eyes upon her set By those who watched around. She thought of Ráma far away, She mourned for Lakshmaṇ as she lay In grief and terror and dismay Half fainting on the ground.

Canto LVII. Sítá Comforted.

Soon as the fiend had set her down Within his home in Lanká’s town Triumph and joy filled Indra’s breast, Whom thus the Eternal Sire addressed:

“This deed will free the worlds from woe And cause the giants’ overthrow. The fiend has borne to Lanká’s isle The lady of the lovely smile, True consort born to happy fate With features fair and delicate. She looks and longs for Ráma’s face, But sees a crowd of demon race, And guarded by the giant’s train Pines for her lord and weeps in vain. But Lanká founded on a steep Is girdled by the mighty deep, And how will Ráma know his fair And blameless wife is prisoned there? She on her woe will sadly brood And pine away in solitude, And heedless of herself, will cease To live, despairing of release. Yes, pondering on her fate, I see Her gentle life in jeopardy. Go, Indra, swiftly seek the place, And look upon her lovely face. Within the city make thy way: Let heavenly food her spirit stay.”

Thus Brahma spake: and He who slew The cruel demon Páka, flew Where Lanká’s royal city lay, And Sleep went with him on his way. “Sleep,” cried the heavenly Monarch, “close Each giant’s eye in deep repose.”

Thus Indra spoke, and Sleep fulfilled With joy his mandate, as he willed, To aid the plan the Gods proposed, The demons’ eyes in sleep she closed. Then Śachí’s lord, the Thousand-eyed, To the Aśoka garden hied. He came and stood where Sítá lay, And gently thus began to say: “Lord of the Gods who hold the sky, Dame of the lovely smile, am I. Weep no more, lady, weep no more; Thy days of woe will soon be o’er. I come, O Janak’s child, to be The helper of thy lord and thee. He through my grace, with hosts to aid, This sea-girt land will soon invade. ’Tis by my art that slumbers close The eyelids of thy giant foes. Now I, with Sleep, this place have sought, Videhan lady, and have brought A gift of heaven’s ambrosial food To stay thee in thy solitude. Receive it from my hand, and taste, O lady of the dainty waist: For countless ages thou shall be From pangs of thirst and hunger free.”

But doubt within her bosom woke As to the Lord of Gods she spoke: “How may I know for truth that thou Whose form I see before me now Art verily the King adored By heavenly Gods, and Śachí’s lord? With Raghu’s sons I learnt to know The certain signs which Godhead show. These marks before mine eyes display If o’er the Gods thou bear the sway.”

The heavenly lord of Śachí heard, And did according to her word. Above the ground his feet were raised; With eyelids motionless he gazed. No dust upon his raiment lay, And his bright wreath was fresh and gay. Nor was the lady’s glad heart slow The Monarch of the Gods to know, And while the tears unceasing ran From her sweet eyes she thus began: “My lord has gained a friend in thee, And I this day thy presence see Shown clearly to mine eyes, as when Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, lords of men, Beheld it, and their sire the king, And Janak too from whom I spring. Now I, O Monarch of the Blest, Will eat this food at thy behest, Which thou hast brought me, of thy grace, To aid and strengthen Raghu’s race.”

She spoke, and by his words relieved, The food from Indra’s hand received, Yet ere she ate the balm he brought, On Lakshmaṇ and her lord she thought. “If my brave lord be still alive, If valiant Lakshmaṇ yet survive, May this my taste of heavenly food Bring health to them and bliss renewed!” She ate, and that celestial food Stayed hunger, thirst, and lassitude, And all her strength restored. Great joy her hopeful spirit stirred At the glad tidings newly heard Of Lakshmaṇ and her lord. And Indra’s heart was joyful too: He bade the Maithil dame adieu, His saving errand done. With Sleep beside him parting thence He sought his heavenly residence To prosper Raghu’s son.

Canto LVIII. The Brothers’ Meeting.

When Ráma’s deadly shaft had struck The giant in the seeming buck, The chieftain turned him from the place His homeward way again to trace. Then as he hastened onward, fain To look upon his spouse again, Behind him from a thicket nigh Rang out a jackal’s piercing cry. Alarmed he heard the startling shriek That raised his hair and dimmed his cheek, And all his heart was filled with doubt As the shrill jackal’s cry rang out: “Alas, some dire disaster seems Portended by the jackal’s screams. O may the Maithil dame be screened From outrage of each hungry fiend! Alas, if Lakshmaṇ chanced to hear That bitter cry of woe and fear What time Márícha, as he died, With voice that mocked my accents cried, Swift to my side the prince would flee And quit the dame to succour me. Too well I see the demon band The slaughter of my love have planned. Me far from home and Sítá’s view The seeming deer Márícha drew. He led me far through brake and dell Till wounded by my shaft he fell, And as he sank rang out his cry, “O save me, Lakshmaṇ, or I die.” May it be well with both who stayed In the great wood with none to aid, For every fiend is now my foe For Janasthán’s great overthrow, And many an omen seen to-day Has filled my heart with sore dismay.”

Such were the thoughts and sad surmise Of Ráma at the jackal’s cries, And all his heart within him burned As to his cot his steps he turned. He pondered on the deer that led His feet to follow where it fled, And sad with many a bitter thought His home in Janasthán he sought. His soul was dark with woe and fear When flocks of birds and troops of deer Move round him from the left, and raised Discordant voices as they gazed. The omens which the chieftain viewed The terror of his soul renewed, When lo, to meet him Lakshmaṇ sped With brows whence all the light had fled. Near and more near the princes came, Each brother’s heart and look the same; Alike on each sad visage lay The signs of misery and dismay, Then Ráma by his terror moved His brother for his fault reproved In leaving Sítá far from aid In the wild wood where giants strayed. Lakshmaṇ’s left hand he took, and then In gentle tones the prince of men, Though sharp and fierce their tenour ran, Thus to his brother chief began:

“O Lakshmaṇ, thou art much to blame Leaving alone the Maithil dame, And flying hither to my side: O, may no ill my spouse betide! But ah, I know my wife is dead, And giants on her limbs have fed, So strange, so terrible are all The omens which my heart appal. O Lakshmaṇ, may we yet return The safety of my love to learn. To find the child of Janak still Alive and free from scathe and ill! Each bird with notes of warning screams, Though the hot sun still darts his beams. The moan of deer, the jackal’s yell Of some o’erwhelming misery tell. O mighty brother, still may she, My princess, live from danger free! That semblance of a golden deer Allured me far away, I followed nearer and more near, And longed to take the prey. I followed where the quarry fled: My deadly arrow flew, And as the dying creature bled, The giant met my view. Great fear and pain oppress my heart That dreads the coming blow, And through my left eye keenly dart The throbs that herald woe. Ah Lakshmaṇ, all these signs dismay, My soul that sinks with dread, I know my love is torn away, Or, haply, she is dead.”

Canto LIX. Ráma’s Return.

When Ráma saw his brother stand With none beside him, all unmanned, Eager he questioned why he came So far without the Maithil dame: “Where is my wife, my darling, she Who to the wild wood followed me? Where hast thou left my lady, where The dame who chose my lot to share? Where is my love who balms my woe As through the forest wilds I go, Unkinged and banished and disgraced,— My darling of the dainty waist? She nerves my spirit for the strife, She, only she gives zest to life, Dear as my breath is she who vies In charms with daughters of the skies. If Janak’s child be mine no more, In splendour fair as virgin ore, The lordship of the skies and earth To me were prize of little worth. Ah, lives she yet, the Maithil dame, Dear as the soul within this frame? O, let not all my toil be vain, The banishment, the woe and pain! O, let not dark Kaikeyí win The guerdon of her treacherous sin, If, Sítá lost, my days I end, And thou without me homeward wend! O, let not good Kauśalyá shed Her bitter tears to mourn me dead, Nor her proud rival’s hest obey, Strong in her son and queenly sway! Back to my cot will I repair If Sítá live to greet me there, But if my wife have perished, I Reft of my love will surely die. O Lakshmaṇ, if I seek my cot, Look for my love and find her not Sweet welcome with her smile to give, I tell thee, I will cease to live. O answer,—let thy words be plain,— Lives Sítá yet, or is she slain? Didst thou thy sacred trust betray Till ravening giants seized the prey? Ah me, so young, so soft and fair, Lapped in all bliss, untried by care, Rent from her own dear husband, how Will she support her misery now? That voice, O Lakshmaṇ smote thine ear, And filled, I ween, thy heart with fear, When on thy name for succour cried The treacherous giant ere he died. That voice too like mine own, I ween, Was heard by the Videhan queen. She bade thee seek my side to aid, And quickly was the hest obeyed, But ah, thy fault I needs must blame, To leave alone the helpless dame, And let the cruel giants sate The fury of their murderous hate. Those blood-devouring demons all Grieve in their souls for Khara’s fall, And Sítá, none to guard her side, Torn by their cruel hands has died. I sink, O tamer of thy foes, Deep in the sea of whelming woes. What can I now? I must endure The mighty grief that mocks at cure.”

Thus, all his thoughts on Sítá bent, To Janasthán the chieftain went, Hastening on with eager stride, And Lakshmaṇ hurried by his side. With toil and thirst and hunger worn, His breast with doubt and anguish torn, He sought the well-known spot. Again, again he turned to chide With quivering lips which terror dried: He looked, and found her not. Within his leafy home he sped, Each pleasant spot he visited Where oft his darling strayed. “’Tis as I feared,” he cried, and there, Yielding to pangs too great to bear, He sank by grief dismayed.

Canto LX. Lakshman Reproved.

But Ráma ceased not to upbraid, His brother for untimely aid, And thus, while anguish wrung his breast, The chief with eager question pressed: “Why, Lakshmaṇ, didst thou hurry hence And leave my wife without defence? I left her in the wood with thee, And deemed her safe from jeopardy. When first thy form appeared in view, I marked that Sítá came not too. With woe my troubled soul was rent, Prophetic of the dire event. Thy coming steps afar I spied, I saw no Sítá by thy side, And felt a sudden throbbing dart Through my left eye, and arm, and heart.”

Lakshmaṇ, with Fortune’s marks impressed, His brother mournfully addressed: “Not by my heart’s free impulse led, Leaving thy wife to thee I sped; But by her keen reproaches sent, O Ráma, to thine aid I went. She heard afar a mournful cry, “O save me, Lakshmaṇ, or I die.” The voice that spoke in moving tone Smote on her ear and seemed thine own. Soon as those accents reached her ear She yielded to her woe and fear, She wept o’ercome by grief, and cried, “Fly, Lakshmaṇ, fly to Ráma’s side.” Though many a time she bade me speed, Her urgent prayer I would not heed. I bade her in thy strength confide, And thus with tender words replied: “No giant roams the forest shade From whom thy lord need shrink dismayed. No human voice, believe me, spoke Those words thy causeless fear that woke. Can he whose might can save in woe The heavenly Gods e’er stoop so low, And with those piteous accents call For succour like a caitiff thrall? And why should wandering giants choose The accents of thy lord to use, In alien tones my help to crave, And cry aloud, O Lakshmaṇ, save? Now let my words thy spirit cheer, Compose thy thoughts and banish fear. In hell, in earth, or in the skies There is not, and there cannot rise A champion whose strong arm can slay Thy Ráma in the battle fray. To heavenly hosts he ne’er would yield Though Indra led them to the field.” To soothe her thus I vainly sought: Her heart with woe was still distraught. While from her eyes the waters ran Her bitter speech she thus began: “Too well I see thy dark intent: Thy lawless thoughts on me are bent. Thou hopest, but thy hope is vain, To win my love, thy brother slain. Not love, but Bharat’s dark decree To share his exile counselled thee, Or hearing now his bitter cry Thou surely to his aid wouldst fly. For love of me, a stealthy foe Thou choosest by his side to go, And now thou longest that my lord Should die, and wilt no help afford.”

Such were the words the lady said: With angry fire my eyes were red. With pale lips quivering in my rage I hastened from the hermitage.” He ceased; and frenzied by his pain The son of Raghu spoke again: “O brother, for thy fault I grieve, The Maithil dame alone to leave. Thou knowest that my arm is strong To save me from the giant throng, And yet couldst leave the cottage, spurred To folly by her angry word. For this thy deed I praise thee not,— To leave her helpless in the cot, And thus thy sacred charge forsake For the wild words a woman spake. Yea thou art all to blame herein, And very grievous is thy sin. That anger swayed thy faithless breast And made thee false to my behest. An arrow speeding from my bow Has laid the treacherous giant low, Who lured me eager for the chase Far from my hermit dwelling-place. The string with easy hand I drew, The arrow as in pastime flew, The wounded quarry bled. The borrowed form was cast away, Before mine eye a giant lay With bright gold braceleted. My arrow smote him in the chest: The giant by the pain distressed Raised his loud voice on high. Far rang the mournful sound: mine own, It seemed, were accent, voice, and tone, They made thee leave my spouse alone And to my rescue fly.”

Canto LXI. Ráma’s Lament.

As Ráma sought his leafy cot Through his left eye keen throbbings shot, His wonted strength his frame forsook, And all his body reeled and shook. Still on those dreadful signs he thought,— Sad omens with disaster fraught, And from his troubled heart he cried, “O, may no ill my spouse betide!” Longing to gaze on Sítá’s face He hastened to his dwelling-place, Then sinking neath his misery’s weight, He looked and found it desolate. Tossing his mighty arms on high He sought her with an eager cry, From spot to spot he wildly ran Each corner of his home to scan. He looked, but Sítá was not there; His cot was disolate and bare, Like streamlet in the winter frost, The glory of her lilies lost. With leafy tears the sad trees wept As a wild wind their branches swept. Mourned bird and deer, and every flower Drooped fainting round the lonely bower. The silvan deities had fled The spot where all the light was dead, Where hermit coats of skin displayed, And piles of sacred grass were laid. He saw, and maddened by his pain Cried in lament again, again: “Where is she, dead or torn away, Lost, or some hungry giant’s prey? Or did my darling chance to rove For fruit and blossoms though the grove? Or has she sought the pool or rill, Her pitcher from the wave to fill?” His eager eyes on fire with pain He roamed about with maddened brain. Each grove and glade he searched with care, He sought, but found no Sítá there. He wildly rushed from hill to hill; From tree to tree, from rill to rill, As bitter woe his bosom rent Still Ráma roamed with fond lament: “O sweet Kadamba say has she Who loved thy bloom been seen by thee? If thou have seen her face most fair, Say, gentle tree, I pray thee, where. O Bel tree with thy golden fruit Round as her breast, no more be mute, Where is my radiant darling, gay In silk that mocks thy glossy spray? O Arjun, say, where is she now Who loved to touch thy scented bough? Do not thy graceful friend forget, But tell me, is she living yet? Speak, Basil, thou must surely know, For like her limbs thy branches show,— Most lovely in thy fair array Of twining plant and tender spray. Sweet Tila, fairest of the trees, Melodious with the hum of bees, Where is my darling Sítá, tell,— The dame who loved thy flowers so well? Aśoka, act thy gentle part,— Named Heartsease,(507) give me what thou art, To these sad eyes my darling show And free me from this load of woe. O Palm, in rich ripe fruitage dressed Round as the beauties of her breast, If thou have heart to know and feel, My peerless consort’s fate reveal. Hast thou, Rose-apple, chanced to view My darling bright with golden hue? If thou have seen her quickly speak, Where is the dame I wildly seek? O glorious Cassia, thou art gay With all thy loveliest bloom to-day, Where is my dear who loved to hold In her full lap thy flowery gold?” To many a tree and plant beside, To Jasmin, Mango, Sál, he cried. “Say, hast thou seen, O gentle deer, The fawn-eyed Sítá wandering here? It may be that my love has strayed To sport with fawns beneath the shade, If thou, great elephant, have seen My darling of the lovely mien, Whose rounded limbs are soft and fine As is that lissome trunk of thine, O noblest of wild creatures, show Where is the dame thou needs must know. O tiger, hast thou chanced to see My darling? very fair is she, Cast all thy fear away, declare, Where is my moon-faced darling, where? There, darling of the lotus eye, I see thee, and ’tis vain to fly, Wilt thou not speak, dear love? I see Thy form half hidden by the tree. Stay if thou love me, Sítá, stay In pity cease thy heartless play. Why mock me now? thy gentle breast Was never prone to cruel jest. ’Tis vain behind yon bush to steal: Thy shimmering silks thy path reveal. Fly not, mine eyes pursue thy way; For pity’s sake, dear Sítá, stay. Ah me, ah me, my words are vain; My gentle love is lost or slain. How could her tender bosom spurn Her husband on his home-return? Ah no, my love is surely dead, Fierce giants on her flesh have fed, Rending the soft limbs of their prey When I her lord was far away. That moon-bright face, that polished brow, Red lips, bright teeth—what are they now? Alas, my darling’s shapely neck She loved with chains of gold to deck,— That neck that mocked the sandal scent, The ruthless fiends have grasped and rent. Alas, ’twas vain those arms to raise Soft as the young tree’s tender sprays. Ah, dainty meal for giants’ lips Were arms and quivering finger tips. Ah, she who counted many a friend Was left for fiends to seize and rend, Was left by me without defence From ravening giants’ violence. O Lakshmaṇ of the arm of might, Say, is my darling love in sight? O dearest Sítá. where art thou? Where is my darling consort now?”

Thus as he cried in wild lament From grove to grove the mourner went, Here for a moment sank to rest, Then started up and onward pressed. Thus roaming on like one distraught Still for his vanished love he sought, He searched in wood and hill and glade, By rock and brook and wild cascade. Through groves with restless step he sped And left no spot unvisited. Through lawns and woods of vast extent Still searching for his love he went With eager steps and fast. For many a weary hour he toiled, Still in his fond endeavour foiled, Yet hoping to the last.

Canto LXII. Ráma’s Lament.

When all the toil and search was vain He sought his leafy home again. ’Twas empty still: all scattered lay The seats of grass in disarray. He raised his shapely arms on high And spoke aloud with bitter cry: “Where is the Maithil dame?” he said, “O, whither has my darling fled? Who can have borne away my dame, Or feasted on her tender frame? If, Sítá hidden by some tree, Thou joyest still to mock at me, Cease, cease thy cruel sport, and take Compassion, or my heart will break. Bethink thee, love, the gentle fawns With whom thou playest on the lawns, Impatient for thy coming wait With streaming eyes disconsolate. Reft of my love, I needs must go Hence to the shades weighed down by woe. The king our sire will see me there, And cry, “O perjured Ráma, where, Where is thy faith, that thou canst speed From exile ere the time decreed?”

Ah Sítá, whither hast thou fled And left me here disquieted, A hapless mourner, reft of hope, Too feeble with my woe to cope? E’en thus indignant Glory flies The wretch who stains his soul with lies. If thou, my love, art lost to view, I in my woe must perish too.”

Thus Ráma by his grief distraught Wept for the wife he vainly sought, And Lakshmaṇ whose fraternal breast Longed for his weal, the chief addressed Whose soul gave way beneath the pain When all his eager search was vain, Like some great elephant who stands Sinking upon the treacherous sands: “Not yet, O wisest chief, despair; Renew thy toil with utmost care. This noble hill where trees are green Has many a cave and dark ravine. The Maithil lady day by day Delighted in the woods to stray, Deep in the grove she wanders still, Or walks by blossom-covered rill, Or fish-loved river stealing through Tall clusters of the dark bamboo. Or else the dame with arch design To prove thy mood, O Prince, and mine, Far in some sheltering thicket lies To frighten ere she meet our eyes. Then come, renew thy labour, trace The lady to her lurking-place, And search the wood from side to side To know where Sítá loves to bide. Collect thy thoughts, O royal chief, Nor yield to unavailing grief.”

Thus Lakshmaṇ, by attention stirred, To fresh attempts his brother spurred, And Ráma, as he ceased, began With Lakshmaṇ’s aid each spot to scan. In eager search their way they took Through wood, o’er hill, by pool and brook, They roamed each mount, nor spared to seek On ridge and crag and towering peak. They sought the dame in every spot; But all in vain; they found her not. Above, below, on every side They ranged the hill, and Ráma cried, “O Lakshmaṇ, O my brother still No trace of Sítá on the hill!” Then Lakshmaṇ as he roamed the wood Beside his glorious brother stood, And while fierce grief his bosom burned This answer to the chief returned: “Thou, Ráma, after toil and pain Wilt meet the Maithil dame again, As Vishṇu, Bali’s might subdued, His empire of the earth renewed.”(508)

Then Ráma cried in mournful tone, His spirit by his woe o’erthrown; “The wood is searched from side to side, No distant spot remains untried, No lilied pool, no streamlet where The lotus buds are fresh and fair. Our eyes have searched the hill with all His caves and every waterfall,— But ah, not yet I find my wife, More precious than the breath of life.”

As thus he mourned his vanished dame A mighty trembling seized his frame, And by o’erpowering grief assailed, His troubled senses reeled and failed. Too great to bear his misery grew, And many a long hot sigh he drew, Then as he wept and sobbed and sighed, “O Sítá, O my love!” he cried. Then Lakshmaṇ, joining palm to palm, Tried every art his woe to calm. But Ráma in his anguish heard Or heeded not one soothing word, Still for his spouse he mourned, and shrill Rang out his lamentation still.

Canto LXIII. Ráma’s Lament.

Thus for his wife in vain he sought: Then, his sad soul with pain distraught, The hero of the lotus eyes Filled all the air with frantic cries. O’erpowered by love’s strong influence, he His absent wife still seemed to see, And thus with accents weak and faint Renewed with tears his wild complaint:

“Thou, fairer than their bloom, my spouse, Art hidden by Aśoka boughs. Those blooms have power to banish care, But now they drive me to despair. Thine arms are like the plantain’s stem: Why let the plantain cover them? Thou art not hidden, love; thy feet Betray thee in thy dark retreat. Thou runnest in thy girlish sport To flowery trees, thy dear resort. But cease, O cease, my love, I pray, To vex me with thy cruel play. Such mockery in a holy spot Where hermits dwell beseems thee not. Ah, now I see thy fickle mind To scornful mood too much inclined, Come, large-eyed beauty, I implore; Lone is the cot so dear before.

No, she is slain by giants; they Have stolen or devoured their prey, Or surely at my mournful cry My darling to her lord would fly. O Lakshmaṇ, see those troops of deer: In each sad eye there gleams a tear. Those looks of woe too clearly say My consort is the giants’ prey. O noblest, fairest of the fair, Where art thou, best of women, where? This day will dark Kaikeyí find Fresh triumph for her evil mind, When I, who with my Sítá came Return alone, without my dame. But ne’er can I return to see Those chambers where my queen should be And hear the scornful people speak Of Ráma as a coward weak. For mine will be the coward’s shame Who let the foeman steal his dame. How can I seek my home, or brook Upon Videha’s king to look? How listen, when he bids me tell, My wanderings o’er, that all is well? He, when I meet his eager view, Will mark that Sítá comes not too, And when he hears the mournful tale His wildered sense will reel and fail. “O Daśaratha” will he cry, “Blest in thy mansion in the sky!” Ne’er to that town my steps shall bend, That town which Bharat’s arms defend, For e’en the blessed homes above Would seem a waste without my love. Leave me, my brother, here, I pray; To fair Ayodhyá bend thy way. Without my love I cannot bear To live one hour in blank despair. Round Bharat’s neck thy fond arms twine, And greet him with these words of mine: “Dear brother, still the power retain, And o’er the land as monarch reign.” With salutation next incline Before thy mother, his, and mine. Still, brother, to my words attend, And with all care each dame befriend. To my dear mother’s ear relate My mournful tale and Sítá’s fate.”

Thus Ráma gave his sorrow vent, And from a heart which anguish rent, Mourned for his wife in loud lament,— Her of the glorious hair, From Lakshmaṇ’s cheek the colour fled, And o’er his heart came sudden dread, Sick, faint, and sore disquieted By woe too great to bear.

Canto LXIV. Ráma’s Lament.

Reft of his love, the royal chief, Weighed down beneath his whelming grief, Desponding made his brother share His grievous burden of despair. Over his sinking bosom rolled The flood of sorrow uncontrolled.

And as he wept and sighed, In mournful accents faint and slow With words congenial to his woe,

To Lakshmaṇ thus he cried: “Brother, I ween, beneath the sun, Of all mankind there lives not one So full of sin, whose hand has done Such cursed deeds as mine. For my sad heart with misery bleeds, As, guerdon of those evil deeds, Still greater woe to woe succeeds In never-ending line. A life of sin I freely chose, And from my past transgression flows A ceaseless flood of bitter woes My folly to repay. The fruit of sin has ripened fast, Through many a sorrow have I passed, And now the crowning grief at last Falls on my head to-day. From all my faithful friends I fled, My sire is numbered with the dead, My royal rank is forfeited, My mother far away. These woes on which I sadly think Fill, till it raves above the brink, The stream of grief in which I sink,— The flood which naught can stay. Ne’er, brother, ne’er have I complained; Though long by toil and trouble pained, Without a murmur I sustained The woes of woodland life. But fiercer than the flames that rise When crackling wood the food supplies,— Flashing a glow through evening skies,— This sorrow for my wife. Some cruel fiend has seized the prey And torn my trembling love away, While, as he bore her through the skies, She shrieked aloud with frantic cries, In tones of fear which, wild and shrill, Retained their native sweetness still. Ah me, that breast so soft and sweet, For sandal’s precious perfume meet, Now all detained with dust and gore, Shall meet my fond caress no more. That face, whose lips with tones so clear Made pleasant music, sweet to hear,— With soft locks plaited o’er the brow,— Some giant’s hand is on it now. It smiles not, as the dear light fails When Ráhu’s jaw the moon assails. Ah, my true love! that shapely neck She loved with fairest chains to deck, The cruel demons rend, and drain The lifeblood from each mangled vein. Ah, when the savage monsters came And dragged away the helpless dame, The lady of the long soft eye Called like a lamb with piteous cry. Beneath this rock, O Lakshmaṇ, see, My peerless consort sat with me, And gently talked to thee the while, Her sweet lips opening with a smile. Here is that fairest stream which she Loved ever, bright Godávarí. Ne’er can the dame have passed this way: So far alone she would not stray, Nor has my darling, lotus-eyed, Sought lilies by the river’s side, For without me she ne’er would go To streamlets where the wild flowers grow, Tell me not, brother, she has strayed To the dark forest’s distant shade Where blooming boughs are gay and sweet, And bright birds love the cool retreat. Alone my love would never dare,— My timid love,—to wander there.

O Lord of Day whose eye sees all We act and plan, on thee I call: For naught is hidden from thy sight,— Great witness thou of wrong and right. Where is she, lost or torn away? Dispel my torturing doubt and say. And O thou Wind who blowest free, The worlds have naught concealed from thee. List to my prayer, reveal one trace Of her, the glory of her race. Say, is she stolen hence, or dead, Or do her feet the forest tread?”

Thus with disordered senses, faint With woe he poured his sad complaint, And then, a better way to teach, Wise Lakshmaṇ spoke in seemly speech: “Up, brother dear, thy grief subdue, With heart and soul thy search renew. When woes oppress and dangers threat Brave effort ne’er was fruitless yet.”

He spoke, but Ráma gave no heed To valiant Lakshmaṇ’s prudent rede. With double force the flood of pain Rushed o’er his yielding soul again.

Canto LXV. Ráma’s Wrath.

With piteous voice, by woe subdued, Thus Raghu’s son his speech renewed:

“Thy steps, my brother, quickly turn To bright Godávarí and learn If Sítá to the stream have hied To cull the lilies on its side.”

Obedient to the words he said, His brother to the river sped. The shelving banks he searched in vain, And then to Ráma turned again.

“I searched, but found her not,” he cried; “I called aloud, but none replied. Where can the Maithil lady stray, Whose sight would chase our cares away? I know not where, her steps untraced, Roams Sítá of the dainty waist.”

When Ráma heard the words he spoke Again he sank beneath the stroke, And with a bosom anguish-fraught Himself the lovely river sought. There standing on the shelving side, “O Sítá, where art thou?” he cried. No spirit voice an answer gave, No murmur from the trembling wave Of sweet Godávarí declared The outrage which the fiend had dared. “O speak!” the pitying spirits cried, But yet the stream their prayer denied, Nor dared she, coldly mute, relate To the sad chief his darling’s fate Of Rávaṇ’s awful form she thought, And the dire deed his arm had wrought, And still withheld by fear dismayed, The tale for which the mourner prayed. When hope was none, his heart to cheer, That the bright stream his cry would hear While sorrow for his darling tore His longing soul he spake once more: “Though I have sought with tears and sighs Godárvarí no word replies, O say, what answer can I frame To Janak, father of my dame? Or how before her mother stand Leading no Sítá by the hand? Where is my loyal love who went Forth with her lord to banishment? Her faith to me she nobly held Though from my realm and home expelled,— A hermit, nursed on woodland fare,— She followed still and soothed my care. Of all my friends am I bereft, Nor is my faithful consort left. How slowly will the long nights creep While comfortless I wake and weep! O, if my wife may yet be found, With humble love I’ll wander round This Janasthán, Praśravaṇ’s hill, Mandákiní’s delightful rill. See how the deer with gentle eyes Look on my face and sympathize. I mark their soft expression: each Would soothe me, if it could, with speech.”

A while the anxious throng he eyed. And “Where is Sítá, where?” he cried. Thus while hot tears his utterance broke The mourning son of Raghu spoke. The deer in pity for his woes Obeyed the summons and arose. Upon his right thy stood, and raised Their sad eyes up to heaven and gazed Each to that quarter bent her look Which Rávaṇ with his captive took. Then Raghu’s son again they viewed, And toward that point their way pursued. Then Lakshmaṇ watched their looks intent As moaning on their way they went, And marked each sign which struck his sense With mute expressive influence, Then as again his sorrow woke Thus to his brother chief he spoke: “Those deer thy eager question heard And rose at once by pity stirred: See, in thy search their aid they lend, See, to the south their looks they bend. Arise, dear brother, let us go The way their eager glances show, If haply sign or trace descried Our footsteps in the search may guide.”

The son of Raghu gave assent, And quickly to the south they went; With eager eyes the earth he scanned, And Lakshmaṇ followed close at hand. As each to other spake his thought, And round with anxious glances sought, Scattered before them in the way, Blooms of a fallen garland lay. When Ráma saw that flowery rain He spoke once more with bitterest pain: “O Lakshmaṇ every flower that lies Here on the ground I recognize. I culled them in the grove, and there My darling twined them in her hair. The sun, the earth, the genial breeze Have spared these flowers my soul to please.”

Then to that woody hill he prayed, Whence flashed afar each wild cascade: “O best of mountains, hast thou seen A dame of perfect form and mien In some sweet spot with trees o’ergrown,— My darling whom I left alone?” Then as a lion threats a deer He thundered with a voice of fear: “Reveal her, mountain, to my view With golden limbs and golden hue. Where is my darling Sítá? speak Before I rend thee peak from peak.”

The mountain seemed her track to show, But told not all he sought to know. Then Daśaratha’s son renewed His summons as the mount he viewed: “Soon as my flaming arrows fly, Consumed to ashes shall thou lie Without a herb or bud or tree, And birds no more shall dwell in thee. And if this stream my prayer deny, My wrath this day her flood shall dry, Because she lends no aid to trace My darling of the lotus face.”

Thus Ráma spake as though his ire Would scorch them with his glance of fire; Then searching farther on the ground The footprint of a fiend he found, And small light traces here and there, Where Sítá in her great despair, Shrieking for Ráma’s help, had fled Before the giant’s mighty tread. His careful eye each trace surveyed Which Sítá and the fiend had made,— The quivers and the broken bow And ruined chariot of the foe,— And told, distraught by fear and grief, His tidings to his brother chief: “O Lakshmaṇ, here,” he cried “behold My Sítá’s earrings dropped with gold. Here lie her garlands torn and rent, Here lies each glittering ornament. O look, the ground on every side With blood-like drops of gold is dyed. The fiends who wear each strange disguise Have seized, I ween, the helpless prize. My lady, by their hands o’erpowered, Is slaughtered, mangled, and devoured. Methinks two fearful giants came And waged fierce battle for the dame. Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this mighty bow With pearls and gems in glittering row? Cast to the ground the fragments lie, And still their glory charms the eye. A bow so mighty sure was planned For heavenly God or giant’s hand. Whose was this coat of golden mail Which, though its lustre now is pale, Shone like the sun of morning, bright With studs of glittering lazulite? Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this bloom-wreathed shade With all its hundred ribs displayed? This screen, most meet for royal brow, With broken staff lies useless now. And these tall asses, goblin-faced, With plates of golden harness graced, Whose hideous forms are stained with gore Who is the lord whose yoke they bore? Whose was this pierced and broken car That shoots a flame-like blaze afar? Whose these spent shafts at random spread, Each fearful with its iron head,— With golden mountings fair to see, Long as a chariot’s axle-tree? These quivers see, which, rent in twain, Their sheaves of arrows still contain. Whose was this driver? Dead and cold, His hands the whip and reins still hold. See, Lakshmaṇ, here the foot I trace Of man, nay, one of giant race. The hatred that I nursed of old Grows mightier now a hundred fold Against these giants, fierce of heart, Who change their forms by magic art. Slain, eaten by the giant press, Or stolen is the votaress, Nor could her virtue bring defence To Sítá seized and hurried hence. O, if my love be slain or lost All hope of bliss for me is crossed. The power of all the worlds were vain To bring one joy to soothe my pain. The spirits with their blinded eyes Would look in wonder, and despise The Lord who made the worlds, the great Creator when compassionate. And so, I ween, the Immortals turn Cold eyes upon me now, and spurn The weakling prompt at pity’s call, Devoted to the good of all. But from this day behold me changed, From every gentle grace estranged. Now be it mine all life to slay, And sweep these cursed fiends away. As the great sun leaps up the sky, And the cold moonbeams fade and die, So vengeance rises in my breast, One passion conquering all the rest. Gandharvas in their radiant place, The Yakshas, and the giant race, Kinnars and men shall look in vain For joy they ne’er shall see again. The anguish of my great despair, O Lakshmaṇ, fills the heaven and air; And I in wrath all life will slay Within the triple world to-day. Unless the Gods in heaven who dwell Restore my Sítá safe and well, I armed with all the fires of Fate, The triple world will devastate. The troubled stars from heaven shall fall, The moon be wrapped in gloomy pall, The fire be quenched, the wind be stilled, The radiant sun grow dark and chilled; Crushed every mountain’s towering pride, And every lake and river dried, Dead every creeper, plant, and tree, And lost for aye the mighty sea. Thou shalt the world this day behold In wild disorder uncontrolled, With dying life which naught defends From the fierce storm my bowstring sends. My shafts this day, for Sítá’s sake, The life of every fiend shall take. The Gods this day shall see the force That wings my arrows on their course, And mark how far that course is held, By my unsparing wrath impelled. No God, not one of Daitya strain, Goblin or Rákshas shall remain. My wrath shall end the worlds, and all Demons and Gods therewith shall fall. Each world which Gods, the Dánav race, And giants make their dwelling place, Shall fall beneath my arrows sent In fury when my bow is bent. The arrows loosened from my string Confusion on the worlds shall bring. For she is lost or breathes no more, Nor will the Gods my love restore. Hence all on earth with life and breath This day I dedicate to death. All, till my darling they reveal, The fury of my shafts shall feel.”

Thus as he spake by rage impelled, Red grew his eyes, his fierce lips swelled. His bark coat round his form he drew And coiled his hermit braids anew, Like Rudra when he yearned to slay The demon Tripur(509) in the fray. So looked the hero brave and wise, The fury flashing from his eyes. Then Ráma, conqueror of the foe, From Lakshmaṇ’s hand received his bow, Strained the great string, and laid thereon A deadly dart that flashed and shone, And spake these words as fierce in ire As He who ends the worlds with fire:

“As age and time and death and fate All life with checkless power await, So Lakshmaṇ in my wrath to-day My vengeful might shall brook no stay, Unless this day I see my dame In whose sweet form is naught to blame,— Yea, as before, my love behold Fair with bright teeth and perfect mould, This world shall feel a deadly blow Destroyed with ruthless overthrow, And serpent lords and Gods of air, Gandharvas, men, the doom shall share.”

Canto LXVI. Lakshman’s Speech.

He stood incensed with eyes of flame, Still mourning for his ravished dame, Determined, like the fire of Fate, To leave the wide world desolate. His ready bow the hero eyed, And as again, again he sighed, The triple world would fain consume Like Hara(510) in the day of doom. Then Lakshmaṇ moved with sorrow viewed His brother in unwonted mood, And reverent palm to palm applied, Thus spoke with lips which terror dried “Thy heart was ever soft and kind, To every creature’s good inclined. Cast not thy tender mood away, Nor yield to anger’s mastering sway. The moon for gentle grace is known, The sun has splendour all his own, The restless wind is free and fast, And earth in patience unsurpassed. So glory with her noble fruit Is thine eternal attribute. O, let not, for the sin of one, The triple world be all undone. I know not whose this car that lies In fragments here before our eyes, Nor who the chiefs who met and fought, Nor what the prize the foemen sought; Who marked the ground with hoof and wheel, Or whose the hand that plied the steel Which left this spot, the battle o’er, Thus sadly dyed with drops of gore. Searching with utmost care I view The signs of one and not of two. Where’er I turn mine eyes I trace No mighty host about the place. Then mete not out for one offence This all-involving recompense. For kings should use the sword they bear, But mild in time should learn to spare, Thou, ever moved by misery’s call, Wast the great hope and stay of all. Throughout this world who would not blame This outrage on thy ravished dame? Gandharvas, Dánavs, Gods, the trees, The rocks, the rivers, and the seas, Can ne’er in aught thy soul offend, As one whom holiest rites befriend. But him who dared to steal the dame Pursue, O King, with ceaseless aim, With me, the hermits’ holy band, And thy great bow to arm thy hand By every mighty flood we’ll seek, Each wood, each hill from base to peak. To the fair homes of Gods we’ll fly, And bright Gandharvas in the sky, Until we reach, where’er he be, The wretch who stole thy spouse from thee. Then if the Gods will not restore Thy Sítá when the search is o’er, Then, royal lord of Kośal’s land, No longer hold thy vengeful hand. If meekness, prayer, and right be weak To bring thee back the dame we seek, Up, brother, with a deadly shower Of gold-bright shafts thy foes o’erpower, Fierce as the flashing levin sent From King Mahendra’s firmament.

Canto LXVII. Ráma Appeased.

As Ráma, pierced by sorrow’s sting, Lamented like a helpless thing, And by his mighty woe distraught Was lost in maze of troubled thought, Sumitrá’s son with loving care Consoled him in his wild despair, And while his feet he gently pressed With words like these the chief addressed: “For sternest vow and noblest deed Was Daśaratha blessed with seed. Thee for his son the king obtained, Like Amrit by the Gods regained. Thy gentle graces won his heart, And all too weak to live apart The monarch died, as Bharat told, And lives on high mid Gods enrolled. If thou, O Ráma, wilt not bear This grief which fills thee with despair, How shall a weaker man e’er hope, Infirm and mean, with woe to cope? Take heart, I pray thee, noblest chief: What man who breathes is free from grief? Misfortunes come and burn like flame, Then fly as quickly as they came. Yayáti son of Nahush reigned With Indra on the throne he gained. But falling for a light offence He mourned a while the consequence. Vaśishṭha, reverend saint and sage, Priest of our sire from youth to age, Begot a hundred sons, but they Were smitten in a single day.(511) And she, the queen whom all revere, The mother whom we hold so dear, The earth herself not seldom feels Fierce fever when she shakes and reels. And those twin lights, the world’s great eyes, On which the universe relies,— Does not eclipse at times assail Their brilliance till their fires grow pale? The mighty Powers, the Immortal Blest Bend to a law which none contest. No God, no bodied life is free From conquering Fate’s supreme decree. E’en Śakra’s self must reap the meed Of virtue and of sinful deed. And O great lord of men, wilt thou Helpless beneath thy misery bow? No, if thy dame be lost or dead, O hero, still be comforted, Nor yield for ever to thy woe O’ermastered like the mean and low. Thy peers, with keen far-reaching eyes, Spend not their hours in ceaseless sighs; In dire distress, in whelming ill Their manly looks are hopeful still. To this, great chief, thy reason bend, And earnestly the truth perpend. By reason’s aid the wisest learn The good and evil to discern. With sin and goodness scarcely known Faint light by chequered lives is shown; Without some clear undoubted deed We mark not how the fruits succeed. In time of old, O thou most brave, To me thy lips such counsel gave. Vṛihaspati(512) can scarcely find New wisdom to instruct thy mind. For thine is wit and genius high Meet for the children of the sky. I rouse that heart benumbed by pain And call to vigorous life again. Be manly godlike vigour shown; Put forth that noblest strength, thine own. Strive, best of old Ikshváku’s strain, Strive till the conquered foe be slain. Where is the profit or the joy If thy fierce rage the worlds destroy? Search till thou find the guilty foe, Then let thy hand no mercy show.”

Canto LXVIII. Jatáyus.

Thus faithful Lakshmaṇ strove to cheer The prince with counsel wise and clear. Who, prompt to seize the pith of all, Let not that wisdom idly fall. With vigorous effort he restrained The passion in his breast that reigned, And leaning on his bow for rest His brother Lakshmaṇ thus addressed: “How shall we labour now, reflect; Whither again our search direct? Brother, what plan canst thou devise To bring her to these longing eyes?”

To him by toil and sorrow tried The prudent Lakshmaṇ thus replied: “Come, though our labour yet be vain, And search through Janasthán again,— A realm where giant foes abound, And trees and creepers hide the ground. For there are caverns deep and dread, By deer and wild birds tenanted, And hills with many a dark abyss, Grotto and rock and precipice. There bright Gandharvas love to dwell, And Kinnars in each bosky dell. With me thy eager search to aid Be every hill and cave surveyed. Great chiefs like thee, the best of men, Endowed with sense and piercing ken, Though tried by trouble never fail, Like rooted hills that mock the gale.”

Then Ráma, pierced by anger’s sting, Laid a keen arrow on his string, And by the faithful Lakshmaṇ’s side Roamed through the forest far and wide. Jaṭáyus there with blood-drops dyed, Lying upon the ground he spied, Huge as a mountain’s shattered crest, Mid all the birds of air the best. In wrath the mighty bird he eyed, And thus the chief to Lakshmaṇ cried:

“Ah me, these signs the truth betray; My darling was the vulture’s prey. Some demon in the bird’s disguise Roams through the wood that round us lies. On large-eyed Sítá he has fed, And rests him now with wings outspread. But my keen shafts whose flight is true, Shall pierce the ravenous monster through.”

An arrow on the string he laid, And rushing near the bird surveyed, While earth to ocean’s distant side Trembled beneath his furious stride. With blood and froth on neck and beak The dying bird essayed to speak, And with a piteous voice, distressed, Thus Daśaratha’s son addressed:

“She whom like some sweet herb of grace Thou seekest in this lonely place, Fair lady, is fierce Rávaṇ’s prey, Who took, beside, my life away. Lakshmaṇ and thou had parted hence And left the dame without defence. I saw her swiftly borne away By Rávaṇ’s might which none could stay. I hurried to the lady’s aid, I crushed his car and royal shade, And putting forth my warlike might Hurled Rávaṇ to the earth in fight. Here, Ráma, lies his broken bow, Here lie the arrows of the foe. There on the ground before thee are The fragments of his battle car. There bleeds the driver whom my wings Beat down with ceaseless buffetings. When toil my aged strength subdued, His sword my weary pinions hewed. Then lifting up the dame he bare His captive through the fields of air. Thy vengeful blows from me restrain, Already by the giant slain.”

When Ráma heard the vulture tell The tale that proved his love so well, His bow upon the ground he placed, And tenderly the bird embraced: Then to the earth he fell o’erpowered, And burning tears both brothers showered, For double pain and anguish pressed Upon the patient hero’s breast. The solitary bird he eyed Who in the lone wood gasped and sighed, And as again his anguish woke Thus Ráma to his brother spoke:

“Expelled from power the woods I tread, My spouse is lost, the bird is dead. A fate so sad, I ween, would tame The vigour of the glorious flame. If I to cool my fever tried To cross the deep from side to side, The sea,—so hard my fate,—would dry His waters as my feet came nigh. In all this world there lives not one So cursed as I beneath the sun; So strong a net of misery cast Around me holds the captive fast, Best of all birds that play the wing, Loved, honoured by our sire the king, The vulture, in my fate enwound, Lies bleeding, dying on the ground.”

Then Ráma and his brother stirred By pity mourned the royal bird, And, as their hands his limbs caressed, Affection for a sire expressed. And Ráma to his bosom strained The bird with mangled wings distained, With crimson blood-drops dyed. He fell, and shedding many a tear, “Where is my spouse than life more dear? Where is my love?” he cried.

Canto LXIX. The Death Of Jatáyus.

As Ráma viewed with heart-felt pain The vulture whom the fiend had slain, In words with tender love impressed His brother chief he thus addressed:

“This royal bird with faithful thought For my advantage strove and fought. Slain by the fiend in mortal strife For me he yields his noble life. See, Lakshmaṇ, how his wounds have bled; His struggling breath will soon have fled. Faint is his voice, and near to die, He scarce can lift his trembling eye. Jaṭáyus, if thou still can speak, Give, give the answer that I seek. The fate of ravished Sítá tell, And how thy mournful chance befell. Say why the giant stole my dame: What have I done that he could blame? What fault in me has Rávaṇ seen That he should rob me of my queen? How looked the lady’s moon-bright cheek? What were the words she found to speak? His strength, his might, his deeds declare: And tell the form he loves to wear. To all my questions make reply: Where does the giant’s dwelling lie?”

The noble bird his glances bent On Ráma as he made lament, And in low accents faint and weak With anguish thus began to speak: “Fierce Rávaṇ, king of giant race, Stole Sítá from thy dwelling-place. He calls his magic art to aid With wind and cloud and gloomy shade. When in the fight my power was spent My wearied wings he cleft and rent. Then round the dame his arms he threw, And to the southern region flew. O Raghu’s son, I gasp for breath, My swimming sight is dim in death. E’en now before my vision pass Bright trees of gold with hair of grass, The hour the impious robber chose Brings on the thief a flood of woes. The giant in his haste forgot ’Twas Vinda’s hour,(513) or heeded not. Those robbed at such a time obtain Their plundered store and wealth again. He, like a fish that takes the bait, In briefest time shall meet his fate. Now be thy troubled heart controlled And for thy lady’s loss consoled, For thou wilt slay the fiend in fight And with thy dame have new delight.”

With senses clear, though sorely tried, The royal vulture thus replied, While as he sank beneath his pain Forth rushed the tide of blood again. “Him,(514) brother of the Lord of Gold, Viśravas’ self begot of old.” Thus spoke the bird, and stained with gore Resigned the breath that came no more.

“Speak, speak again!” thus Ráma cried, With reverent palm to palm applied, But from the frame the spirit fled And to the skiey regions sped. The breath of life had passed away. Stretched on the ground the body lay.

When Ráma saw the vulture lie, Huge as a hill, with darksome eye, With many a poignant woe distressed His brother chief he thus addressed: “Amid these haunted shades content Full many a year this bird has spent. His life in home of giants passed, In Daṇḍak wood he dies at last. The years in lengthened course have fled Untroubled o’er the vulture’s head, And now he lies in death, for none The stern decrees of Fate may shun. See, Lakshmaṇ, how the vulture fell While for my sake he battled well. And strove to free with onset bold My Sítá from the giant’s hold. Supreme amid the vulture kind His ancient rule the bird resigned, And conquered in the fruitless strife Gave for my sake his noble life. O Lakshmaṇ, many a time we see Great souls who keep the law’s decree, With whom the weak sure refuge find, In creatures of inferior kind. The loss of her, my darling queen, Strikes with a pang less fiercely keen Than now this slaughtered bird to see Who nobly fought and died for me. As Daśaratha, good and great, Was glorious in his high estate, Honoured by all, to all endeared, So was this royal bird revered. Bring fuel for the funeral rite: These hands the solemn fire shall light And on the burning pyre shall lay The bird who died for me to-day. Now on the gathered wood shall lie The lord of all the birds that fly, And I will burn with honours due My champion whom the giant slew. O royal bird of noblest heart, Graced with all funeral rites depart To bright celestial seats above, Rewarded for thy faithful love. Dwell in thy happy home with those Whose constant fires of worship rose. Live blest amid the unyielding brave, And those who land in largess gave.”

Sore grief upon his bosom weighed As on the pyre the bird he laid, And bade the kindled flame ascend To burn the body of his friend. Then with his brother by his side The hero to the forest hied. There many a stately deer he slew, The flesh around the bird to strew. The venison into balls he made, And on fair grass before him laid. Then that the parted soul might rise And find free passage to the skies, Each solemn word and text he said Which Bráhmans utter o’er the dead. Then hastening went the princely pair To bright Godávarí, and there Libations of the stream they poured In honour of the vulture lord, With solemn ritual to the slain, As scripture’s holy texts ordain. Thus offerings to the bird they gave And bathed their bodies in the wave.

The vulture monarch having wrought A hard and glorious feat, Honoured by Ráma sage in thought, Soared to his blissful seat. The brothers, when each rite was paid To him of birds supreme, Their hearts with new-found comfort stayed, And turned them from the stream. Like sovereigns of celestial race Within the wood they came, Each pondering the means to trace, The captor of the dame.

Canto LXX. Kabandha.

When every rite was duly paid The princely brothers onward strayed, And eager in the lady’s quest They turned their footsteps to the west. Through lonely woods that round them lay Ikshváku’s children made their way, And armed with bow and shaft and brand Pressed onward to the southern land. Thick trees and shrubs and creepers grew In the wild grove they hurried through. ’Twas dark and drear and hard to pass For tangled thorns and matted grass. Still onward with a southern course They made their way with vigorous force, And passing through the mazes stood Beyond that vast and fearful wood. With toil and hardship yet unspent Three leagues from Janasthán they went, And speeding on their way at last Within the wood of Krauncha(515) passed: A fearful forest wild and black As some huge pile of cloudy rack, Filled with all birds and beasts, where grew Bright blooms of every varied hue. On Sítá bending every thought Through all the mighty wood they sought, And at the lady’s loss dismayed Here for a while and there they stayed. Then turning farther eastward they Pursued three leagues their weary way, Passed Krauncha’s wood and reached the grove Where elephants rejoiced to rove. The chiefs that awful wood surveyed Where deer and wild birds filled each glade, Where scarce a step the foot could take For tangled shrub and tree and brake. There in a mountain’s woody side A cave the royal brothers spied, With dread abysses deep as hell, Where darkness never ceased to dwell. When, pressing on, the lords of men Stood near the entrance of the den, They saw within the dark recess A huge misshapen giantess; A thing the timid heart that shook With fearful shape and savage look. Terrific fiend, her voice was fierce, Long were her teeth to rend and pierce. The monster gorged her horrid feast Of flesh of many a savage beast, While her long locks, at random flung, Dishevelled o’er her shoulders hung. Their eyes the royal brothers raised, And on the fearful monster gazed. Forth from her den she came and glanced At Lakshmaṇ as he first advanced, Her eager arms to hold him spread, And “Come and be my love” she said, Then as she held him to her breast, The prince in words like these addressed: “Behold thy treasure fond and fair: Ayomukhi(516) the name I bear. In thickets of each lofty hill, On islets of each brook and rill, With me delighted shalt thou play, And live for many a lengthened day.”

Enraged he heard the monster woo; His ready sword he swiftly drew, And the sharp steel that quelled his foes Cut through her breast and ear and nose. Thus mangled by his vengeful sword In rage and pain the demon roared, And hideous with her awful face Sped to her secret dwelling place. Soon as the fiend had fled from sight, The brothers, dauntless in their might, Reached a wild forest dark and dread Whose tangled ways were hard to tread. Then bravest Lakshmaṇ, virtuous youth, The friend of purity and truth, With reverent palm to palm applied Thus to his glorious brother cried:

“My arm presaging throbs amain, My troubled heart is sick with pain, And cheerless omens ill portend Where’er my anxious eyes I bend. Dear brother, hear my words: advance Resolved and armed for every chance, For every sign I mark to-day Foretells a peril in the way. This bird of most ill-omened note, Loud screaming with discordant throat, Announces with a warning cry That strife and victory are nigh.”

Then as the chiefs their search pursued Throughout the dreary solitude, They heard amazed a mighty sound That broke the very trees around, As though a furious tempest passed Crushing the wood beneath its blast. Then Ráma raised his trusty sword, And both the hidden cause explored. There stood before their wondering eyes A fiend broad-chested, huge of size. A vast misshapen trunk they saw In height surpassing nature’s law. It stood before them dire and dread Without a neck, without a head. Tall as some hill aloft in air, Its limbs were clothed with bristling hair, And deep below the monster’s waist His vast misshapen mouth was placed. His form was huge, his voice was loud As some dark-tinted thunder cloud. Forth from his ample chest there came A brilliance as of gushing flame. Beneath long lashes, dark and keen The monster’s single eye was seen. Deep in his chest, long, fiercely bright, It glittered with terrific light. He swallowed down his savage fare Of lion, bird, and slaughtered bear, And with huge teeth exposed to view O’er his great lips his tongue he drew. His arms unshapely, vast and dread, A league in length, he raised and spread. He seized with monstrous hands a herd Of deer and many a bear and bird. Among them all he picked and chose, Drew forward these, rejected those. Before the princely pair he stood Barring their passage through the wood. A league of shade the chiefs had passed When on the fiend their eyes they cast. A monstrous shape without a head With mighty arms before him spread, They saw that hideous trunk appear That struck the trembling eye with fear. Then, stretching to their full extent His awful arms with fingers bent, Round Raghu’s princely sons he cast Each grasping limb and held them fast. Though strong of arm and fierce in fight, Each armed with bow and sword to smite, The royal brothers, brave and bold, Were helpless in the giant’s hold. Then Raghu’s son, heroic still, Felt not a pang his bosom thrill; But young, with no protection near, His brother’s heart was sad with fear, And thus with trembling tongue he said To Ráma, sore disquieted:

“Ah me, ah me, my days are told: O see me in the giant’s hold. Fly, son of Raghu, swiftly flee, And thy dear self from danger free. Me to the fiend an offering give; Fly at thine ease thyself and live. Thou, great Kakutstha’s son, I ween, Wilt find ere long thy Maithil queen, And when thou holdest, throned again, Thine old hereditary reign, With servants prompt to do thy will, O think upon thy brother still.” As thus the trembling Lakshmaṇ cried, The dauntless Ráma thus replied: “Brother, from causeless dread forbear. A chief like thee should scorn despair.” He spoke to soothe his wild alarm: Then fierce Kabandha(517) long of arm, Among the Dánavs(518) first and best, The sons of Raghu thus addressed: “What men are you, whose shoulders show Broad as a bull’s, with sword and bow, Who roam this dark and horrid place, Brought by your fate before my face? Declare by what occasion led These solitary wilds you tread, With swords and bows and shafts to pierce, Like bulls whose horns are strong and fierce. Why have you sought this forest land Where wild with hunger’s pangs I stand? Now as your steps my path have crossed Esteem your lives already lost.”

The royal brothers heard with dread The words which fierce Kabandha said. And Ráma to his brother cried, Whose cheek by blanching fear was dried:

“Alas, we fall, O valiant chief, From sorrow into direr grief, Still mourning her I hold so dear We see our own destruction near. Mark, brother, mark what power has time O’er all that live, in every clime. Now, lord of men, thyself and me Involved in fatal danger see. ’Tis not, be sure, the might of Fate That crushes all with deadly weight. Ne’er can the brave and strong, who know The use of spear and sword and bow, The force of conquering time withstand, But fall like barriers built of sand.”

Thus in calm strength which naught could shake The son of Daśaratha spake, With glory yet unstained Upon Sumitrá’s son he bent His eyes, and firm in his intent His dauntless heart maintained.

Canto LXXI. Kabandha’s Speech.

Kabandha saw each chieftain stand Imprisoned by his mighty hand, Which like a snare around him pressed And thus the royal pair addressed: “Why, warriors, are your glances bent On me whom hungry pangs torment? Why stand with wildered senses? Fate Has brought you now my maw to sate.”

When Lakshmaṇ heard, a while appalled, His ancient courage he recalled, And to his brother by his side With seasonable counsel cried:

“This vilest of the giant race Will draw us to his side apace. Come, rouse thee; let the vengeful sword Smite off his arms, my honoured lord. This awful giant, vast of size, On his huge strength of arm relies, And o’er the world victorious, thus With mighty force would slaughter us. But in cold blood to slay, O King, Discredit on the brave would bring, As when some victim in the rite Shuns not the hand upraised to smite.”

The monstrous fiend, to anger stirred, The converse of the brothers heard. His horrid mouth he opened wide And drew the princes to his side. They, skilled due time and place to note Unsheathed their glittering swords and smote, Till from the giant’s shoulders they Had hewn the mighty arms away. His trenchant falchion Ráma plied And smote him on the better side, While valiant Lakshmaṇ on the left The arm that held him prisoned cleft. Then to the earth dismembered fell The monster with a hideous yell, And like a cloud’s his deep roar went Through earth and air and firmament. Then as the giant’s blood flowed fast, On his cleft limbs his eye he cast, And called upon the princely pair Their names and lineage to declare. Him then the noble Lakshmaṇ, blest With fortune’s favouring marks, addressed, And told the fiend his brother’s name And the high blood of which he came: “Ikshváku’s heir here Ráma stands, Illustrious through a hundred lands. I, younger brother of the heir, O fiend, the name of Lakshmaṇ bear. His mother stole his realm away And drove him forth in woods to stray. Thus through the mighty forest he Roamed with his royal wife and me. While glorious as a God he made His dwelling in the greenwood shade, Some giant stole away his dame, And seeking her we hither came. But tell me who thou art, and why With headless trunk that towered so high, With flaming face beneath thy chest, Thou liest crushed in wild unrest.”

He heard the words that Lakshmaṇ spoke, And memory in his breast awoke, Recalling Indra’s words to mind He spoke in gentle tones and kind: “O welcome best of men, are ye Whom, blest by fate, this day I see. A blessing on each trenchant blade That low on earth these arms has laid! Thou, lord of men, incline thine ear The story of my woe to hear, While I the rebel pride declare Which doomed me to the form I wear.”

Canto LXXII. Kabandha’s Tale.

“Lord of the mighty arm, of yore A shape transcending thought I wore, And through the triple world’s extent My fame for might and valour went. Scarce might the sun and moon on high, Scarce Śakra, with my beauty vie. Then for a time this form I took, And the great world with trembling shook. The saints in forest shades who dwelt The terror of my presence felt. But once I stirred to furious rage Great Sthúlaśiras, glorious sage. Culling in woods his hermit food My hideous shape with fear he viewed. Then forth his words of anger burst That bade me live a thing accursed: “Thou, whose delight is others’ pain, This grisly form shalt still retain.”

Then when I prayed him to relent And fix some term of punishment,— Prayed that the curse at length might cease, He bade me thus expect release: “Let Ráma cleave thine arms away And on the pyre thy body lay, And then shalt thou, set free from doom, Thine own fair shape once more assume.” O Lakshmaṇ, hear my words: in me The world-illustrious Danu see. By Indra’s curse, subdued in fight, I wear this form which scares the sight. By sternest penance long maintained The mighty Father’s grace I gained. When length of days the God bestowed, With foolish pride my bosom glowed. My life, of lengthened years assured, I deemed from Śakra’s might secured. Let by my senseless pride astray I challenged Indra to the fray. A flaming bolt with many a knot With his terrific arm he shot, And straight my head and thighs compressed Were buried in my bulky chest. Deaf to each prayer and piteous call He sent me not to Yáma’s hall. “Thy prayers and cries,” he said “are vain: The Father’s word must true remain.” “But how may lengthened life be spent By one the bolt has torn and rent? How can I live,” I cried, “unfed, With shattered face and thighs and head?” As thus I spoke his grace to crave, Arms each a league in length he gave, And opened in my chest beneath This mouth supplied with fearful teeth. So my huge arms I used to cast Round woodland creatures as they passed, And fed within the forest here On lion, tiger, pard, and deer. Then Indra spake to soothe my grief: “When Ráma and his brother chief From thy huge bulk those arms shall cleave, Then shall the skies thy soul receive.” Disguised in this terrific shape I let no woodland thing escape, And still my longing soul was pleased Whene’er my arms a victim seized, For in these arms I fondly thought Would Ráma’s self at last be caught. Thus hoping, toiling many a day I yearned to cast my life away, And here, my lord, thou standest now: Blessings be thine! for none but thou Could cleave my arms with trenchant stroke: True are the words the hermit spoke. Now let me, best of warriors, lend My counsel, and thy plans befriend, And aid thee with advice in turn If thou with fire my corse wilt burn.”

As thus the mighty Danu prayed With offer of his friendly aid, While Lakshmaṇ gazed with anxious eye, The virtuous Ráma made reply: “Lakshmaṇ and I through forest shade From Janasthán a while had strayed. When none was near her, Rávaṇ came And bore away my glorious dame, The giant’s form and size unknown, I learn as yet his name alone. Not yet the power and might we know Or dwelling of the monstrous foe. With none our helpless feet to guide We wander here by sorrow tried. Let pity move thee to requite Our service in the funeral rite. Our hands shall bring the boughs that, dry Where elephants have rent them, lie, Then dig a pit, and light the fire To burn thee as the laws require. Do thou as meed of this declare Who stole my spouse, his dwelling where. O, if thou can, I pray thee say, And let this grace our deeds repay.”

Danu had lent attentive ear The words which Ráma spoke to hear, And thus, a speaker skilled and tried, To that great orator replied: “No heavenly lore my soul endows, Naught know I of thy Maithil spouse. Yet will I, when my shape I wear, Him who will tell thee all declare. Then, Ráma, will my lips disclose His name who well that giant knows. But till the flames my corse devour This hidden knowledge mocks my power. For through that curse’s withering taint My knowledge now is small and faint. Unknown the giant’s very name Who bore away the Maithil dame. Cursed for my evil deeds I wore A shape which all the worlds abhor. Now ere with wearied steeds the sun Through western skies his course have run, Deep in a pit my body lay And burn it in the wonted way. When in the grave my corse is placed, With fire and funeral honours graced, Then I, great chief, his name will tell Who knows the giant robber well. With him, who guides his life aright, In league of trusting love unite, And he, O valiant prince, will be A faithful friend and aid to thee. For, Ráma, to his searching eyes The triple world uncovered lies. For some dark cause of old, I ween, Through all the spheres his ways have been.”

Canto LXXIII. Kabandha’s Counsel.

The monster ceased: the princely pair Heard great Kabandha’s eager prayer. Within a mountain cave they sped, Where kindled fire with care they fed. Then Lakshmaṇ in his mighty hands Brought ample store of lighted brands, And to a pile of logs applied The flame that ran from side to side. The spreading glow with gentle force Consumed Kabandha’s mighty corse, Till the unresting flames had drunk The marrow of the monstrous trunk, As balls of butter melt away Amid the fires that o’er them play. Then from the pyre, like flame that glows Undimmed by cloudy smoke, he rose, In garments pure of spot or speck, A heavenly wreath about his neck. Resplendent in his bright attire He sprang exultant from the pyre. While from neck, arm, and foot was sent The flash of gold and ornament. High on a chariot, bright of hue, Which swans of fairest pinion drew, He filled each region of the air With splendid glow reflected there. Then in the sky he stayed his car And called to Ráma from afar: “Hear, chieftain, while my lips explain The means to win thy spouse again. Six plans, O prince, the wise pursue To reach the aims we hold in view.(519) When evils ripening sorely press They load the wretch with new distress, So thou and Lakshmaṇ, tried by woe, Have felt at last a fiercer blow, And plunged in bitterest grief to-day Lament thy consort torn away. There is no course but this: attend; Make, best of friends, that chief thy friend. Unless his prospering help thou gain Thy plans and hopes must all be vain. O Ráma, hear my words, and seek, Sugríva, for of him I speak. His brother Báli, Indra’s son, Expelled him when the fight was won. With four great chieftains, faithful still, He dwells on Rishyamúka’s hill.— Fair mountain, lovely with the flow Of Pampá’s waves that glide below,— Lord of the Vánars(520) just and true, Strong, very glorious, bright to view, Unmatched in counsel, firm and meek, Bound by each word his lips may speak, Good, splendid, mighty, bold and brave, Wise in each plan to guide and save. His brother, fired by lust of sway, Drove forth the prince in woods to stray. In all thy search for Sítá he Thy ready friend and help will be. With him to aid thee in thy quest Dismiss all sorrow from thy breast. Time is a mighty power, and none His fixed decree can change or shun. So rich reward thy toil shall bless, And naught can stay thy sure success. Speed hence, O chief, without delay, To strong Sugríva take thy way. This hour thy footsteps onward bend, And make that mighty prince thy friend. With him before the attesting flame In solemn truth alliance frame. Nor wilt thou, if thy heart be wise, Sugríva, Vánar king, despise. Of boundless strength, all shapes he wears, He hearkens to a suppliant’s prayers, And, grateful for each kindly deed, Will help and save in hour of need. And you, I ween, the power possess To aid his hopes and give redress. He, let his cause succeed or fail, Will help you, and you must prevail. A banished prince, in fear and woe He roams where Pampá’s waters flow, True offspring of the Lord of Light Expelled by Báli’s conquering might. Go, Raghu’s son, that chieftain seek Who dwells on Rishyamúka’s peak. Before the flame thy weapons cast And bind the bonds of friendship fast. For, prince of all the Vánar race, He in his wisdom knows each place Where dwell the fierce gigantic brood Who make the flesh of man their food. To him, O Raghu’s son, to him Naught in the world is dark or dim, Where’er the mighty Day-God gleams Resplendent with a thousand beams. He over rocky height and hill, Through gloomy cave, by lake and rill, Will with his Vánars seek the prize, And tell thee where thy lady lies. And he will send great chieftains forth To east and west and south and north, To seek the distant spot where she All desolate laments for thee. He even in Rávaṇ’s halls would find Thy Sítá, gem of womankind. Yea, if the blameless lady lay On Meru’s loftiest steep, Or, far removed from light of day, Where hell is dark and deep, That chief of all the Vánar race His way would still explore, Meet the cowed giants face to face And thy dear spouse restore.”

Canto LXXIV. Kabandha’s Death.

When wise Kabandha thus had taught The means to find the dame they sought, And urged them onward in the quest, He thus again the prince addressed:

“This path, O Raghu’s son, pursue Where those fair trees which charm the view, Extending westward far away, The glory of their bloom display, Where their bright leaves Rose-apples show, And the tall Jak and Mango grow. Whene’er you will, those trees ascend, Or the long branches shake and bend, Their savoury fruit like Amrit eat, Then onward speed with willing feet. Beyond this shady forest, decked With flowering trees, your course direct. Another grove you then will find With every joy to take the mind, Like Nandan with its charms displayed, Or Northern Kuru’s blissful shade; Where trees distil their balmy juice, And fruit through all the year produce; Where shades with seasons ever fair With Chaitraratha may compare: Where trees whose sprays with fruit are bowed Rise like a mountain or a cloud. There, when you list, from time to time, The loaded trees may Lakshmaṇ climb, Or from the shaken boughs supply Sweet fruit that may with Amrit vie. The onward path pursuing still From wood to wood, from hill to hill, Your happy eyes at length will rest On Pampá’s lotus-covered breast. Her banks with gentle slope descend, Nor stones nor weed the eyes offend, And o’er smooth beds of silver sand Lotus and lily blooms expand. There swans and ducks and curlews play, And keen-eyed ospreys watch their prey, And from the limpid waves are heard Glad notes of many a water-bird. Untaught a deadly foe to fear They fly not when a man is near, And fat as balls of butter they Will, when you list, your hunger stay. Then Lakshmaṇ with his shafts will take The fish that swim the brook and lake, Remove each bone and scale and fin, Or strip away the speckled skin, And then on iron skewers broil For thy repast the savoury spoil. Thou on a heap of flowers shalt rest And eat the meal his hands have dressed, There shalt thou lie on Pampá’s brink, And Lakshmaṇ’s hand shall give thee drink, Filling a lotus leaf with cool Pure water from the crystal pool, To which the opening blooms have lent The riches of divinest scent. Beside thee at the close of day Will Lakshmaṇ through the woodland stray, And show thee where the monkeys sleep In caves beneath the mountain steep. Loud-voiced as bulls they forth will burst And seek the flood, oppressed by thirst; Then rest a while, their wants supplied, Their well-fed bands on Pampá’s side. Thou roving there at eve shalt see Rich clusters hang on shrub and tree, And Pampá flushed with roseate glow, And at the view forget thy woe. There shalt thou mark with strange delight Each loveliest flower that blooms by night, While lily buds that shrink from day Their tender loveliness display. In that far wild no hand but thine Those peerless flowers in wreaths shall twine: Immortal in their changeless pride, Ne’er fade those blooms and ne’er are dried. There erst on holy thoughts intent Their days Matanga’s pupils spent. Once for their master food they sought, And store of fruit and berries brought. Then as they laboured through the dell From limb and brow the heat-drops fell: Thence sprang and bloomed those wondrous trees: Such holy power have devotees. Thus, from the hermits’ heat-drops sprung, Their growth is ever fresh and young. There Śavarí is dwelling yet, Who served each vanished anchoret. Beneath the shade of holy boughs That ancient votaress keeps her vows. Her happy eyes on thee will fall, O godlike prince, adored by all, And she, whose life is pure from sin, A blissful seat in heaven will win. But cross, O son of Raghu, o’er, And stand on Pampá’s western shore. A tranquil hermitage that lies Deep in the woods will meet thine eyes. No wandering elephants invade The stillness of that holy shade, But checked by saint Matanga’s power They spare each consecrated bower. Through many an age those trees have stood World-famous as Matanga’s wood Still, Raghu’s son, pursue thy way: Through shades where birds are vocal stray, Fair as the blessed wood where rove Immortal Gods, or Nandan’s grove. Near Pampá eastward, full in sight, Stands Rishyamúka’s wood-crowned height. ’Tis hard to climb that towering steep Where serpents unmolested sleep. The free and bounteous, formed of old By Brahmá of superior mould, Who sink when day is done to rest Reclining on that mountain crest,— What wealth or joy in dreams they view, Awaking find the vision true. But if a villain stained with crime That holy hill presume to climb, The giants in their fury sweep From the hill top the wretch asleep. There loud and long is heard the roar Of elephants on Pampá’s shore, Who near Matanga’s dwelling stray And in those waters bathe and play. A while they revel by the flood, Their temples stained with streams like blood, Then wander far away dispersed, Dark as huge clouds before they burst. But ere they part they drink their fill Of bright pure water from the rill, Delightful to the touch, where meet Scents of all flowers divinely sweet, Then speeding from the river side Deep in the sheltering thicket hide. Then bears and tigers shalt thou view Whose soft skins show the sapphire’s hue, And silvan deer that wander nigh Shall harmless from thy presence fly. High in that mountain’s wooded side Is a fair cavern deep and wide, Yet hard to enter: piles of rock The portals of the cavern block.(521) Fast by the eastern door a pool Gleams with broad waters fresh and cool, Where stores of roots and fruit abound, And thick trees shade the grassy ground. This mountain cave the virtuous-souled Sugríva, and his Vánars hold, And oft the mighty chieftain seeks The summits of those towering peaks.”

Thus spake Kabandha high in air His counsel to the royal pair. Still on his neck that wreath he bore, And radiance like the sun’s he wore. Their eyes the princely brothers raised And on that blissful being gazed: “Behold, we go: no more delay; Begin,” they cried, “thy heavenward way.” “Depart,” Kabandha’s voice replied, “Pursue your search, and bliss betide.”

Thus to the happy chiefs he said, Then on his heavenward journey sped. Thus once again Kabandha won A shape that glittered like the sun Without a spot or stain. Thus bade he Ráma from the air To great Sugríva’s side repair His friendly love to gain.

Canto LXXV. Savarí.

Thus counselled by their friendly guide On through the wood the princes hied, Pursuing still the eastern road To Pampá which Kabandha showed, Where trees that on the mountains grew With fruit like honey charmed the view. They rested weary for the night Upon a mountain’s wooded height, Then onward with the dawn they hied And stood on Pampá’s western side, Where Śavarí’s fair home they viewed Deep in that shady solitude. The princes reached the holy ground Where noble trees stood thick around, And joying in the lovely view Near to the aged votaress drew. To meet the sons of Raghu came, With hands upraised, the pious dame, And bending low with reverence meet Welcomed them both and pressed their feet. Then water, as beseems, she gave, Their lips to cool, their feet to lave. To that pure saint who never broke One law of duty Ráma spoke:

“I trust no cares invade thy peace, While holy works and zeal increase; That thou content with scanty food All touch of ire hast long subdued; That all thy vows are well maintained While peace of mind is surely gained, That reverence of the saints who taught Thy faithful heart due fruit has brought.”

The aged votaress pure of taint, Revered by every perfect saint, Rose to her feet by Ráma’s side And thus in gentle tones replied: “My penance meed this day I see Complete, my lord, in meeting thee. This day the fruit of birth I gain, Nor have I served the saints in vain. I reap rich fruits of toil and vow, And heaven itself awaits me now, When I, O chief of men, have done Honour to thee the godlike one. I feel, great lord, thy gentle eye My earthly spirit purify, And I, brave tamer of thy foes, Shall through thy grace in bliss repose. Thy feet by Chitrakúṭa strayed When those great saints whom I obeyed, In dazzling chariots bright of hue, Hence to their heavenly mansions flew. As the high saints were borne away I heard their holy voices say: “In this pure grove, O devotee, Prince Ráma soon will visit thee. When he and Lakshmaṇ seek this shade, Be to thy guests all honour paid. Him shalt thou see, and pass away To those blest worlds which ne’er decay.” To me, O mighty chief, the best Of lofty saints these words addressed. Laid up within my dwelling lie Fruits of each sort which woods supply,— Food culled for thee in endless store From every tree on Pampá’s shore.”

Thus to her virtuous guest she sued And he, with heavenly lore endued, Words such as these in turn addressed To her with equal knowledge blest: “Danu himself the power has told Of thy great masters lofty-souled. Now if thou will, mine eyes would fain Assurance of their glories gain.”

She heard the prince his wish declare: Then rose she, and the royal pair Of brothers through the wood she led That round her holy dwelling spread. “Behold Matanga’s wood” she cried, “A grove made famous far and wide. Dark as thick clouds and filled with herds Of wandering deer, and joyous birds. In this pure spot each reverend sire With offerings fed the holy fire. See here the western altar stands Where daily with their trembling hands The aged saints, so long obeyed By me, their gifts of blossoms laid. The holy power, O Raghu’s son, By their ascetic virtue won, Still keeps their well-loved altar bright, Filling the air with beams of light. And those seven neighbouring lakes behold Which, when the saints infirm and old, Worn out by fasts, no longer sought, Moved hither drawn by power of thought. Look, Ráma, where the devotees Hung their bark mantles on the trees, Fresh from the bath: those garments wet Through many a day are dripping yet. See, through those aged hermits’ power The tender spray, this bright-hued flower With which the saints their worship paid, Fresh to this hour nor change nor fade. Here thou hast seen each lawn and dell, And heard the tale I had to tell: Permit thy servant, lord, I pray, To cast this mortal shell away, For I would dwell, this life resigned, With those great saints of lofty mind, Whom I within this holy shade With reverential care obeyed.”

When Ráma and his brother heard The pious prayer the dame preferred, Filled full of transport and amazed They marvelled as her words they praised. Then Ráma to the votaress said Whose holy vows were perfected: “Go, lady, where thou fain wouldst be, O thou who well hast honoured me.”

Her locks in hermit fashion tied, Clad in bark coat and black deer-hide, When Ráma gave consent, the dame Resigned her body to the flame. Then like the fire that burns and glows, To heaven the sainted lady rose, In all her heavenly garments dressed, Immortal wreaths on neck and breast, Bright with celestial gems she shone Most beautiful to look upon, And like the flame of lightning sent A glory through the firmament. That holy sphere the dame attained, By depth of contemplation gained, Where roam high saints with spirits pure In bliss that shall for aye endure.

Canto LXXVI. Pampá.

When Śavarí had sought the skies And gained her splendid virtue’s prize, Ráma with Lakshmaṇ stayed to brood O’er the strange scenes their eyes had viewed. His mind upon those saints was bent, For power and might preëminent And he to musing Lakshmaṇ spoke The thoughts that in his bosom woke: “Mine eyes this wondrous home have viewed Of those great saints with souls subdued, Where peaceful tigers dwell and birds, And deer abound in heedless herds. Our feet upon the banks have stood Of those seven lakes within the wood, Where we have duly dipped, and paid Libations to each royal shade. Forgotten now are thoughts of ill And joyful hopes my bosom fill. Again my heart is light and gay And grief and care have passed away. Come, brother, let us hasten where Bright Pampá’s flood is fresh and fair, And towering in their beauty near Mount Rishyamúka’s heights appear, Which, offspring of the Lord of Light, Still fearing Báli’s conquering might, With four brave chiefs of Vánar race Sugríva makes his dwelling-place. I long with eager heart to find That leader of the Vánar kind, For on that chief my hopes depend That this our quest have prosperous end.”

Thus Ráma spoke, in battle tried, And thus Sumitrá’s son replied: “Come, brother, come, and speed away: My spirit brooks no more delay.” Thus spake Sumitrá’s son, and then Forth from the grove the king of men With his dear brother by his side To Pampá’s lucid waters hied. He gazed upon the woods where grew Trees rich in flowers of every hue. From brake and dell on every side The curlew and the peacock cried, And flocks of screaming parrots made Shrill music in the bloomy shade. His eager eyes, as on he went, On many a pool and tree were bent. Inflamed with love he journeyed on Till a fair flood before him shone. He stood upon the water’s side Which streams from distant hills supplied: Matanga’s name that water bore: There bathed he from the shelving shore. Then, each on earnest thoughts intent, Still farther on their way they went. But Ráma’s heart once more gave way Beneath his grief and wild dismay. Before him lay the noble flood Adorned with many a lotus bud. On its fair banks Aśoka glowed, And all bright trees their blossoms showed. Green banks that silver waves confined With lovely groves were fringed and lined. The crystal waters in their flow Showed level sands that gleamed below. There glittering fish and tortoise played, And bending trees gave pleasant shade. There creepers on the branches hung With lover-like embraces clung. There gay Gandharvas loved to meet, And Kinnars sought the calm retreat. There wandering Yakshas found delight, Snake-gods and rovers of the night. Cool were the pleasant waters, gay Each tree with creeper, flower, and spray. There flushed the lotus darkly red, Here their white glory lilies spread, Here sweet buds showed their tints of blue: So carpets gleam with many a hue. A grove of Mangoes blossomed nigh, Echoing with the peacock’s cry. When Ráma by his brother’s side The lovely flood of Pampá eyed, Decked like a beauty, fair to see With every charm of flower and tree, His mighty heart with woe was rent And thus he spoke in wild lament

“Here, Lakshmaṇ, on this beauteous shore, Stands, dyed with tints of many an ore, The mountain Rishyamúka bright With flowery trees that crown each height. Sprung from the chief who, famed of yore, The name of Riksharajas bore, Sugríva, chieftain strong and dread, Dwells on that mountain’s towering head. Go to him, best of men, and seek That prince of Vánars on the peak, I cannot longer brook my pain, Or, Sítá lost, my life retain.” Thus by the pangs of love distressed, His thoughts on Sítá bent, His faithful brother he addressed, And cried in wild lament. He reached the lovely ground that lay On Pampá’s wooded side, And told in anguish and dismay, The grief he could not hide. With listless footsteps faint and slow His way the chief pursued, Till Pampá with her glorious show Of flowering woods he viewed. Through shades where every bird was found The prince with Lakshmaṇ passed, And Pampá with her groves around Burst on his eyes at last.

BOOK IV.

Canto I. Ráma’s Lament.

The princes stood by Pampá’s side(522) Which blooming lilies glorified. With troubled heart and sense o’erthrown There Ráma made his piteous moan. As the fair flood before him lay The reason of the chief gave way; And tender thoughts within him woke, As to Sumitrá’s son he spoke:

“How lovely Pampá’s waters show, Where streams of lucid crystal flow! What glorious trees o’erhang the flood Which blooms of opening lotus stud! Look on the banks of Pampá where Thick groves extend divinely fair; And piles of trees, like hills in size, Lift their proud summits to the skies. But thought of Bharat’s(523) pain and toil, And my dear spouse the giant’s spoil, Afflict my tortured heart and press My spirit down with heaviness. Still fair to me though sunk in woe Bright Pampá and her forest show. Where cool fresh waters charm the sight, And flowers of every hue are bright. The lotuses in close array Their passing loveliness display, And pard and tiger, deer and snake Haunt every glade and dell and brake. Those grassy spots display the hue Of topazes and sapphires’ blue, And, gay with flowers of every dye, With richly broidered housings vie. What loads of bloom the high trees crown, Or weigh the bending branches down! And creepers tipped with bud and flower Each spray and loaded limb o’erpower. Now cool delicious breezes blow, And kindle love’s voluptuous glow, When balmy sweetness fills the air, And fruit and flowers and trees are fair. Those waving woods, that shine with bloom, Each varied tint in turn assume. Like labouring clouds they pour their showers In rain or ever-changing flowers. Behold, those forest trees, that stand High upon rock and table-land, As the cool gales their branches bend, Their floating blossoms downward send. See, Lakshmaṇ, how the breezes play With every floweret on the spray. And sport in merry guise with all The fallen blooms and those that fall. See, brother, where the merry breeze Shakes the gay boughs of flowery trees, Disturbed amid their toil a throng Of bees pursue him, loud in song. The Koïls,(524) mad with sweet delight, The bending trees to dance invite; And in its joy the wild wind sings As from the mountain cave he springs. On speed the gales in rapid course, And bend the woods beneath their force, Till every branch and spray they bind In many a tangled knot entwined. What balmy sweets those gales dispense With cool and sacred influence! Fatigue and trouble vanish: such The magic of their gentle touch. Hark, when the gale the boughs has bent In woods of honey redolent, Through all their quivering sprays the trees Are vocal with the murmuring bees. The hills with towering summits rise, And with their beauty charm the eyes, Gay with the giant trees which bright With blossom spring from every height: And as the soft wind gently sways The clustering blooms that load the sprays, The very trees break forth and sing With startled wild bees’ murmuring. Thine eyes to yonder Cassias(525) turn Whose glorious clusters glow and burn. Those trees in yellow robes behold, Like giants decked with burnished gold. Ah me, Sumitrá’s son, the spring Dear to sweet birds who love and sing, Wakes in my lonely breast the flame Of sorrow as I mourn my dame. Love strikes me through with darts of fire, And wakes in vain the sweet desire. Hark, the loud Koïl swells his throat, And mocks me with his joyful note. I hear the happy wild-cock call Beside the shady waterfall. His cry of joy afflicts my breast By love’s absorbing might possessed. My darling from our cottage heard One morn in spring this shrill-toned bird, And called me in her joy to hear The happy cry that charmed her ear. See, birds of every varied voice Around us in the woods rejoice, On creeper, shrub, and plant alight, Or wing from tree to tree their flight. Each bird his kindly mate has found, And loud their notes of triumph sound, Blending in sweetest music like The distant warblings of the shrike. See how the river banks are lined With birds of every hue and kind. Here in his joy the Koïl sings, There the glad wild-cock flaps his wings. The blooms of bright Aśokas(526) where The song of wild bees fills the air, And the soft whisper of the boughs Increase my longing for my spouse. The vernal flush of flower and spray Will burn my very soul away. What use, what care have I for life If I no more may see my wife Soft speaker with the glorious hair, And eyes with silken lashes fair? Now is the time when all day long The Koïls fill the woods with song. And gardens bloom at spring’s sweet touch Which my beloved loved so much. Ah me, Sumitrá’s son, the fire Of sorrow, sprung from soft desire, Fanned by the charms the spring time shows, Will burn my heart and end my woes, Whose sad eyes look on each fair tree, But my sweet love no more may see. Ah me, Ah me, from hour to hour Love in my soul will wax in power, And spring, upon whose charms I gaze, Whose breath the heat of toil allays, With thoughts of her for whom I strain My hopeless eyes, increase my pain. As fire in summer rages through The forests thick with dry bamboo, So will my fawn eyed love consume My soul o’erwhelmed with thoughts of gloom. Behold, beneath each spreading tree The peacocks dance(527) in frantic glee, And, stirred by all the gales that blow, Their tails with jewelled windows glow, Each bird, in happy love elate, Rejoices with his darling mate. But sights like these of joy and peace My pangs of hopeless love increase. See on the mountain slope above The peahen languishing with love. Behold her now in amorous dance Close to her consort’s side advance. He with a laugh of joy and pride Displays his glittering pinions wide; And follows through the tangled dell The partner whom he loves so well. Ah happy bird! no giant’s hate Has robbed him of his tender mate; And still beside his loved one he Dances beneath the shade in glee. Ah, in this month when flowers are fair My widowed woe is hard to bear. See, gentle love a home may find In creatures of inferior kind. See how the peahen turns to meet Her consort now with love-drawn feet. So, Lakshmaṇ, if my large-eyed dear, The child of Janak still were here, She, by love’s thrilling influence led, Upon my breast would lay her head. These blooms I gathered from the bough Without my love are useless now. A thousand blossoms fair to see With passing glory clothe each tree That hangs its cluster-burthened head Now that the dewy months(528) are fled, But, followed by the bees that ply Their fragrant task, they fall and die. A thousand birds in wild delight Their rapture-breathing notes unite; Bird calls to bird in joyous strain, And turns my love to frenzied pain. O, if beneath those alien skies, There be a spring where Sítá lies, I know my prisoned love must be Touched with like grief, and mourn with me. But ah, methinks that dreary clime Knows not the touch of spring’s sweet time. How could my black eyed love sustain, Without her lord, so dire a pain? Or if the sweet spring come to her In distant lands a prisoner, How may his advent and her met On every side with taunt and threat? Ah, if the springtide’s languor came With soft enchantment o’er my dame, My darling of the lotus eye, My gently speaking love, would die; For well my spirit knows that she Can never live bereft of me With love that never wavered yet My Sítá’s heart, on me is set, Who, with a soul that ne’er can stray, With equal love her love repay. In vain, in vain the soft wind brings Sweet blossoms on his balmy wings; Delicious from his native snow, To me like fire he seems to glow. O, how I loved a breeze like this When darling Sítá shared the bliss! But now in vain for me it blows To fan the fury of my woes. That dark-winged bird that sought the skies Foretelling grief with warning cries, Sits on the tree where buds are gay, And pours glad music from the spray. That rover of the fields of air Will aid my love with friendly care, And me with gracious pity guide To my large-eyed Videhan’s side.(529) Hark, Lakshmaṇ, how the woods around With love-inspiring chants resound, Where birds in every bloom-crowned tree Pour forth their amorous minstrelsy. As though an eager gallant wooed A gentle maid by love subdued, Enamoured of her flowers the bee Darts at the wind-rocked Tila tree.(530) Aśoka, brightest tree that grows, That lends a pang to lovers’ woes, Hangs out his gorgeous bloom in scorn And mocks me as I weep forlorn. O Lakshmaṇ, turn thine eye and see Each blossom-laden Mango tree, Like a young lover gaily dressed Whom fond desire forbids to rest. Look, son of Queen Sumitrá through The forest glades of varied hue, Where blooms are bright and grass is green The Kinnars(531) with their loves are seen. See, brother, see where sweet and bright Those crimson lilies charm the sight, And o’er the flood a radiance throw Fair as the morning’s roseate glow. See, Pampá, most divinely sweet, The swan’s and mallard’s loved retreat, Shows her glad waters bright and clear, Where lotuses their heads uprear From the pure wave, and charm the view With mingled tints of red and blue. Each like the morning’s early beams Reflected in the crystal gleams; And bees on their sweet toil intent Weigh down each tender filament. There with gay lawns the wood recedes; There wildfowl sport amid the reeds, There roedeer stand upon the brink, And elephants descend to drink. The rippling waves which winds make fleet Against the bending lilies beat, And opening bud and flower and stem Gleam with the drops that hang on them. Life has no pleasure left for me While my dear queen I may not see, Who loved so well those blooms that vie With the full splendour of her eye. O tyrant Love, who will not let My bosom for one hour forget The lost one whom I yearn to meet, Whose words were ever kind and sweet. Ah, haply might my heart endure This hopeless love that knows not cure, If spring with all his trees in flower Assailed me not with ruthless power. Each lovely scene, each sound and sight Wherein, with her, I found delight, Has lost the charm so sweet of yore, And glads my widowed heart no more. On lotus buds I seem to gaze, Or blooms that deck Paláśa(532) sprays;(533)

But to my tortured memory rise The glories of my darling’s eyes. Cool breezes through the forest stray Gathering odours on their way, Enriched with all the rifled scent Of lotus flower and filament. Their touch upon my temples falls And Sítá’s fragrant breath recalls. Now look, dear brother, on the right Of Pampá towers a mountain height Where fairest Cassia trees unfold The treasures of their burnished gold. Proud mountain king! his woody side With myriad ores is decked and dyed, And as the wind-swept blossoms fall Their fragrant dust is stained with all. To yon high lands thy glances turn: With pendent fire they flash and burn, Where in their vernal glory blaze Paláśa flowers on leafless sprays. O Lakshmaṇ, look! on Pampá’s side What fair trees rise in blooming pride! What climbing plants above them show Or hang their flowery garlands low! See how the amorous creeper rings The wind-rocked trees to which she clings, As though a dame by love impelled With clasping arms her lover held. Drunk with the varied scents that fill The balmy air, from hill to hill, From grove to grove, from tree to tree, The joyous wind is wandering free. These gay trees wave their branches bent By blooms, of honey redolent. There, slowly opening to the day, Buds with dark lustre deck the spray. The wild bee rests a moment where Each tempting flower is sweet and fair, Then, coloured by the pollen dyes, Deep in some odorous blossom lies. Soon from his couch away he springs: To other trees his course he wings, And tastes the honeyed blooms that grow Where Pampá’s lucid waters flow. See, Lakshmaṇ, see, how thickly spread With blossoms from the trees o’erhead, That grass the weary traveller woos With couches of a thousand hues, And beds on every height arrayed With red and yellow tints are laid, No longer winter chills the earth: A thousand flowerets spring to birth, And trees in rivalry assume Their vernal garb of bud and bloom. How fair they look, how bright and gay With tasselled flowers on every spray! While each to each proud challenge flings Borne in the song the wild bee sings. That mallard by the river edge Has bathed amid the reeds and sedge: Now with his mate he fondly plays And fires my bosom as I gaze.

Mandákiní(534) is far renowned: No lovelier flood on earth is found; But all her fairest charms combined In this sweet stream enchant the mind. O, if my love were here to look With me upon this lovely brook, Never for Ayodhyá would I pine, Or wish that Indra’s lot were mine. If by my darling’s side I strayed O’er the soft turf which decks the glade, Each craving thought were sweetly stilled, Each longing of my soul fulfilled. But, now my love is far away, Those trees which make the woods so gay, In all their varied beauty dressed, Wake thoughts of anguish in my breast.

That lotus-covered stream behold Whose waters run so fresh and cold, Sweet rill, the wildfowl’s loved resort, Where curlew, swan, and diver sport; Where with his consort plays the drake, And tall deer love their thirst to slake, While from each woody bank is heard The wild note of each happy bird. The music of that joyous quire Fills all my soul with soft desire; And, as I hear, my sad thoughts fly To Sítá of the lotus eye, Whom, lovely with her moonbright cheek, In vain mine eager glances seek. Now turn, those chequered lawns survey Where hart and hind together stray. Ah, as they wander at their will My troubled breast with grief they fill, While torn by hopeless love I sigh For Sítá of the fawn-like eye. If in those glades where, touched by spring, Gay birds their amorous ditties sing, Mine own beloved I might see, Then, brother, it were well with me: If by my side she wandered still, And this cool breeze that stirs the rill Touched with its gentle breath the brows Of mine own dear Videhan spouse. For, Lakshmaṇ, O how blest are those On whom the breath of Pampá blows, Dispelling all their care and gloom With sweets from where the lilies bloom! How can my gentle love remain Alive amid the woe and pain, Where prisoned far away she lies,— My darling of the lotus eyes? How shall I dare her sire to greet Whose lips have never known deceit? How stand before the childless king And meet his eager questioning? When banished by my sire’s decree, In low estate, she followed me. So pure, so true to every vow, Where is my gentle darling now? How can I bear my widowed lot, And linger on where she is not, Who followed when from home I fled Distracted, disinherited? My spirit sinks in hopeless pain When my fond glances yearn in vain For that dear face with whose bright eye The worshipped lotus scarce can vie. Ah when, my brother, shall I hear That voice that rang so soft and clear, When, sweetly smiling as she spoke, From her dear lips gay laughter broke? When worn with toil and love I strayed With Sítá through the forest shade, No trace of grief was seen in her, My kind and thoughtful comforter. How shall my faltering tongue relate To Queen Kauśalyá Sítá’s fate? How answer when in wild despair She questions, Where is Sítá, where? Haste, brother, haste: to Bharat hie, On whose fond love I still rely. My life can be no longer borne, Since Sítá from my side is torn.”

Thus like a helpless mourner, bent By sorrow, Ráma made lament; And with wise counsel Lakshmaṇ tried To soothe his care, and thus replied: “O best of men, thy grief oppose, Nor sink beneath thy weight of woes. Not thus despond the great and pure And brave like thee, but still endure. Reflect what anguish wrings the heart When loving souls are forced to part; And, mindful of the coming pain, Thy love within thy breast restrain. For earth, though cooled by wandering streams, Lies scorched beneath the midday beams. Rávaṇ his steps to hell may bend, Or lower yet in flight descend; But be thou sure, O Raghu’s son, Avenging death he shall not shun. Rise, Ráma, rise: the search begin, And track the giant foul with sin. Then shall the fiend, though far he fly, Resign his prey or surely die. Yea, though the trembling monster hide With Sítá close to Diti’s(535) side, E’en there, unless he yield the prize, Slain by this wrathful hand he dies. Thy heart with strength and courage stay, And cast this weakling mood away. Our fainting hopes in vain revive Unless with firm resolve we strive. The zeal that fires the toiler’s breast Mid earthly powers is first and best. Zeal every check and bar defies, And wins at length the loftiest prize, In woe and danger, toil and care, Zeal never yields to weak despair. With zealous heart thy task begin, And thou once more thy spouse shalt win. Cast fruitless sorrow from thy soul, Nor let this love thy heart control. Forget not all thy sacred lore, But be thy noble self once more.”

He heard, his bosom rent by grief, The counsel of his brother chief; Crushed in his heart the maddening pain, And rose resolved and strong again. Then forth upon his journey went The hero on his task intent, Nor thought of Pampá’s lovely brook, Or trees which murmuring breezes shook, Though on dark woods his glances fell, On waterfall and cave and dell; And still by many a care distressed The son of Raghu onward pressed. As some wild elephant elate Moves through the woods in pride, So Lakshmaṇ with majestic gait Strode by his brother’s side. He, for his lofty spirit famed, Admonished and consoled; Showed Raghu’s son what duty claimed, And bade his heart be bold. Then as the brothers strode apace To Rishyamúka’s height, The sovereign of the Vánar race(536) Was troubled at the sight. As on the lofty hill he strayed He saw the chiefs draw near: A while their glorious forms surveyed, And mused in restless fear. His slow majestic step he stayed And gazed upon the pair. And all his spirit sank dismayed By fear too great to bear. When in their glorious might the best Of royal chiefs came nigh, The Vánars in their wild unrest Prepared to turn and fly. They sought the hermit’s sacred home(537) For peace and bliss ordained, And there, where Vánars loved to roam, A sure asylum gained.

Canto II. Sugríva’s Alarm.

Sugríva moved by wondering awe The high-souled sons of Raghu saw, In all their glorious arms arrayed; And grief upon his spirit weighed. To every quarter of the sky He turned in fear his anxious eye, And roving still from spot to spot With troubled steps he rested not. He durst not, as he viewed the pair, Resolve to stand and meet them there; And drooping cheer and quailing breast The terror of the chief confessed. While the great fear his bosom shook, Brief counsel with his lords he took; Each gain and danger closely scanned, What hope in flight, what power to stand, While doubt and fear his bosom rent, On Raghu’s sons his eyes he bent, And with a spirit ill at ease Addressed his lords in words like these:

“Those chiefs with wandering steps invade The shelter of our pathless shade, And hither come in fair disguise Of hermit garb as Báli’s spies.”

Each lord beheld with troubled heart Those masters of the bowman’s art, And left the mountain side to seek Sure refuge on a loftier peak. The Vánar chief in rapid flight Found shelter on a towering height, And all the band with one accord Were closely gathered round their lord. Their course the same, with desperate leap Each made his way from steep to steep, And speeding on in wild career Filled every height with sudden fear. Each heart was struck with mortal dread, As on their course the Vánars sped, While trees that crowned the steep were bent And crushed beneath them as they went. As in their eager flight they pressed For safety to each mountain crest, The wild confusion struck with fear Tiger and cat and wandering deer. The lords who watched Sugríva’s will Were gathered on the royal hill, And all with reverent hands upraised Upon their king and leader gazed. Sugríva feared some evil planned, Some train prepared by Báli’s hand. But, skilled in words that charm and teach, Thus Hanumán(538) began his speech:

“Dismiss, dismiss thine idle fear, Nor dread the power of Báli here. For this is Malaya’s glorious hill(539) Where Báli’s might can work no ill. I look around but nowhere see The hated foe who made thee flee, Fell Báli, fierce in form and face: Then fear not, lord of Vánar race. Alas, in thee I clearly find The weakness of the Vánar kind, That loves from thought to thought to range, Fix no belief and welcome change. Mark well each hint and sign and scan, Discreet and wise, thine every plan. How may a king, with sense denied, The subjects of his sceptre guide?”

Hanúmán,(540) wise in hour of need, Urged on the chief his prudent rede. His listening ear Sugríva bent, And spake in words more excellent:

“Where is the dauntless heart that free From terror’s chilling touch can see Two stranger warriors, strong as those, Equipped with swords and shafts and bows, With mighty arms and large full eyes, Like glorious children of the skies? Báli my foe, I ween, has sent These chiefs to aid his dark intent. Hence doubt and fear disturb me still, For thousands serve a monarch’s will, In borrowed garb they come, and those Who walk disguised are counted foes. With secret thoughts they watch their time, And wound fond hearts that fear no crime. My foe in state affairs is wise, And prudent kings have searching eyes. By other hands they strike the foe: By meaner tools the truth they know. Now to those stranger warriors turn, And, less than king, their purpose learn. Mark well the trick and look of each; Observe his form and note his speech. With care their mood and temper sound, And, if their minds be friendly found, With courteous looks and words begin Their confidence and love to win. Then as my friend and envoy speak, And question what the strangers seek. Ask why equipped with shaft and bow Through this wild maze of wood they go. If they, O chief, at first appear Pure of all guile, in heart sincere, Detect in speech and look the sin And treachery that lurk within.”

He spoke: the Wind-God’s son obeyed. With ready zeal he sought the shade, And reached with hasty steps the wood Where Raghu’s son and Lakshmaṇ stood.(541)

Canto III. Hanumán’s Speech.

The envoy in his faithful breast Pondered Sugríva’s high behest. From Rishyamúka’s peak he hied And placed him by the princes’ side. The Wind-God’s son with cautious art Had laid his Vánar form apart, And wore, to cheat the strangers eyes, A wandering mendicant’s disguise.(542) Before the heroes’ feet he bent And did obeisance reverent, And spoke, the glorious pair to praise, His words of truth in courteous phrase, High honour duly paid, the best Of all the Vánar kind addressed, With free accord and gentle grace, Those glories of their warrior race:

“O hermits, blest in vows, who shine Like royal saints or Gods divine, O best of young ascetics, say How to this spot you found your way, Scaring the troops of wandering deer And silvan things that harbour here Searching amid the trees that grow Where Pampá’s gentle waters flow. And lending from your brows a gleam Of glory to the lovely stream. Who are you, say, so brave and fair, Clad in the bark which hermits wear? I see you heave the frequent sigh, I see the deer before you fly. While you, for strength and valour dread, The earth, like lordly lions, tread, Each bearing in his hand a bow, Like Indra’s own, to slay the foe. With the grand paces of a bull, So bright and young and beautiful. The mighty arms you raise appear Like trunks which elephants uprear, And as you move this mountain-king(543) Is glorious with the light you bring. How have you reached, like Gods in face, Best lords of earth, this lonely place, With tresses coiled in hermit guise,(544) And splendours of those lotus eyes? As Gods who leave their heavenly sphere, Alike your beauteous forms appear. The Lords of Day and Night(545) might thus Stray from the skies to visit us. Heroic youth, so broad of chest, Fair with the beauty of the Blest, With lion shoulders, tall and strong, Like bulls who lead the lowing throng, Your arms, unmatched for grace and length, With massive clubs may vie in strength. Why do no gauds those limbs adorn Where priceless gems were meetly worn? Each noble youth is fit, I deem, To guard this earth, as lord supreme, With all her woods and seas, to reign From Meru’s peak to Vindhya’s chain. Your smooth bows decked with dyes and gold Are glorious in their masters’ hold, And with the arms of Indra(546) vie Which diamond splendours beautify. Your quivers glow with golden sheen, Well stored with arrows fleet and keen, Each gleaming like a fiery snake That joys the foeman’s life to take. As serpents cast their sloughs away And all their new born sheen display, So flash your mighty swords inlaid With burning gold on hilt and blade. Why are you silent, heroes? Why My questions hear nor deign reply? Sugríva, lord of virtuous mind, The foremost of the Vánar kind, An exile from his royal state, Roams through the land disconsolate. I, Hanumán, of Vánar race, Sent by the king have sought this place, For he, the pious, just, and true, In friendly league would join with you. Know, godlike youths, that I am one Of his chief lords, the Wind-God’s son. With course unchecked I roam at will, And now from Rishyamúka’s hill, To please his heart, his hope to speed, I came disguised in beggar’s weed.”

Thus Hanúmán, well trained in lore Of language, spoke, and said no more. The son of Raghu joyed to hear The envoy’s speech, and bright of cheer He turned to Lakshmaṇ by his side, And thus in words of transport cried:

“The counselor we now behold Of King Sugríva righteous-souled. His face I long have yearned to see, And now his envoy comes to me With sweetest words in courteous phrase Answer this mighty lord who slays His foemen, by Sugríva sent, This Vánar chief most eloquent. For one whose words so sweetly flow The whole Rig-veda(547) needs must know, And in his well-trained memory store The Yajush and the Sáman’s lore. He must have bent his faithful ear All grammar’s varied rules to hear. For his long speech how well he spoke! In all its length no rule he broke. In eye, on brow, in all his face The keenest look no guile could trace. No change of hue, no pose of limb Gave sign that aught was false in him. Concise, unfaltering, sweet and clear, Without a word to pain the ear. From chest to throat, nor high nor low, His accents came in measured flow. How well he spoke with perfect art That wondrous speech that charmed the heart, With finest skill and order graced In words that knew nor pause nor haste! That speech, with consonants that spring From the three seats of uttering,(548) Would charm the spirit of a foe Whose sword is raised for mortal blow. How may a ruler’s plan succeed Who lacks such envoy good at need? How fail, if one whose mind is stored With gifts so rare assist his lord? What plans can fail, with wisest speech Of envoy’s lips to further each?”

Thus Ráma spoke; and Lakshmaṇ taught In all the art that utters thought, To King Sugríva’s learned spy Thus made his eloquent reply: “Full well we know the gifts that grace Sugríva, lord of Vánar race, And hither turn our wandering feet That we that high-souled king may meet. So now our pleasant task shall be To do the words he speaks by thee.”

His prudent speech the Vánar heard, And all his heart with joy was stirred. And hope that league with them would bring Redress and triumph to his king.

Canto IV. Lakshman’s Reply.

Cheered by the words that Ráma spoke, Joy in the Vánar’s breast awoke, And, as his friendly mood he knew, His thoughts to King Sugríva flew: “Again,” he mused, “my high-souled lord Shall rule, to kingly state restored; Since one so mighty comes to save, And freely gives the help we crave.”

Then joyous Hanumán, the best Of all the Vánar kind, addressed These words to Ráma, trained of yore In all the arts of speakers’ lore:(549) “Why do your feet this forest tread By silvan life inhabited, This awful maze of tree and thorn Which Pampá’s flowering groves adorn?”

He spoke: obedient to the eye Of Ráma, Lakshmaṇ made reply, The name and fortune to unfold Of Raghu’s son the lofty-souled: “True to the law, of fame unstained, The glorious Daśaratha reigned, And, steadfast in his duty, long Kept the four castes(550) from scathe and wrong. Through his wide realm his will was done, And, loved by all, he hated none. Just to each creature great and small, Like the Good Sire he cared for all. The Ágnishṭom,(551) as priests advised, And various rites he solemnized, Where ample largess ever paid The Bráhmans for their holy aid. Here Ráma stands, his heir by birth, Whose name is glorious in the earth: Sure refuge he of all oppressed, Most faithful to his sire’s behest. He, Daśaratha’s eldest born Whom gifts above the rest adorn, Lord of each high imperial sign,(552) The glory of his kingly line, Reft of his right, expelled from home, Came forth with me the woods to roam. And Sítá too, his faithful dame, Forth with her virtuous husband came, Like the sweet light when day is done Still cleaving to her lord the sun. And me his sweet perfections drew To follow as his servant true. Named Lakshmaṇ, brother of my lord Of grateful heart with knowledge stored Most meet is he all bliss to share, Who makes the good of all his care. While, power and lordship cast away, In the wild wood he chose to stay, A giant came,—his name unknown,— And stole the princess left alone. Then Diti’s son(553) who, cursed of yore, The semblance of a Rákshas wore, To King Sugríva bade us turn The robber’s name and home to learn. For he, the Vánar chief, would know The dwelling of our secret foe. Such words of hope spake Diti’s son, And sought the heaven his deeds had won. Thou hast my tale. From first to last Thine ears have heard whate’er has past. Ráma the mighty lord and I For refuge to Sugríva fly. The prince whose arm bright glory gained, O’er the whole earth as monarch reigned, And richest gifts to others gave, Is come Sugríva’s help to crave; Son of a king the surest friend Of virtue, him who loved to lend His succour to the suffering weak, Is come Sugríva’s aid to seek. Yes, Raghu’s son whose matchless hand Protected all this sea-girt land, The virtuous prince, my holy guide, For refuge seeks Sugríva’s side. His favour sent on great and small Should ever save and prosper all. He now to win Sugríva’s grace Has sought his woodland dwelling-place. Son of a king of glorious fame;— Who knows not Daśaratha’s name?— From whom all princes of the earth Received each honour due to worth;— Heir of that best of earthly kings, Ráma the prince whose glory rings Through realms below and earth and skies, For refuge to Sugríva flies. Nor should the Vánar king refuse The boon for which the suppliant sues, But with his forest legions speed To save him in his utmost need.”

Sumitrá’s son, his eyes bedewed With piteous tears, thus sighed and sued. Then, trained in all the arts that guide The speaker, Hanumán replied:

“Yea, lords like you of wisest thought, Whom happy fate has hither brought, Who vanquish ire and rule each sense, Must of our lord have audience. Reft of his kingdom, sad, forlorn, Once Báli’s hate now Báli’s scorn, Defeated, severed from his spouse, Wandering under forest boughs, Child of the Sun, our lord and king Sugríva will his succours bring, And all our Vánar hosts combined Will trace the dame you long to find.”

With gentle tone and winning grace Thus spake the chief of Vánar race, And then to Raghu’s son he cried: “Come, haste we to Sugríva’s side.”

He spoke, and for his words so sweet Good Lakshmaṇ paid all honour meet; Then turned and cried to Raghu’s son: “Now deem thy task already done, Because this chief of Vánar kind, Son of the God who rules the wind, Declares Sugríva’s self would be Assisted in his need by thee. Bright gleams of joy his cheek o’erspread As each glad word of hope he said; And ne’er will one so valiant deign To cheer our hearts with hope in vain.”

He spoke, and Hanumán the wise Cast off his mendicant disguise, And took again his Vánar form, Son of the God of wind and storm. High on his ample back in haste Raghu’s heroic sons he placed, And turned with rapid steps to find The sovereign of the Vánar kind.

Canto V. The League.

From Rishyamúka’s rugged side To Malaya’s hill the Vánar hied, And to his royal chieftain there Announced the coming of the pair: “See, here with Lakshmaṇ Ráma stands Illustrious in a hundred lands. Whose valiant heart will never quail Although a thousand foes assail; King Daśaratha’s son, the grace And glory of Ikshváku’s race. Obedient to his father’s will He cleaves to sacred duty still. With rites of royal pomp and pride His sire the Fire-God gratified; Ten hundred thousand kine he freed, And priests enriched with ample meed; And the broad land protected, famed For truthful lips and passions tamed. Through woman’s guile his son has made His dwelling in the forest shade, Where, as he lived with every sense Subdued in hermit abstinence, Fierce Rávaṇ stole his wife, and he Is come a suppliant, lord, to thee. Now let all honour due be paid To these great chiefs who seek thine aid.”

Thus spake the Vánar prince, and, stirred With friendly thoughts, Sugríva heard. The light of joy his face o’erspread, And thus to Raghu’s son he said: “O Prince, in rules of duty trained, Caring for all with love unfeigned, Hanúmán’s tongue has truly shown The virtues that are thine alone. My chiefest glory, gain, and bliss, O stranger Prince, I reckon this, That Raghu’s son will condescend To seek the Vánar for his friend. If thou my true ally wouldst be Accept the pledge I offer thee, This hand in sign of friendship take, And bind the bond we ne’er will break.”

He spoke, and joy thrilled Ráma’s breast; Sugríva’s hand he seized and pressed And, transport beaming from his eye, Held to his heart his new ally. In wanderer’s weed disguised no more, His proper form Hanúmán wore. Then, wood with wood engendering,(554) came Neath his deft hands the kindled flame. Between the chiefs that fire he placed With wreaths of flowers and worship graced. And round its blazing glory went The friends with slow steps reverent.

Thus each to other pledged and bound In solemn league new transport found, And bent upon his dear ally The gaze he ne’er could satisfy. “Friend of my soul art thou: we share Each other’s joy, each other’s care;” Thus in the bliss that thrilled his breast Sugríva Raghu’s son addressed. From a high Sál a branch he tore Which many a leaf and blossom bore, And the fine twigs beneath them laid A seat for him and Ráma made. Then Hanumán with joyous mind, Son of the God who rules the wind, To Lakshmaṇ gave, his seat to be, The gay branch of a Sandal tree. Then King Sugríva with his eyes Still trembling with the sweet surprise Of the great joy he could not hide, To Raghu’s noblest scion cried: “O Ráma, racked with woe and fear, Spurned by my foes, I wander here. Reft of my spouse, forlorn I dwell Here in my forest citadel. Or wild with terror and distress Roam through the distant wilderness. Vext by my brother Báli long My soul has borne the scathe and wrong. Do thou, whose virtues all revere, Release me from my woe and fear. From dire distress thy friend to free Is a high task and worthy thee.”

He spoke, and Raghu’s son who knew All sacred duties men should do. The friend of justice, void of guile, Thus answered with a gentle smile: “Great Vánar, friends who seek my aid Still find their trust with fruit repaid. Báli, thy foe, who stole away Thy wife this vengeful hand shall slay. These shafts which sunlike flash and burn, Winged with the feathers of the hern, Each swift of flight and sure and dread, With even knot and pointed head, Fierce as the crashing fire-bolt sent By him who rules the firmament,(555) Shall reach thy wicked foe and like Infuriate serpents hiss and strike. Thou, Vánar King, this day shalt see The foe who long has injured thee Lie, like a shattered mountain, low, Slain by the tempest of my bow.”

Thus Ráma spake: Sugríva heard, And mighty joy his bosom stirred: As thus his champion he addressed: “Now by thy favour, first and best Of heroes, shall thy friend obtain His realm and darling wife again Recovered from the foe. Check thou mine elder brother’s might; That ne’er again his deadly spite May rob me of mine ancient right, Or vex my soul with woe.” The league was struck, a league to bring To Sítá fiends, and Vánar king(556) Apportioned bliss and bale. Through her left eye quick throbbings shot,(557) Glad signs the lady doubted not, That told their hopeful tale. The bright left eye of Báli felt An inauspicious throb that dealt A deadly blow that day. The fiery left eyes of the crew Of demons felt the throb, and knew The herald of dismay.

Canto VI. The Tokens.

With joy that sprang from hope restored To Ráma spake the Vánar lord: “I know, by wise Hanúmán taught, Why thou the lonely wood hast sought. Where with thy brother Lakshmaṇ thou Hast sojourned, bound by hermit vow; Have heard how Sítá, Janak’s child, Was stolen in the pathless wild, How by a roving Rákshas she Weeping was reft from him and thee; How, bent on death, the giant slew The vulture king, her guardian true, And gave thy widowed breast to know A solitary mourner’s woe. But soon, dear Prince, thy heart shall be From every trace of sorrow free; For I thy darling will restore, Lost like the prize of holy lore.(558) Yea, though in heaven the lady dwell, Or prisoned in the depths of hell, My friendly care her way shall track And bring thy ransomed darling back. Let this my promise soothe thy care, Nor doubt the words I truly swear. Saints, fiends, and dwellers of the skies Shall find thy wife a bitter prize, Like the rash child who rues too late The treacherous lure of poisoned cate. No longer, Prince, thy loss deplore: Thy darling wife will I restore. ’Twas she I saw: my heart infers That shrinking form was doubtless hers, Which gaint Rávaṇ, fierce and dread, Bore swiftly through the clouds o’erhead Still writhing in his strict embrace Like helpless queen of serpent race,(559) And from her lips that sad voice came Shrieking thine own and Lakshmaṇ’s name. High on a hill she saw me stand With comrades twain on either hand. Her outer robe to earth she threw, And with it sent her anklets too. We saw the glittering tokens fall, We found them there and kept them all. These will I bring: perchance thine eyes The treasured spoils will recognize.”

He ceased: then Raghu’s son replied To the glad tale, and eager cried: “Bring them with all thy speed: delay No more, dear friend, but haste away.”

Thus Ráma spoke. Sugríva hied Within the mountain’s caverned side, Impelled by love that stirred each thought The precious tokens quickly brought, And said to Raghu’s son: Behold This garment and these rings of gold. In Ráma’s hand with friendly haste The jewels and the robe he placed. Then, like the moon by mist assailed, The tear-dimmed eyes of Ráma failed; That burst of woe unmanned his frame, Woe sprung from passion for his dame, And with his manly strength o’erthrown, He fell and cried, Ah me! mine own! Again, again close to his breast The ornaments and robe he pressed, While the quick pants that shook his frame As from a furious serpent came. On his dear brother standing nigh He turned at length his piteous eye; And, while his tears increasing ran, In bitter wail he thus began: “Look, brother, and behold once more The ornaments and robe she wore, Dropped while the giant bore away In cruel arras his struggling prey, Dropped in some quiet spot, I ween, Where the young grass was soft and green; For still untouched by spot or stain Their former beauty all retain.”

He spoke with many a tear and sigh, And thus his brother made reply: “The bracelets thou hast fondly shown, And earrings, are to me unknown, But by long service taught I greet The anklets of her honoured feet.”(560)

Then to Sugríva Ráma, best Of Raghu’s sons, these words addressed:

“Say to what quarter of the sky The cruel fiend was seen to fly, Bearing afar my captured wife, My darling dearer than my life. Speak, Vánar King, that I may know Where dwells the cause of all my woe; The fiend for whose transgression all The giants by this hand shall fall. He who the Maithil lady stole And kindled fury in my soul, Has sought his fate in senseless pride And opened Death’s dark portal wide. Then tell me, Vánar lord, I pray, The dwelling of my foe, And he, beneath this hand, to-day To Yáma’s halls shall go.”

Canto VII. Ráma Consoled.

With longing love and woe oppressed The Vánar chief he thus addressed: And he, while sobs his utterance broke, Raised up his reverent hands and spoke:

“O Raghu’s son, I cannot tell Where now that cruel fiend may dwell, Declare his power and might, or trace The author of his cursed race. Still trust the promise that I make And let thy breast no longer ache. So will I toil, nor toil in vain, That thou thy consort mayst regain. So will I work with might and skill That joy anew thy heart shall fill: The valour of my soul display, And Rávaṇ and his legions slay. Awake, awake! unmanned no more Recall the strength was thine of yore. Beseems not men like thee to wear A weak heart yielding to despair. Like troubles, too, mine eyes have seen, Lamenting for a long-lost queen; But, by despair unconquered yet, My strength of mind I ne’er forget. Far more shouldst thou of lofty soul Thy passion and thy tears control, When I, of Vánar’s humbler strain, Weep not for her in ceaseless pain. Be firm, be patient, nor forget The bounds the brave of heart have set In loss, in woe, in strife, in fear, When the dark hour of death is near. Up! with thine own brave heart advise: Not thus despond the firm and wise. But he who gives his childish heart To choose the coward’s weakling part, Sinks, like a foundered vessel, deep In waves of woe that o’er him sweep. See, suppliant hand to hand I lay, And, moved by faithful love, I pray. Give way no more to grief and gloom, But all thy native strength resume. No joy on earth, I ween, have they Who yield their souls to sorrow’s sway. Their glory fades in slow decline: ’Tis not for thee to grieve and pine. I do but hint with friendly speech The wiser part I dare not teach. This better path, dear friend, pursue, And let not grief thy soul subdue.”

Sugríva thus with gentle art And sweet words soothed the mourner’s heart, Who brushed off with his mantle’s hem Tears from the eyes bedewed with them. Sugríva’s words were not in vain, And Ráma was himself again, Around the king his arms he threw And thus began his speech anew:

“Whate’er a friend most wise and true, Who counsels for the best, should do, Whate’er his gentle part should be, Has been performed, dear friend, by thee. Taught by thy counsel, O my lord, I feel my native strength restored. A friend like thee is hard to gain, Most rare in time of grief and pain. Now strain thine utmost power to trace The Maithil lady’s dwelling place, And aid me in my search to find Fierce Rávaṇ of the impious mind. Trust thou, in turn, thy loyal friend, And say what aid this arm can lend To speed thy hopes, as fostering rain Quickens in earth the scattered grain. Deem not those words, that seemed to spring From pride, are false, O Vánar King. None from these lips has ever heard, None e’er shall hear, one lying word. Again I promise and declare, Yea, by my truth, dear friend, I swear.”

Then glad was King Sugríva’s breast, And all his lords their joy confessed, Stirred by sure hope of Ráma’s aid, And promise which the prince had made.

Canto VIII. Ráma’s Promise.

Doubt from Sugríva’s heart had fled, And thus to Raghu’s son he said: “No bliss the Gods of heaven deny. Each views me with a favouring eye, When thou, whom all good gifts attend, Hast sought me and become my friend. Leagued, friend, with thee in bold emprise My arm might win the conquered skies; And shall our banded strength be weak To gain the realm which now I seek? A happy fate was mine above My kith and kin and all I love, When, near the witness fire, I won Thy friendship, Raghu’s glorious son. Thou too in ripening time shall see Thy friend not all unworthy thee. What gifts I have shall thus be shown: Not mine the tongue to make them known. Strong is the changeless bond that binds The friendly faith of noble minds, In woe, in danger, firm and sure Their constancy and love endure. Gold, silver, jewels rich and rare They count as wealth for friends to share. Yea, be they rich or poor and low, Blest with all joys or sunk in woe, Stained with each fault or pure of blame, Their friends the nearest place may claim; For whom they leave, at friendship’s call, Their gold, their bliss, their homes and all.”

He spoke by generous impulse moved, And Raghu’s son his speech approved Glancing at Lakshmaṇ by his side, Like Indra in his beauty’s pride. The Vánar monarch saw the pair Of mighty brothers standing there, And turned his rapid eye to view The forest trees that near him grew. He saw, not far from where he stood, A Sál tree towering o’er the wood. Amid the thick leaves many a bee Graced the scant blossoms of the tree, From whose dark shade a bough, that bore A load of leafy twigs, he tore, Which on the grassy ground he laid And seats for him and Ráma made. Hanúmán saw them sit, he sought A Sál tree’s leafy bough and brought The burthen, and with meek request Entreated Lakshmaṇ, too, to rest. There on the noble mountain’s brow, Strewn with the young leaves of the bough, Sat Raghu’s son in placid ease Calm as the sea when sleeps the breeze. Sugríva’s heart with rapture swelled, And thus, by eager love impelled, He spoke in gracious tone, that, oft Checked by his joy, was low and soft: “I, by my brother’s might oppressed, By ceaseless woe and fear distressed, Mourning my consort far away, On Rishyamúka’s mountain stray. Expelled by Báli’s cruel hate I wander here disconsolate. Do thou to whom all sufferers flee, From his dread hand deliver me.”

He spoke, and Ráma, just and brave, Whose pious soul to virtue clave, Smiled as in conscious might he eyed The king of Vánars, and replied: “Best fruit of friendship is the deed That helps the friend in hour of need; And this mine arm in death shall lay Thy robber ere the close of day. For see, these feathered darts of mine Whose points so fiercely flash and shine, And shafts with golden emblem, came From dark woods known by Skanda’s name,(561) Winged from the pinion of the hern Like Indra’s bolts they strike and burn. With even knots and piercing head Each like a furious snake is sped; With these, to-day, before thine eye Shall, like a shattered mountain, lie Báli, thy dread and wicked foe, O’erwhelmed in hideous overthrow.”

He spoke: Sugríva’s bosom swelled With hope and joy unparalleled. Then his glad voice the Vánar raised, And thus the son of Raghu praised: “Long have I pined in depth of grief; Thou art the hope of all, O chief. Now, Raghu’s son, I hail thee friend, And bid thee to my woes attend; For, by my truth I swear it, now Not life itself is dear as thou, Since by the witness fire we met And friendly hand in hand was set. Friend communes now with friend, and hence I tell with surest confidence, How woes that on my spirit weigh Consume me through the night and day.”

For sobs and sighs he scarce could speak, And his sad voice came low and weak, As, while his eyes with tears o’erflowed, The burden of his soul he showed. Then by strong effort, bravely made, The torrent of his tears he stayed, Wiped his bright eyes, his grief subdued, And thus, more calm, his speech renewed:

“By Báli’s conquering might oppressed, Of power and kingship dispossessed, Loaded with taunts of scorn and hate I left my realm and royal state. He tore away my consort: she Was dearer than my life to me, And many a friend to me and mine In hopeless chains was doomed to pine. With wicked thoughts, unsated still, Me whom he wrongs he yearns to kill; And spies of Vánar race, who tried To slay me, by this hand have died. Moved by this constant doubt and fear I saw thee, Prince, and came not near. When woe and peril gather round A foe in every form is found. Save Hanumán, O Raghu’s son, And these, no friend is left me, none. Through their kind aid, a faithful band Who guard their lord from hostile hand, Rest when their chieftain rests and bend Their steps where’er he lists to wend,— Through them alone, in toil and pain, My wretched life I still sustain. Enough, for thou hast heard in brief The story of my pain and grief. His mighty strength all regions know, My brother, but my deadly foe. Ah, if the proud oppressor fell, His death would all my woe dispel. Yea, on my cruel conqueror’s fall My joy depends, my life, my all. This were the end and sure relief, O Ráma, of my tale of grief. Fair be his lot or dark with woe, No comfort like a friend I know.”

Then Ráma spoke: “O friend, relate Whence sprang fraternal strife and hate, That duly taught by thee, I may Each foeman’s strength and weakness weigh: And skilled in every chance restore The blissful state thou hadst before. For, when I think of all the scorn And bitter woe thou long hast borne, My soul indignant swells with pain Like waters flushed with furious rain. Then, ere I string this bended bow, Tell me the tale I long to know, Ere from the cord my arrow fly, And low in death thy foeman lie.”

He spoke: Sugríva joyed to hear, Nor less his lords were glad of cheer: And thus to Ráma mighty-souled The cause that moved their strife he told:

Canto IX. Sugríva’s Story.(562)

“My brother, known by Báli’s name, Had won by might a conqueror’s fame. My father’s eldest-born was he, Well honoured by his sire and me. My father died, and each sage lord Named Báli king with one accord; And he, by right of birth ordained, The sovereign of the Vánars reigned. He in his royal place controlled The kingdom of our sires of old, And I all faithful service lent To aid my brother’s government. The fiend Máyáví,—him of yore To Dundubhi(563) his mother bore,— For woman’s love in strife engaged, A deadly war with Báli waged. When sleep had chained each weary frame To vast Kishkindhá(564) gates he came, And, shouting through the shades of night, Challenged his foeman to the fight. My brother heard the furious shout, And wild with rage rushed madly out, Though fain would I and each sad wife Detain him from the deadly strife. He burned his demon foe to slay, And rushed impetuous to the fray. His weeping wives he thrust aside, And forth, impelled by fury, hied; While, by my love and duty led, I followed where my brother sped. Máyáví looked, and at the sight Fled from his foes in wild affright. The flying fiend we quickly viewed, And with swift feet his steps pursued. Then rose the moon, whose friendly ray Cast light upon our headlong way. By the soft beams was dimly shown A mighty cave with grass o’ergrown. Within its depths he sprang, and we The demon’s form no more might see. My brother’s breast was all aglow With fury when he missed the foe, And, turning, thus to me he said With senses all disquieted: “Here by the cavern’s mouth remain; Keep ear and eye upon the strain, While I the dark recess explore And dip my brand in foeman’s gore.” I heard his angry speech, and tried To turn him from his plan aside. He made me swear by both his feet, And sped within the dark retreat. While in the cave he stayed, and I Watched at the mouth, a year went by. For his return I looked in vain, And, moved by love, believed him slain. I mourned, by doubt and fear distressed, And greater horror seized my breast When from the cavern rolled a flood, A carnage stream of froth and blood; And from the depths a sound of fear, The roar of demons, smote mine ear; But never rang my brother’s shout Triumphant in the battle rout. I closed the cavern with a block, Huge as a hill, of shattered rock. Gave offerings due to Báli’s shade, And sought Kishkindhá, sore dismayed. Long time with anxious care I tried From Báli’s lords his fate to hide, But they, when once the tale was known, Placed me as king on Báli’s throne. There for a while I justly reigned And all with equal care ordained, When joyous from the demon slain My brother Báli came again. He found me ruling in his stead, And, fired with rage, his eyes grew red. He slew the lords who made me king, And spoke keen words to taunt and sting. The kingly rank and power I held My brother’s rage with ease had quelled, But still, restrained by old respect For claims of birth, the thought I checked. Thus having struck the demon down Came Báli to his royal town. With meek respect, with humble speech, His haughty heart I strove to reach. But all my arts were tried in vain, No gentle word his lips would deign, Though to the ground I bent and set His feet upon my coronet: Still Báli in his rage and pride All signs of grace and love denied.”

Canto X. Sugríva’s Story.

“I strove to soothe and lull to rest The fury of his troubled breast: “Well art thou come, dear lord,” I cried. “By whose strong arm thy foe has died. Forlorn I languished here, but now My saviour and defence art thou. Once more receive this regal shade(565) Like the full moon in heaven displayed; And let the chouries,(566) thus restored, Wave glorious o’er the rightful lord. I kept my watch, thy word obeyed, And by the cave a year I stayed. But when I saw that stream of blood Rush from the cavern in a flood, My sad heart broken with dismay, And every wandering sense astray, I barred the entrance with a stone,— A crag from some high mountain thrown— Turned from the spot I watched in vain, And to Kishkindhá came again. My deep distress and downcast mien By citizen and lord were seen. They made me king against my will: Forgive me if the deed was ill. True as I ever was I see My honoured king once more in thee; I only ruled a while the state When thou hadst left us desolate. This town with people, lords, and lands, Lay as a trust in guardian hands: And now, my gracious lord, accept The kingdom which thy servant kept. Forgive me, victor of the foe, Nor let thy wrath against me glow. See joining suppliant hands I pray, And at thy feet my head I lay. Believe my words: against my will The royal seat they made me fill. Unkinged they saw the city, hence They made me lord for her defence.”

But Báli, though I humbly sued, Reviled me in his furious mood: “Out on thee, wretch!” in wrath he cried With many a bitter taunt beside. He summoned every lord, and all His subjects gathered at his call. Then forth his burning anger broke, And thus amid his friends he spoke: “I need not tell, for well ye know, How fierce Máyáví, fiend and foe, Came to Kishkindhá’s gate by night, And dared me in his wrath to fight. I heard each word the demon said: Forth from my royal hall I sped; And, foe in brother’s guise concealed, Sugríva followed to the field. The mighty demon through the shade Beheld me come with one to aid: Then shrinking from unequal fight, He turned his back in swiftest flight. From vengeful foes his life to save He sought the refuge of a cave. Then when I saw the fiend had fled Within that cavern dark and dread, Thus to my brother cruel-eyed, Impatient in my wrath, I cried: “I seek no more my royal town Till I have struck the demon down. Here by the cavern’s mouth remain Until my hand the foe have slain.” Upon his faith my heart relied, And swift within the depths I hied. A year went by: in every spot I sought the fiend, but found him not. At length my foe I saw and slew, Whom long I feared when lost to view; And all his kinsmen by his side Beneath my vengeful fury died. The monster, as he reeled and fell, Poured forth his blood with roar and yell; And, filling all the cavern, dyed The portal with the crimson tide. Upon my foeman slain at last One look, one pitying look, I cast. I sought again the light of day: The cave was closed and left no way. To the barred mouth I sadly came, And called aloud Sugríva’s name. But all was still: no voice replied, And hope within my bosom died. With furious efforts, vain at first, Through bars of rock my way I burst. Then, free once more, the path that brought My feet in safety home I sought. ’Twas thus Sugríva dared despise The claim of brothers’ friendly ties. With crags of rock he barred me in, And for himself the realm would win.”

Thus Báli spoke in words severe; And then, unmoved by ruth or fear, Left me a single robe and sent His brother forth in banishment. He cast me out with scathe and scorn, And from my side my wife was torn. Now in great fear and ill at ease I roam this land with woods and seas, Or dwell on Rishyamúka’s hill, And sorrow for my consort still. Thou hast the tale how first arose This bitter hate of brother foes. Such are the griefs neath which I pine, And all without a fault of mine. O swift to save in hour of fear, My prayer who dread this Báli, hear With gracious love assistance deign, And mine oppressor’s arm restrain.”

Then Raghu’s son, the good and brave, With a gay laugh his answer gave: “These shafts of mine which ne’er can fail, Before whose sheen the sun grows pale, Winged by my fury, fleet and fierce, The wicked Báli’s heart shall pierce. Yea, mark the words I speak, so long Shall live that wretch who joys in wrong, Until these angered eyes have seen The robber of thy darling queen. I, taught by equal suffering, know What waves of grief above thee flow. This hand thy captive wife shall free, And give thy kingdom back to thee.”

Sugríva joyed as Ráma spoke, And valour in his breast awoke. His eye grew bright, his heart grew bold, And thus his wondrous tale he told:

Canto XI. Dundubhi.

“I doubt not, Prince, thy peerless might, Armed with these shafts so keen and bright, Like all-destroying fires of fate, The worlds could burn and devastate. But lend thou first thy mind and ear Of Báli’s power and might to hear. How bold, how firm, in battle tried, Is Báli’s heart; and then decide. From east to west, from south to north On restless errand hurrying forth, From farthest sea to sea he flies Before the sun has lit the skies. A mountain top he oft will seek, Tear from its root a towering peak, Hurl it aloft, as ’twere a ball, And catch it ere to earth it fall. And many a tree that long has stood In health and vigour in the wood, His single arm to earth will throw, The marvels of his might to show. Shaped like a bull, a monster bore The name of Dundubhi of yore: He matched in size a mountain height, A thousand elephants in might. By pride of wondrous gifts impelled, And strength he deemed unparalleled, To Ocean, lord of stream and brook, Athirst for war, his way he took. He reached the king of rolling waves Whose gems are piled in sunless caves, And threw his challenge to the sea; “Come forth, O King, and fight with me.” He spoke, and from his ocean bed The righteous(567) monarch heaved his head, And gave, sedate, his calm reply To him whom fate impelled to die: “Not mine, not mine the power,” he cried, “To cope with thee in battle tried; But listen to my voice, and seek The worthier foe of whom I speak. The Lord of Hills, where hermits live And love the home his forests give, Whose child is Śankar’s darling queen,(568) The King of Snows is he I mean. Deep caves has he, and dark boughs shade The torrent and the wild cascade. From him expect the fierce delight Which heroes feel in equal fight.”

He deemed that fear checked ocean’s king, And, like an arrow from the string, To the wild woods that clothe the side Of Lord Himálaya’s hills he hied. Then Dundubhi, with hideous roar, Huge fragments from the summit tore Vast as Airávat,(569) white with snow, And hurled them to the plains below. Then like a white cloud soft, serene, The Lord of Mountains’ form was seen. It sat upon a lofty crest, And thus the furious fiend addressed: “Beseems thee not, O virtue’s friend, My mountain tops to rive and rend; For I, the hermit’s calm retreat, For deeds of war am all unmeet.”

The demon’s eye with rage grew red, And thus in furious tone he said: “If thou from fear or sloth decline To match thy strength in war with mine, Where shall I find a champion, say, To meet me burning for the fray?” He spoke: Himálaya, skilled in lore Of eloquence, replied once more, And, angered in his righteous mind, Addressed the chief of demon kind: “The Vánar Báli, brave and wise, Son of the God who rules the skies,(570) Sways, glorious in his high renown, Kishkindhá his imperial town. Well may that valiant lord who knows Each art of war his might oppose To thine, in equal battle set, As Namuehi(571) and Indra met. Go, if thy soul desire the fray; To Báli’s city speed away, And that unconquered hero meet Whose fame is high for warlike feat.” He listened to the Lord of Snow, And, his proud heart with rage aglow, Sped swift away and lighted down By vast Kishkindhá, Báli’s town. With pointed horns to strike and gore The semblance of a bull he bore, Huge as a cloud that downward bends Ere the full flood of rain descends. Impelled by pride and rage and hate, He thundered at Kishkindhá’s gate; And with his bellowing, like the sound Of pealing drums, he shook the ground, He rent the earth and prostrate threw The trees that near the portal grew. King Báli from the bowers within Indignant heard the roar and din. Then, moonlike mid the stars, with all His dames he hurried to the wall; And to the fiend this speech, expressed In clear and measured words, addressed: “Know me for monarch. Báli styled, Of Vánar tribes that roam the wild. Say why dost thou this gate molest, And bellowing thus disturb our rest? I know thee, mighty fiend: beware And guard thy life with wiser care.” He spoke: and thus the fiend returned, While red with rage his eyeballs burned: “What! speak when all thy dames are nigh And hero-like thy foe defy? Come, meet me in the fight this day, And learn my strength by bold assay. Or shall I spare thee, and relent Until the coming night be spent? Take then the respite of a night And yield thee to each soft delight. Then, monarch of the Vánar race With loving arms thy friends embrace. Gifts on thy faithful lords bestow, Bid each and all farewell, and go. Show in the streets once more thy face, Install thy son to fill thy place. Dally a while with each dear dame; And then my strength thy pride shall tame For, should I smite thee drunk with wine Enamoured of those dames of thine, Beneath diseases bowed and bent, Or weak, unarmed, or negligent, My deed would merit hate and scorn As his who slays the child unborn.” Then Báli’s soul with rage was fired, Queen Tára and the dames retired; And slowly, with a laugh of pride, The king of Vánars thus replied: “Me, fiend, thou deemest drunk with wine: Unless thy fear the fight decline, Come, meet me in the fray, and test The spirit of my valiant breast.” He spoke in wrath and high disdain; And, laying down his golden chain, Gift of his sire Mahendra, dared The demon, for the fray prepared; Seized by the horns the monster, vast As a huge hill, and held him fast, Then fiercely dragged him round and round, And, shouting, hurled him to the ground. Blood streaming from his ears, he rose, And wild with fury strove the foes. Then Báli, match for Indra’s might, With every arm renewed the fight. He fought with fists, and feet, and knees, With fragments of the rock, and trees. At last the monster’s strength, assailed By Śakra’s(572) conquering offspring, failed. Him Báli raised with mighty strain And dashed upon the ground again; Where, bruised and shattered, in a tide Of rushing blood, the demon died. King Báli saw the lifeless corse, And bending, with tremendous force Raised the huge bulk from where it lay, And hurled it full a league away. As through the air the body flew, Some blood-drops, caught by gales that blew, Welled from his shattered jaw and fell By Saint Matanga’s hermit cell: Matanga saw, illustrious sage, Those drops defile his hermitage, And, as he marvelled whence they came, Fierce anger filled his soul with flame: “Who is the villain, evil-souled, With childish thoughts unwise and bold, Who is the impious wretch,” he cried, “By whom my grove with blood is dyed?”

Thus spoke Matanga in his rage, And hastened from the hermitage, When lo, before his wondering eyes Lay the dead bull of mountain size. His hermit soul was nothing slow The doer of the deed to know, And thus the Vánar in a burst Of wild tempestuous wrath he cursed: “Ne’er let that Vánar wander here, For, if he come, his death is near, Whose impious hand with blood has dyed The holy place where I abide, Who threw this demon corse and made A ruin of the pleasant shade. If e’er he plant his wicked feet Within one league of my retreat; Yea, if the villain come so nigh That very hour he needs must die. And let the Vánar lords who dwell In the dark woods that skirt my cell Obey my words, and speeding hence Find them some meeter residence. Here if they dare to stay, on all The terrors of my curse shall fall. They spoil the tender saplings, dear As children which I cherish here, Mar root and branch and leaf and spray, And steal the ripening fruit away. One day I grant, no further hour, To-morrow shall my curse have power, And then each Vánar I may see A stone through countless years shall be.” The Vánars heard the curse and hied From sheltering wood and mountain side. King Báli marked their haste and dread, And to the flying leaders said: “Speak, Vánar chiefs, and tell me why From Saint Matanga’s grove ye fly To gather round me: is it well With all who in those woodlands dwell?” He spoke: the Vánar leaders told King Báli with his chain of gold What curse the saint had on them laid, Which drove them from their ancient shade. Then royal Báli sought the sage, With reverent hands to soothe his rage. The holy man his suppliant spurned, And to his cell in anger turned. That curse on Báli sorely pressed, And long his conscious soul distressed. Him still the curse and terror keep Afar from Rishyamúka’s steep. He dares not to the grove draw nigh, Nay scarce will hither turn his eye. We know what terrors warm him hence, And roam these woods in confidence. Look, Prince, before thee white and dry The demon’s bones uncovered lie, Who, like a hill in bulk and length, Fell ruind for his pride of strength. See those high Sál trees seven in row That droop their mighty branches low, These at one grasp would Báli seize, And leafless shake the trembling trees. These tales I tell, O Prince, to show The matchless power that arms the foe. How canst thou hope to slay him? how Meet Báli in the battle now?”

Sugríva spoke and sadly sighed: And Lakshmaṇ with a laugh replied: “What show of power, what proof and test May still the doubts that fill thy breast?”

He spoke. Sugríva thus replied: “See yonder Sál trees side by side. King Báli here would take his stand Grasping his bow with vigorous hand, And every arrow, keen and true, Would strike its tree and pierce it through. If Ráma now his bow will bend, And through one trunk an arrow send; Or if his arm can raise and throw Two hundred measures of his bow, Grasped by a foot and hurled through air, The demon bull that moulders there, My heart will own his might and fain Believe my foe already slain.”

Sugríva spoke inflamed with ire, Scanned Ráma with a glance of fire, Pondered a while in silent mood. And thus again his speech renewed: “All lands with Báli’s glories ring, A valiant, strong, and mighty king; In conscious power unused to yield, A hero first in every field. His wondrous deeds his might declare, Deeds Gods might scarcely do or dare; And on this power reflecting still I roam on Rishyamúka’s hill. Awed by my brother’s might I rove, In doubt and fear, from grove to grove, While Hanumán, my chosen friend, And faithful lords my steps attend; And now, O true to friendship’s tie, I hail in thee my best ally. My surest refuge from my foes, And steadfast as the Lord of Snows. Still, when I muse how strong and bold Is cruel Báli, evil-souled, But ne’er, O chief of Raghu’s line, Have seen what strength in war is thine, Though in my heart I may not dare Doubt thy great might, despise, compare, Thoughts of his fearful deeds will rise And fill my soul with sad surmise. Speech, form, and trust which naught may move Thy secret strength and glory prove, As smouldering ashes dimly show The dormant fires that live below.”

He ceased: and Ráma answered, while Played o’er his lips a gracious smile: “Not yet convinced? This clear assay Shall drive each lingering doubt away.” Thus Ráma spoke his heart to cheer, To Dundubhi’s vast frame drew near: He touched it with his foot in play And sent it twenty leagues away. Sugríva marked what easy force Hurled through the air that demon’s corse Whose mighty bones were white and dried, And to the son of Raghu cried: “My brother Báli, when his might Was drunk and weary from the fight, Hurled forth the monster body, fresh With skin and sinews, blood and flesh. Now flesh and blood are dried away, The crumbling bones are light as hay, Which thou, O Raghu’s son, hast sent Flying through air in merriment. This test alone is weak to show If thou be stronger or the foe. By thee a heap of mouldering bone, By him the recent corse was thrown. Thy strength, O Prince, is yet untried: Come, pierce one tree: let this decide. Prepare thy ponderous bow and bring Close to thine ear the straining string. On yonder Sál tree fix thine eye, And let the mighty arrow fly, I doubt not, chief, that I shall see Thy pointed shaft transfix the tree. Then come, assay the easy task, And do for love the thing I ask. Best of all lights, the Day-God fills With glory earth and sky: Himálaya is the lord of hills That heave their heads on high. The royal lion is the best Of beasts that tread the earth; And thou, O hero, art confessed First in heroic worth.”

Canto XII. The Palm Trees.

Then Ráma, that his friend might know His strength unrivalled, grasped his bow, That mighty bow the foe’s dismay,— And on the string an arrow lay. Next on the tree his eye he bent, And forth the hurtling weapon went. Loosed from the matchless hero’s hold, That arrow, decked with burning gold, Cleft the seven palms in line, and through The hill that rose behind them flew: Six subterranean realms it passed, And reached the lowest depth at last, Whence speeding back through earth and air It sought the quiver, and rested there.(573) Upon the cloven trees amazed, The sovereign of the Vánars gazed. With all his chains and gold outspread Prostrate on earth he laid his head. Then, rising, palm to palm he laid In reverent act, obeisance made, And joyously to Ráma, best Of war-trained chiefs, these words addressed:

“What champion, Raghu’s son, may hope With thee in deadly fight to cope, Whose arrow, leaping from the bow, Cleaves tree and hill and earth below? Scarce might the Gods, arrayed for strife By Indra’s self, escape, with life Assailed by thy victorious hand: And how may Báli hope to stand? All grief and care are past away, And joyous thoughts my bosom sway, Who have in thee a friend, renowned, As Varuṇ(574) or as Indra, found. Then on! subdue,—’tis friendship’s claim,— My foe who bears a brother’s name. Strike Báli down beneath thy feet: With suppliant hands I thus entreat.” Sugríva ceased, and Ráma pressed The grateful Vánar to his breast; And thoughts of kindred feeling woke In Lakshmaṇ’s bosom, as he spoke: “On to Kishkindhá, on with speed! Thou, Vánar King, our way shalt lead, Then challenge Báli forth to fight. Thy foe who scorns a brother’s right.”

They sought Kishkindhá’s gate and stood Concealed by trees in densest wood, Sugríva, to the fight addressed, More closely drew his cinctured vest, And raised a wild sky-piercing shout To call the foeman Báli out.

Forth came impetuous Báli, stirred To fury by the shout he heard. So the great sun, ere night has ceased, Springs up impatient to the east. Then fierce and wild the conflict raged As hand to hand the foes engaged, As though in battle mid the stars Fought Mercury and fiery Mars.(575) To highest pitch of frenzy wrought With fists like thunderbolts they fought, While near them Ráma took his stand, And viewed the battle, bow in hand. Alike they stood in form and might, Like heavenly Aśvins(576) paired in fight, Nor might the son of Raghu know Where fought the friend and where the foe; So, while his bow was ready bent, No life-destroying shaft he sent. Crushed down by Báli’s mightier stroke Sugríva’s force now sank and broke, Who, hoping naught from Ráma’s aid, To Rishyamúka fled dismayed, Weary, and faint, and wounded sore, His body bruised and dyed with gore, From Báli’s blows, in rage and dread, Afar to sheltering woods he fled.

Nor Báli farther dared pursue, The curbing curse too well he knew. “Fled from thy death!” the victor cried, And home the mighty warrior hied. Hanúmán, Lakshmaṇ, Raghu’s son Beheld the conquered Vánar run, And followed to the sheltering shade Where yet Sugríva stood dismayed. Near and more near the chieftains came, Then, for intolerable shame, Not daring yet to lift his eyes, Sugríva spoke with burning sighs: “Thy matchless strength I first beheld, And dared my foe, by thee impelled. Why hast thou tried me with deceit And urged me to a sure defeat? Thou shouldst have said, “I will not slay Thy foeman in the coming fray.” For had I then thy purpose known I had not waged the fight alone.”

The Vánar sovereign, lofty-souled, In plaintive voice his sorrows told. Then Ráma spake: “Sugríva, list, All anger from thy heart dismissed, And I will tell the cause that stayed Mine arrow, and withheld the aid. In dress, adornment, port, and height, In splendour, battle-shout, and might, No shade of difference could I see Between thy foe, O King, and thee. So like was each, I stood at gaze, My senses lost in wildering maze, Nor loosened from my straining bow A deadly arrow at the foe, Lest in my doubt the shaft should send To sudden death our surest friend. O, if this hand in heedless guilt And rash resolve thy blood had spilt, Through every land, O Vánar King, My wild and foolish act would ring. Sore weight of sin on him must lie By whom a friend is made to die; And Lakshmaṇ, I, and Sítá, best Of dames, on thy protection rest. On, warrior! for the fight prepare; Nor fear again thy foe to dare. Within one hour thine eye shall view My arrow strike thy foeman through; Shall see the stricken Báli lie Low on the earth, and gasp and die. But come, a badge about thee bind, O monarch of the Vánar kind, That in the battle shock mine eyes The friend and foe may recognize. Come, Lakshmaṇ, let that creeper deck With brightest bloom Sugríva’s neck, And be a happy token, twined Around the chief of lofty mind.”

Upon the mountain slope there grew A threading creeper fair to view, And Lakshmaṇ plucked the bloom and round Sugríva’s neck a garland wound. Graced with the flowery wreath he wore, The Vánar chief the semblance bore Of a dark cloud at close of day Engarlanded with cranes at play, In glorious light the Vánar glowed As by his comrade’s side he strode, And, still on Ráma’s word intent, His steps to great Kishkindhá bent.

Canto XIII. The Return To Kishkindhá.

Thus with Sugríva, from the side Of Rishyamúka, Ráma hied, And stood before Kishkindhá’s gate Where Báli kept his regal state. The hero in his warrior hold Raised his great bow adorned with gold, And drew his pointed arrow bright As sunbeams, finisher of fight. Strong-necked Sugríva led the way With Lakshmaṇ mighty in the fray. Nala and Níla came behind With Hanumán of lofty mind, And valiant Tára, last in place, A leader of the Vánar race. They gazed on many a tree that showed The glory of its pendent load, And brook and limpid rill that made Sweet murmurs as they seaward strayed. They looked on caverns dark and deep, On bower and glen and mountain steep, And saw the opening lotus stud With roseate cup the crystal flood, While crane and swan and coot and drake Made pleasant music on the lake, And from the reedy bank was heard The note of many a happy bird. In open lawns, in tangled ways, They saw the tall deer stand at gaze, Or marked them free and fearless roam, Fed with sweet grass, their woodland home. At times two flashing tusks between The wavings of the wood were seen, And some mad elephant, alone, Like a huge moving hill, was shown. And scarcely less in size appeared Great monkeys all with dust besmeared. And various birds that roam the skies, And silvan creatures, met their eyes, As through the wood the chieftains sped, And followed where Sugríva led.

Then Ráma, as their way they made, Saw near at hand a lovely shade, And, as he gazed upon the trees, Spake to Sugríva words like these; “Those stately trees in beauty rise, Fair as a cloud in autumn skies. I fain, my friend, would learn from thee What pleasant grove is that I see.”

Thus Ráma spake, the mighty souled; And thus his tale Sugríva told:

“That, Ráma, is a wide retreat That brings repose to weary feet. Bright streams and fruit and roots are there, And shady gardens passing fair. There, neath the roof of hanging boughs, The sacred Seven maintained their vows. Their heads in dust were lowly laid, In streams their nightly beds were made. Each seventh night they broke their fast, But air was still their sole repast, And when seven hundred years were spent To homes in heaven the hermits went. Their glory keeps the garden yet, With walls of stately trees beset. Scarce would the Gods and demons dare, By Indra led, to enter there. No beast that roams the wood is found, No bird of air, within the bound; Or, thither if they idly stray, They find no more their homeward way. You hear at times mid dulcet tones The chime of anklets, rings, and zones. You hear the song and music sound, And heavenly fragrance breathes around, There duly burn the triple fires(577) Where mounts the smoke in curling spires, And, in a dun wreath, hangs above The tall trees, like a brooding dove. Round branch and crest the vapours close Till every tree enveloped shows A hill of lazulite when clouds Hang round it with their misty shrouds. With Lakshmaṇ, lord of Raghu’s line, In reverent guise thine head incline, And with fixt heart and suppliant hand Give honour to the sainted band. They who with faithful hearts revere The holy Seven who harboured here, Shall never, son of Raghu, know In all their lives an hour of woe.”

Then Ráma and his brother bent, And did obeisance reverent With suppliant hand and lowly head, Then with Sugríva onward sped. Beyond the sainted Seven’s abode Far on their way the chieftains strode, And great Kishkindhá’s portal gained, The royal town where Báli reigned. Then by the gate they took their stand All ready armed a noble band, And burning every one To slay in battle, hand to hand, Their foeman, Indra’s son.

Canto XIV. The Challenge.

They stood where trees of densest green Wove round their forms a veiling screen. O’er all the garden’s pleasant shade The eyes of King Sugríva strayed, And, as on grass and tree he gazed, The fires of wrath within him blazed. Then like a mighty cloud on high, When roars the tempest through the sky, Girt by his friends he thundered out His dread sky-rending battle-shout Like some proud lion in his gait, Or as the sun begins his state, Sugríva let his quick glance rest On Ráma whom he thus addressed: “There is the seat of Báli’s sway, Where flags on wall and turret play, Which mighty bands of Vánars hold, Rich in all arms and store of gold. Thy promise to thy mind recall That Báli by thy hand shall fall. As kindly fruits adorn the bough. So give my hopes their harvest now.”

In suppliant tone the Vánar prayed, And Raghu’s son his answer made: “By Lakshmaṇ’s hand this flowery twine Was wound about thee for a sign. The wreath of giant creeper throws About thy form its brillant glows, As though about the sun were set The bright stars for a coronet. One shaft of mine this day, dear friend, Thy sorrow and thy fear shall end. And, from the bowstring freed, shall be Giver of freedom, King, to thee. Then come, Sugríva, quickly show, Where’er he lie, thy bitter foe; And let my glance the wretch descry Whose deeds, a brother’s name belie. Yea, soon in dust and blood o’erthrown Shall Báli fall and gasp and groan. Once let this eye the foeman see, Then, if he live to turn and flee, Despise my puny strength, and shame With foul opprobrium Ráma’s name. Hast thou not seen his hand, O King, Through seven tall trees one arrow wing? Still in that strength securely trust, And deem thy foeman in the dust. In all my days, though surely tried By grief and woe, I ne’er have lied; And still by duty’s law restrained Will ne’er with falsehood’s charge be stained. Cast doubt away: the oath I sware Its kindly fruit shall quickly bear, As smiles the land with golden grain By mercy of the Lord of rain. Oh, warrior to the gate I defy Thy foe with shout and battle-cry, Till Báli with his chain of gold Come speeding from his royal hold. Proud hearts, with warlike fire aglow, Brook not the challenge of a foe: Each on his power and might relies, And most before his ladies eyes. King Báli loves the fray too well To linger in his citadel, And, when he hears thy battle-shout, All wild for war will hasten out.”

He spoke. Sugríva raised a cry That shook and rent the echoing sky, A shout so fierce and loud and dread That stately bulls in terror fled, Like dames who fly from threatened stain In some ignoble monarch’s reign. The deer in wild confusion ran Like horses turned in battle’s van. Down fell the birds, like Gods who fall When merits fail,(578) at that dread call. So fiercely, boldened for the fray, The offspring of the Lord of Day Sent forth his furious shout as loud As thunder from a labouring cloud, Or, where the gale blows fresh and free, The roaring of the troubled sea.

Canto XV. Tárá.

That shout, which shook the land with fear, In thunder smote on Báli’s ear, Where in the chamber barred and closed The sovereign with his dame reposed. Each amorous thought was rudely stilled, And pride and rage his bosom filled. His angry eyes flashed darkly red, And all his native brightness fled, As when, by swift eclipse assailed, The glory of the sun has failed. While in his fury uncontrolled He ground his teeth, his eyeballs rolled, He seemed a lake wherein no gem Of blossom decks the lotus stem. He heard, and with indignant pride Forth from the bower the Vánar hied. And the earth trembled at the beat And fury of his hastening feet. But Tárá to her consort flew, Her loving arms around him threw, And trembling and bewildered, gave Wise counsel that might heal and save: “O dear my lord, this rage control That like a torrent floods thy soul, And cast these idle thoughts away Like faded wreath of yesterday, O tarry till the morning light, Then, if thou wilt, go forth and fight. Think not I doubt thy valour, no; Or deem thee weaker than thy foe, Yet for a while would have thee stay Nor see thee tempt the fight to-day. Now list, my loving lord, and learn The reason why I bid thee turn. Thy foeman came in wrath and pride, And thee to deadly fight defied. Thou wentest out: he fought, and fled Sore wounded and discomfited. But yet, untaught by late defeat, He comes his conquering foe to meet, And calls thee forth with cry and shout: Hence spring, my lord, this fear and doubt. A heart so bold that will not yield, But yearns to tempt the desperate field, Such loud defiance, fiercely pressed, On no uncertain hope can rest. So lately by thine arm o’erthrown, He comes not back, I ween, alone. Some mightier comrade guards his side, And spurs him to this burst of pride. For nature made the Vánar wise: On arms of might his hope relies; And never will Sugríva seek A friend whose power to save is weak. Now listen while my lips unfold The wondrous tale my Angad told. Our child the distant forest sought, And, learnt from spies, the tidings brought. Two sons of Daśaratha, sprung From old Ikshváku, brave and young, Renowned in arms, in war untamed— Ráma and Lakshmaṇ are they named— Have with thy foe Sugríva made A league of love and friendly aid. Now Ráma, famed for exploit high, Is bound thy brother’s firm ally, Like fires of doom(579) that ruin all He makes each foe before him fall. He is the suppliant’s sure defence, The tree that shelters innocence. The poor and wretched seek his feet: In him the noblest glories meet. With skill and knowledge vast and deep His sire’s commands he loved to keep; With princely gifts and graces stored As metals deck the Mountains’ Lord.(580) Thou canst not, O my hero, stand Before the might of Ráma’s hand; For none may match his powers or dare With him in deeds of war compare. Hear, I entreat, the words I say, Nor lightly turn my rede away. O let fraternal discord cease, And link you in the bonds of peace. Let consecrating rites ordain Sugríva partner of thy reign. Let war and thoughts of conflict end, And be thou his and Ráma’s friend, Each soft approach of love begin, And to thy soul thy brother win; For whether here or there he be, Thy brother still, dear lord, is he. Though far and wide these eyes I strain A friend like him I seek in vain. Let gentle words his heart incline, And gifts and honours make him thine, Till, foes no more, in love allied, You stand as brothers side by side. Thou in high rank wast wont to hold Sugríva, formed in massive mould; Then come, thy brother’s love regain, For other aids are weak and vain. If thou would please my soul, and still Preserve me from all fear and ill, I pray thee by thy love be wise And do the thing which I advise. Assuage thy fruitless wrath, and shun The mightier arms of Raghu’s son; For Indra’s peer in might is he, A foe too strong, my lord, for thee.”

Canto XVI. The Fall Of Báli.

Thus Tárá with the starry eyes(581) Her counsel gave with burning sighs. But Báli, by her prayers unmoved, Spurned her advice, and thus reproved: “How may this insult, scathe, and scorn By me, dear love, be tamely born? My brother, yea my foe, comes nigh And dares me forth with shout and cry. Learn, trembler! that the valiant, they Who yield no step in battle fray, Will die a thousand deaths but ne’er An unavenged dishonour bear. Nor, O my love, be thou dismayed Though Ráma lend Sugríva aid, For one so pure and duteous, one Who loves the right, all sin will shun, Release me from thy soft embrace, And with thy dames thy steps retrace: Enough already, O mine own, Of love and sweet devotion shown. Drive all thy fear and doubt away; I seek Sugríva in the fray His boisterous rage and pride to still, And tame the foe I would not kill. My fury, armed with brandished trees, Shall strike Sugríva to his knees: Nor shall the humbled foe withstand The blows of my avenging hand, When, nerved by rage and pride, I beat The traitor down beneath my feet. Thou, love, hast lent thine own sweet aid, And all thy tender care displayed; Now by my life, by these who yearn To serve thee well, I pray thee turn. But for a while, dear dame, I go To come triumphant o’er the foe.”

Thus Báli spake in gentlest tone: Soft arms about his neck were thrown; Then round her lord the lady went With sad steps slow and reverent. She stood in solemn guise to bless With prayers for safety and success, Then with her train her chamber sought By grief and racking fear distraught.

With serpent’s pantings fierce and fast King Báli from the city passed. His glance, as each quick breath he drew, Around to find the foe he threw, And saw where fierce Sugríva showed His form with golden hues that glowed, And, as a fire resplendent, stayed To meet his foe in arms arrayed. When Báli, long-armed chieftain, found Sugríva stationed on the ground, Impelled by warlike rage he braced His warrior garb about his waist, And with his mighty arm raised high Rushed at Sugríva with a cry. But when Sugríva, fierce and bold, Saw Báli with his chain of gold, His arm he heaved, his hand he closed, And face to face his foe opposed. To him whose eyes with fury shone, In charge impetuous rushing on, Skilled in each warlike art and plan, Báli with hasty words began: “My ponderous hand, to fight addressed With fingers clenched and arm compressed Shall on thy death doomed brow descend And, crashing down, thy life shall end.” He spoke; and wild with rage and pride, The fierce Sugríva thus replied: “Thus let my arm begin the strife And from thy body crush the life.”

Then Báli, wounded and enraged, With furious blows the battle waged. Sugríva seemed, with blood-streams dyed, A hill with fountains in his side. But with his native force unspent A Sál tree from the earth he rent, And like the bolt of Indra smote On Báli’s head and chest and throat. Bruised by the blows he could not shield, Half vanquished Báli sank and reeled, As sinks a vessel with her freight Borne down by overwhelming weight. Swift as Suparṇa’s(582) swiftest flight In awful strength they rushed to fight: So might the sun and moon on high Encountering battle in the sky. Fierce and more fierce, as fought the foes, The furious rage of combat rose. They warred with feet and arms and knees, With nails and stones and boughs and trees, And blows descending fast as rain Dyed each dark form with crimson stain, While like two thunder-clouds they met With battle-cry and shout and threat. Then Ráma saw Sugríva quail, Marked his worn strength grow weak and fail. Saw how he turned his wistful eye To every quarter of the sky. His friend’s defeat he could not brook, Bent on his shaft an eager look, Then burned to slay the conquering foe, And laid his arrow on the bow. As to an orb the bow he drew Forth from the string the arrow flew Like Fate’s tremendous discus hurled By Yáma(583) forth to end the world. So loud the din that every bird The bow-string’s clans with terror heard, And wildly fled the affrighted deer As though the day of doom were near. So, deadly as the serpent’s fang, Forth from the string the arrow sprang. Like the red lightning’s flash and flame It flew unerring to its aim, And, hissing murder through the air, Pierced Báli’s breast, and quivered there. Struck by the shaft that flew so well The mighty Vánar reeled and fell, As earthward Indra’s flag they pull When Aśvíní’s fair moon is full.(584)

Canto XVII. Báli’s Speech.

Like some proud tree before the blast Brave Báli to the ground was cast, Where prostrate in the dust he rolled Clad in the sheen of glistening gold, As when uptorn the standard lies Of the great God who rules the skies. When low upon the earth was laid The lord whom Vánar tribes obeyed, Dark as a moonless sky no more His land her joyous aspect wore. Though low in dust and mire was rolled The form of Báli lofty-souled, Still life and valour, might and grace Clung to their well-loved dwelling-place. That golden chain with rich gems set, The choicest gift of Sákra,(585) yet Preserved his life nor let decay Steal strength and beauty’s light away. Still from that chain divinely wrought His dusky form a glory caught, As a dark cloud, when day is done, Made splendid by the dying sun. As fell the hero, crushed in fight, There beamed afar a triple light From limbs, from chain, from shaft that drank His life-blood as the warrior sank. The never-failing shaft, impelled By the great bow which Ráma held, Brought bliss supreme, and lit the way To Brahmá’s worlds which ne’er decay.(586)

Ráma and Lakshmaṇ nearer drew The mighty fallen foe to view, Mahendra’s son, the brave and bold, The monarch with his chain of gold, With lustrous face and tawny eyes, Broad chest, and arms of wondrous size, Like Lord Mahendra fierce in fight, Or Vishṇu’s never-conquered might, Now fallen like Yayáti(587) sent From heaven, his store of merit spent, Like the bright flame that pales and dies, Like the great sun who fires the skies, Doomed in the general doom to fall When time shall end and ruin all.

The wounded Báli, when he saw Ráma and Lakshmaṇ nearer draw, Keen words to Raghu’s son, impressed With justice’ holy stamp, addressed:

“What fame, from one thou hast not slain In front of battle, canst thou gain, Whose secret hand has laid me low When madly fighting with my foe? From every tongue thy glory rings, A scion of a line of kings, True to thy vows, of noblest race, With every gentle gift and grace: Whose tender heart for woe can feel, And joy in every creature’s weal: Whose breast with high ambition swells, Knows duty’s claim and ne’er rebels. They praise thy valour, patience, ruth, Thy firmness, self-restraint, and truth: Thy hand prepared for sin’s control, All virtues of a princely soul. I thought of all these gifts of thine, And glories of an ancient line, I set my Tárá’s tears at naught, I met Sugríva and we fought. O Ráma, till this fatal morn I held that thou wouldst surely scorn To strike me as I fought my foe And thought not of a stranger’s blow, But now thine evil heart is shown, A yawning well with grass o’ergrown. Thou wearest virtue’s badge,(588) but guile And meanest sin thy soul defile. I took thee not for treacherous fire, A sinner clad in saint’s attire; Nor deemed thou idly wouldst profess The show and garb of righteousness. In fenced town, in open land, Ne’er hast thou suffered at this hand, Nor canst of proud contempt complain: Then wherefore is the guiltless slain? My harmless life in woods I lead, On forest fruits and roots I feed. My foeman in the field I sought, And ne’er with thee, O Ráma, fought. Upon thy limbs, O King, I see The raiment of a devotee; And how can one like thee, who springs From a proud line of ancient kings, Beneath fair virtue’s mask, disgrace His lineage by a deed so base? From Raghu is thy long descent, For duteous deeds prëeminent: Why, sinner clad in saintly dress, Roamest thou through the wilderness? Truth, valour, justice free from spot, The hand that gives and grudges not, The might that strikes the sinner down, These bring a prince his best renown. Here in the woods, O King, we live On roots and fruit which branches give.(589) Thus nature framed our harmless race: Thou art a man supreme in place. Silver and gold and land provoke The fierce attack, the robber’s stroke, Canst thou desire this wild retreat, The berries and the fruit we eat? ’Tis not for mighty kings to tread The flowery path, by pleasure led. Theirs be the arm that crushes sin, Theirs the soft grace to woo and win: The steadfast will that guides the state, Wise favour to the good and great; And for all time are kings renowned Who blend these arts and ne’er confound. But thou art weak and swift to ire, Unstable, slave of each desire. Thou tramplest duty in the dust, And in thy bow is all thy trust. Thou carest naught for noble gain, And treatest virtue with disdain, While every sense its captive draws To follow pleasure’s changing laws. I wronged thee not in word or deed, But by thy deadly dart I bleed. What wilt thou, mid the virtuous, say To purge thy lasting stain away? All these, O King, must sink to hell, The regicide, the infidel, He who in blood and slaughter joys, A Bráhman or a cow destroys, Untimely weds in law’s despite Scorning an elder brother’s right,(590) Who dares his Teacher’s bed ascend, The miser, spy, and treacherous friend. These impious wretches, one and all, Must to the hell of sinners fall. My skin the holy may not wear, Useless to thee my bones and hair; Nor may my slaughtered body be The food of devotees like thee. These five-toed things a man may slay And feed upon the fallen prey; The mailed rhinoceros may die, And, with the hare his food supply. Iguanas he may kill and eat, With porcupine and tortoise meat.(591) But all the wise account it sin To touch my bones and hair and skin. My flesh they may not eat; and I A useless prey, O Ráma, die. In vain my Tárá reasoned well, On dull deaf ears her counsel fell. I scorned her words though sooth and sweet, And hither rushed my fate to meet. Ah for the land thou rulest! she Finds no protection, lord, from thee, Neglected like some noble dame By a vile husband dead to shame. Mean-hearted coward, false and vile, Whose cruel soul delights in guile, Could Daśaratha, noblest king, Beget so mean and base a thing? Alas! an elephant, in form Of Ráma, in a maddening storm Of passion casting to the ground The girth of law(592) that clipped him round, Too wildly passionate to feel The prick of duty’s guiding steel,(593) Has charged me unawares, and dead I fall beneath his murderous tread. How, stained with this my base defeat, How wilt thou dare, where good men meet, To speak, when every tongue will blame With keen reproach this deed of shame? Such hero strength and valour, shown Upon the innocent alone, Thou hast not proved in manly strife On him who robbed thee of thy wife. Hadst thou but fought in open field And met me boldly unconcealed, This day had been thy fate to fall, Slain by this hand, to Yáma’s hall. In vain I strove, and struck by thee Fell by a hand I could not see. Thus bites a snake, for sins of yore, A sleeping man who wakes no more. Sugríva’s foeman thou hast killed, And thus his heart’s desire fulfilled; But, Ráma, hadst thou sought me first, And told the hope thy soul has nursed, That very day had I restored The Maithil lady to her lord; And, binding Rávaṇ with a chain, Had laid him at thy feet unslain. Yea, were she sunk in deepest hell, Or whelmed beneath the ocean’s swell, I would have followed on her track And brought the rescued lady back, As Hayagríva(594) once set free From hell the white Aśvatarí.(595) That when my spirit wings its flight Sugríva reign, is just and right. But most unjust, O King, that I, Slain by thy treacherous hand, should lie. Be still, my heart: this earthly state Is darkly ruled by sovereign Fate. The realm is lost and won: defy Thy questioners with apt reply.”(596)

Canto XVIII. Ráma’s Reply.

He ceased: and Ráma’s heart was stirred At every keen reproach he heard. There Báli lay, a dim dark sun, His course of light and glory run: Or like the bed of Ocean dried Of his broad floods from side to side, Or helpless, as the dying fire, Hushed his last words of righteous ire. Then Ráma, with his spirit moved, The Vánar king in turn reproved: “Why dost thou, Báli, thus revile, And castest not a glance the while On claims of duty, love, and gain, And customs o’er the world that reign? Why dost thou blame me, rash and blind, Fickle as all thy Vánar kind, Slighting each rule of ancient days Which all the good and prudent praise? This land, each hill and woody chase, Belongs to old Ikshváku’s race: With bird and beast and man, the whole Is ours to cherish and control. Now Bharat, prompt at duty’s call, Wise, just, and true, is lord of all. Each claim of law, love, gain he knows, And wrath and favour duly shows. A king from truth who never bends, And grace with vigour wisely blends; With valour worthy of his race, He knows the claims of time and place. Now we and other kings of might, By his ensample taught aright, The lands of every region tread That justice may increase and spread. While royal Bharat, wise and just, Rules the broad earth, his glorious trust, Who shall attempt, while he is lord, A deed by Justice held abhorred? We now, as Bharat has decreed, Let justice guide our every deed, And toil each sinner to repress Who scorns the way of righteousness. Thou from that path hast turned aside, And virtue’s holy law defied, Left the fair path which kings should tread, And followed pleasure’s voice instead. The man who cleaves to duty’s law Regards these three with filial awe— The sire, the elder brother, third Him from whose lips his lore he heard. Thus too, for duty’s sake, the wise Regard with fond paternal eyes The well-loved younger brother, one Their lore has ripened, and a son. Fine are the laws which guide the good, Abstruse, and hardly understood; Only the soul, enthroned within The breast of each, knows right from sin. But thou art wild and weak of soul, And spurnest, like thy race, control; The true and right thou canst not find, The blind consulting with the blind. Incline thine ear and I will teach The cause that prompts my present speech. This tempest of thy soul assuage, Nor blame me in thine idle rage. On this great sin thy thoughts bestow, The sin for which I lay thee low. Thou, Báli, in thy brother’s life Hast robbed him of his wedded wife, And keepest, scorning ancient right, His Rumá for thine own delight. Thy son’s own wife should scarcely be More sacred in thine eyes than she. All duty thou hast scorned, and hence Comes punishment for dire offence. For those who blindly do amiss There is, I ween, no way but this: To check the rash who dare to stray From customs which the good obey, I may not, sprung of Kshatriya line, Forgive this heinous sin of thine: The laws for those who sin like thee The penalty of death decree. Now Bharat rules with sovereign sway, And we his royal word obey. There was no hope of pardon, none, For the vile deed that thou hast done, That wisest monarch dooms to die The wretch whose crimes the law defy; And we, chastising those who err, His righteous doom administer. My soul accounts Sugríva dear E’en as my brother Lakshmaṇ here. He brings me blessing, and I swore His wife and kingdom to restore: A bond in solemn honour bound When Vánar chieftains stood around. And can a king like me forsake His friend, and plighted promise break? Reflect, O Vánar, on the cause, The sanction of eternal laws, And, justly smitten down, confess Thou diest for thy wickedness. By honour was I bound to lend Assistance to a faithful friend; And thou hast met a righteous fate Thy former sins to expiate. And thus wilt thou some merit win And make atonement for thy sin. For hear me, Vánar King, rehearse What Manu(597) spake in ancient verse,— This holy law, which all accept Who honour duty, have I kept: “Pure grow the sinners kings chastise, And, like the virtuous, gain the skies; By pain or full atonement freed, They reap the fruit of righteous deed, While kings who punish not incur The penalties of those who err.” Mándhátá(598) once, a noble king, Light of the line from which I spring, Punished with death a devotee When he had stooped to sin like thee; And many a king in ancient time Has punished frantic sinners’ crime, And, when their impious blood was spilt, Has washed away the stain of guilt. Cease, Báli, cease: no more complain: Reproaches and laments are vain, For thou art justly punished: we Obey our king and are not free. Once more, O Báli, lend thine ear Another weightiest plea to hear. For this, when heard and pondered well, Will all complaint and rage dispel. My soul will ne’er this deed repent, Nor was my shaft in anger sent. We take the silvan tribes beset With snare and trap and gin and net, And many a heedless deer we smite From thickest shade, concealed from sight. Wild for the slaughter of the game, At stately stags our shafts we aim. We strike them bounding scared away, We strike them as they stand at bay, When careless in the shade they lie, Or scan the plain with watchful eye. They turn away their heads; we aim, And none the eager hunter blame. Each royal saint, well trained in law Of duty, loves his bow to draw And strike the quarry, e’en as thou Hast fallen by mine arrow now, Fighting with him or unaware,— A Vánar thou.—I little care.(599) But yet, O best of Vánars, know That kings who rule the earth bestow Fruit of pure life and virtuous deed, And lofty duty’s hard-won meed. Harm not thy lord the king: abstain From act and word that cause him pain; For kings are children of the skies Who walk this earth in men’s disguise. But thou, in duty’s claims untaught, Thy breast with blinding passion fraught, Assailest me who still have clung To duty, with thy bitter tongue.”

He ceased: and Báli sore distressed The sovereign claims of law confessed, And freed, o’erwhelmed with woe and shame, The lord of Raghu’s race from blame. Then, reverent palm to palm applied, To Ráma thus the Vánar cried: “True, best of men, is every word That from thy lips these ears have heard, It ill beseems a wretch like me To bandy empty words with thee. Forgive the angry taunts that broke From my wild bosom as I spoke. And lay not to my charge, O King, My mad reproaches’ idle sting. Thou, in the truth by trial trained, Best knowledge of the right hast gained: And layest, just and pure within, The meetest penalty on sin. Through every bond of law I burst, The boldest sinner and the worst. O let thy right-instructing speech Console my heart and wisely teach.”

Like some sad elephant who stands Fast sinking in the treacherous sands, Thus Báli raised despairing eyes; Then spake again with sobs and sighs:

“Not for myself, O King, I grieve, For Tárá or the friends I leave, As for sweet Angad, my dear son, My noble, only little one. For, nursed in luxury and bliss, His father he will mourn and miss, And like a stream whose fount is dry Will waste away and sink and die,— My own dear child, my only boy, His mother Tárá’s hope and joy. Spare him, O son of Raghu, spare The child entrusted to thy care. My Angad and Sugríva treat E’en as thy heart considers meet, For thou, O chief of men, art strong To guard the right and punish wrong. O, if thou wilt thine ear incline To hear these dying words of mine, He and Sugríva will to thee As Bharat and as Lakshmaṇ be. Let not my Tárá, left forlorn, Weep for Sugríva’s wrathful scorn; Nor let him, for her lord’s offence, Condemn her faithful innocence. And well and wisely may he reign If thy dear grace his power sustain: If, following thee his friend and guide, He turn not from thy hest aside: Thus may he reign with glory, nay Thus to the skies will win his way. Though stayed by Tárá’s fond recall, By thy dear hand I longed to fall. Against my brother rushed and fought, And gained the death I long have sought.”

Then Ráma thus the prince consoled From whose clear eyes the mists were rolled: “Grieve not for those thou leavest thus, Nor tremble for thyself or us, For we will deal with thine and thee As duty and the laws decree. He who exacts and he who pays, Is justly slain or justly slays, Shall in the life to come have bliss; For each has done his task in this. Thou, wandering from the right, art made Pure by the forfeit thou hast paid. Thy weight of sins is cast aside, And duty’s claim is satisfied. Then grieve no more, O Prince, but clear Thy bosom from all doubt and fear, For fate, inexorably stern, Thou hast no power to move or turn. Thy princely Angad still will share My tender love, Sugríva’s care; And to thy offspring shall be shown Affection that shall match thine own.”

Canto XIX. Tárá’s Grief.

No answer gave the Vánar king To Ráma’s prudent counselling. Battered and bruised by tree and stone, By Ráma’s arrow overthrown, Fainting upon the ground he lay, Gasping his troubled life away.

But Tárá in the Vánar’s hall Heard tidings of her husband’s fall; Heard that a shaft from Ráma’s bow Had laid the royal Báli low. Her darling Angad by her side, Distracted from her home she hied. Then nigh the place of battle drew The Vánars, Angad’s retinue. They saw the bow-armed Ráma: dread Fell on them, and they turned and fled. Like helpless deer, their leaders slain, So wildly fled the startled train. But Tárá saw, and nearer pressed, And thus the flying band addressed: “O Vánars, ye who ever stand About our king, a trusty band, Where is the lion master? why Forsake ye thus your lord and fly? Say, lies he dead upon the plain, A brother by a brother slain, Or pierced by shafts from Ráma’s bow That rain from far upon the foe?”

Thus Tárá questioned, and was still: Then, wearers of each shape at will, The Vánars thus with one accord Answered the Lady of their lord: “Turn, Tárá turn, and half undone Save Angad thy beloved son. There Ráma stands in death’s disguise, And conquered Báli faints and dies. He by whose strong arm, thick and fast, Uprooted trees and rocks were cast, Lies smitten by a shaft that came Resistless as the lightning flame. When he, whose splendour once could vie With Indra’s, regent of the sky, Fell by that deadly arrow, all The Vánars fled who marked his fall. Let all our chiefs their succours bring, And Angad be anointed king; For all who come of Vánar race Will serve him set in Báli’s place. Or else our conquering foes to-day Within our wall will force their way, Polluting with their hostile feet The chambers of thy loved retreat. Great fear is on us, all and one. Those who have wives and who have none, They lust for power, are fierce and bold, Or hate us for the strife of old.”

She heard their speech as, sore afraid, Arrested in their flight, they stayed, And gave her answer as became The spirit of so true a dame: “Nay, what have I to do with pelf, With son, with kingdom, or with self, When he, my noble lord, who leads The Vánars like a lion, bleeds? His high-souled victor will I meet, And throw me prostrate at his feet.”

She hastened forth, her bosom rent With anguish, weeping as she went, And striking, mastered by her woes, Her head and breast with frantic blows. She hurried to the field and found Her husband prostrate on the ground, Who quelled the hostile Vánars’ might, Whose bank was never turned in flight: Whose arm a massy rock could throw As Indra hurls his bolts below: Fierce as the rushing tempest, loud As thunder from a labouring cloud: Whene’er he roared his voice of fear Struck terror on the boldest ear: Now slain, as, hungry for the prey, A tiger might a lion slay: Or when, his serpent foe to seek, Suparṇa(600) with his furious beak Tears up a sacred hillock, long The reverence of a village throng, Its altar with their offerings spread, And the gay flag that waved o’erhead. She looked and saw the victor stand Resting upon his bow his hand: And fierce Sugríva she descried, And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side. She passed them by, nor stayed to view, Swift to her husband’s side she flew; Then as she looked, her strength gave way, And in the dust she fell and lay. Then, as if startled ere the close Of slumber, from the earth she rose. Upon her dying husband, round Whose soul the coils of Death were wound, Her eyes in agony she bent And called him with a shrill lament. Sugríva, when he heard her cries, And saw the queen with weeping eyes, And youthful Angad standing there, His load of grief could hardly bear.

Canto XX. Tárá’s Lament.

Again she bent her to the ground, Her arms about her husband wound. Sobbed on his breast, and sick and faint With anguish poured her wild complaint: “Brave in the charge of battle, boast And glory of the Vánar host, Why on the cold earth wilt thou lie And give no answer when I cry? Up, warrior, from thy lowly bed! A meeter couch for thee is spread. It ill beseems a glorious king On the bare ground his limbs to fling. Ah, surely must thy love be strong For her whom thou hast governed long, If thou, my hero, canst recline On her cold breast forsaking mine. Or, famed for justice through the land, Thou on the road to heaven hast planned Some city fairer far than this To be thy new metropolis. Are all our pleasures ended now, With those delicious hours which thou And I, dear lord, together spent In woods that breathed the honey’s scent? Whelmed in my sorrow’s boundless sea, There is no joy, no hope, for me, When my beloved lord, who led The Vánars to the fight, is dead, My widowed heart is stern and cold. Or, at the sight mine eyes behold, O’ermastered would it end this ache And in a thousand fragments break. Ah noble Vánar, doomed to pay The penalty of all today— Sugríva from his home expelled, And Rumá(601) from his arms withheld. Our Vánar race and thee to save, Wise counsel for thy weal I gave; But thou, by wildest folly stirred, Wouldst give no credence to my word, And now wilt woo the nymphs above, And shake their souls with pangs of love. Ah, never could it be that thou Beneath Sugríva’s power shouldst bow, Thy conqueror is none but Fate Whose mandates all who breathe await. And does no thrill of anguish run Through the stern breast of Raghu’s son, Whose base hand dealt a coward’s blow, And smote thee fighting with thy foe? Reft of my lord my days, alas! In bitter bitter woe will pass: And I, long blest with every good, Must bear my dreary widowhood. And when his uncle’s brow is stern, When his fierce eyes with fury burn, Ah, what will be my Angad’s fate, So fair and young and delicate? Come, darling, for the last sad sight, Of thy dear sire who loved the right; For soon thine eyes will long in vain A look at that loved face to gain. And, hero, as thy child draws near, With tender words his spirit cheer; Thy dying wishes gently speak, And kiss him on the brows and cheek. High fame, I ween, has Ráma won By this great deed his hand has done, His debt to brave Sugríva paid And kept the promise that he made. Be happy, King Sugríva, lord Of Ramá to thine arms restored: Enjoy uninterrupted reign, For he, thy foe, at length is slain. Dost thou not hear me speak, and why Hast thou no word of soft reply? Will thou not lift thine eyes and see These dames who look to none but thee?”

From their sad eyes, as Tárá spoke, The floods of bitter sorrow broke: Then, pressing close to Angad’s side, Each lifted up her voice and cried:

“How couldst thou leave thine Angad thus, And go, for ever go, from us— Thy child so dear in brave attire, Graced with the virtues of his sire? If e’er in want of thought, O chief, One deed of mine have caused thee grief, Forgive my folly, I entreat, And with my head I touch thy feet.”

Again the hapless Tárá wept As to her husband’s side she crept, And wild with sorrow and dismay Sat on the ground where Báli lay.

Canto XXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

There, like a fallen star, the dame Fell by her lord’s half lifeless frame; And Hanumán drew softly near, And strove her grieving heart to cheer:

“By changeless law our bliss and woe From ancient worth and folly flow. What fruits soe’er we cull, the seeds Were scattered by our former deeds.(602) Why mourn another’s mournful fate, And weep, thyself unfortunate? Be calm, O thou whose heart is wise, For none deserves another’s sighs. Look up, with idle sorrow strive: Thy child, his heir, is yet alive. Let needful rites be duly done, Nor in thy woe forget thy son. Regard the law which all obey: They spring to life, they pass away. Begin the task that bids thee rise, And stay these tears, for thou art wise. Our lord the king is doomed to die, On whom ten million hearts rely. Kind, liberal, patient, true, and just Was he in whom they place their trust, And now he seeks the land of those Who for the right subdue their foes. Each Vánar lord with all his train, Each ranger of this wild domain, And Angad here, thy darling, see A governor and friend in thee. These twain(603) whose hearts with sorrow ache The funeral rites shall undertake, And Angad by his mother’s care Be king, his father’s rightful heir. Now let him pay, as laws require, His sacred duty to his sire, Nor one solemnity omit Of all that mighty kings befit. And when thy fond eye sees thine own Dear Angad on his father’s throne, Then, lightened of its load of pain, Thy spirit will have rest again.”

She heard his speech, she heaved her head, Looked upon Hanumán and said:

“Sweeter my slain lord’s limbs to touch, Than Angad or a hundred such. No rule or right, a widowed dame, O’er Angad or the realm I claim. Sugríva is the uncle, he In every act supreme must be. I pray thee, chief, this plan resign, Nor claim from me what ne’er is mine. The father with his tender care Guards the dear child the mother bare, Where’er I be, no sweeter task, No happier joy I hope or ask Than thus to sit with loving eyes And watch the bed where Báli lies.

Canto XXII. Báli Dead.

There breathing still with slow faint sighs Lay Báli on the ground: his eyes, Damp with the tears of death, he raised, On conquering Sugríva gazed, And then in clearest speech expressed The tender feelings of his breast: “Not to my charge, Sugríva, lay Thine injuries avenged to-day; But rather blame resistless Fate That urged me on infuriate. Fate ne’er agreed our lives to bless With simultaneous happiness: To dwell like brothers side by side In tender love was still denied. The Vánars’ realm is thine to-day: Begin, O King, thy rightful sway;(604) For I must go at Yáma’s call To sojourn in his gloomy hall; Must part and leave this very hour My life, my realm, my kingly power, And go instead of these to gain Bright glory free from spot and stain. Now at thy hands one boon I seek With the last words my lips shall speak, And, though it be no easy thing, Perform the task I give thee, King. This son of mine, no foolish boy, Worthy of bliss and nursed in joy,— See, prostrate on the ground he lies, The hot tears welling from his eyes— The child I love so well, more sweet Than life itself, for woe unmeet,— To him be kindly favour shown: O guard and keep him as thine own. Retain him ever by thy side, His father, helper, friend, and guide. From fear and woe his young life save, And give him all his father gave. Then Tárá’s son in time shall be Brave, resolute, and famed like thee, And march before thee to the fight Where stricken fiends shall own his might. While yet a tender stripling, fame Shall bruit abroad his warrior name, And brightly shall his glory shine For exploits worthy of his line. Child of Susheṇ,(605) my Tárá well Obscurest lore can read and tell; And, trained in wondrous art, divines Each mystery of boding signs. Her solemn warning ne’er despise, Do boldly what her lips advise; For things to come her eye can see, And with her words events agree. And for the son of Raghu’s sake The toil and danger undertake: For breach of faith were grievous wrong, Nor wouldst thou be unpunished long. Now, brother, take this chain of gold, Gift of celestial hands of old, Or when I die its charm will flee, And all its might be lost with me.”

The loving speech Sugríva heard, And all his heart with woe was stirred. Remorse and gentle pity stole Each thought of triumph from his soul: Thus fades the light when Ráhu(606) mars The glory of the Lord of Stars.(607) All angry thoughts were stayed and stilled And kindly love his bosom filled. His brother’s word the chief obeyed And took the chain as Báli prayed. On little Angad standing nigh The dying hero fixed his eye, And, ready from this world to part, Spoke the fond utterance of his heart:

“Let time and place thy thoughts employ: In woe be strong, be meek in joy. Accept both pain and pleasure, still Obedient to Sugríva’s will. Thou hast, my darling, from the first With tender care been softly nursed; But harder days, if thou wouldst win Sugríva’s love, must now begin. To those who hate him ne’er incline, Nor count his foe a friend of thine. In all thy thoughts his welfare seek, Obedient, lowly, faithful, meek. Let no rash suit his bosom pain, Nor yet from due requests abstain.(608) Each is a grievous fault, between The two is found the happy mean.”

Then Báli ceased: his eyeballs rolled In stress of anguish uncontrolled His massive teeth were bared to view, And from the frame the spirit flew. Their lord and leader dead, the crowd Of noblest Vánars shrieked aloud: “Since thou, O King, hast sought the skies All desolate Kishkindhá lies. Her woods, where Vánars loved to rove, Are empty now, and hill and grove. From every eye the light is fled, Since thou, our mighty lord, art dead. Thine was the unwearied arm that bore The brunt of deadly fight of yore With Golabh the Gandharva, when, Lasting through five long years and ten, The dreadful conflict knew no stay In gloom of night, in glare of day; And when the fifteenth year had past Thy dire opponent fell at last. If such a foeman fell beneath Our hero’s arm and awful teeth Who freed us from our terror, how Is conquering Báli fallen now?”

Then when they saw their leader slain Great anguish seized the Vánar train, Weeping their mighty chief, as when In pastures near a lion’s den The cows by sudden fear are stirred, Slain the bold bull who led the herd. And hapless Tárá sank below The whelming waters of her woe, Looked upon Báli’s face and fell Beside him whom she loved go well, Like a young creeper clinging round A tall tree prostrate on the ground.

Canto XXIII. Tárá’s Lament.

She kissed her lifeless husband’s face, She clasped him in a close embrace, Laid her soft lips upon his head; Then words like these the mourner said:

“No words of mine wouldst thou regard, And now thy bed is cold and hard. Upon the rude rough ground o’erthrown, Beneath thee naught but sand and stone. To thee the earth is dearer far Than I and my caresses are, If thou upon her breast wilt lie, And to my words make no reply. Ah my beloved, good and brave, Bold to attack and strong to save, Fate is Sugríva’s thrall, and we In him our lord and master see. Lo, by thy bed, a mournful band, Thy Vánar chiefs lamenting stand. O hear thy nobles’ groans and cries, O mark thy Angad’s weeping eyes, O list to my entreaties, break The chains of slumber and awake. Ah me, my lord, this lowly bed Where rest thy limbs and fallen head, Is the cold couch where smitten lay Thy foemen in the bloody fray. O noble heart from blemish free, Lover of war, beloved by me. Why hast thou fled away and left Thy Tárá of all hope bereft? Unwise the father who allows His child to be a warrior’s spouse, For, hero, see thy consort’s fate, A widow now most desolate, For ever broken is my pride, My hope of lasting bliss has died, And sinking in the lowest deep Of sorrow’s sea I pine and weep. Ah, surely not of earthly mould, This stony heart is stern and cold, Or, in a hundred pieces rent, It had not lingered to lament. Dead, dead! my husband, friend, and lord In whom my loving hopes were stored, First in the field, his foemen’s dread, My own victorious Báli, dead! A woman when her lord has died, Though children flourish by her side, Though stores of gold her coffers fill, Is called a lonely widow still. Alas, thy bleeding gashes make Around thy limbs a purple lake: Thus slumbering was thy wont to lie On cushions bright with crimson dye. Dark streams of welling blood besmear Thy limbs where dust and mire adhere, Nor have I strength, weighed down by woe, Mine arms about thy form to throw. The issue of this day has brought Sugríva all his wishes sought, For Ráma shot one shaft and he Is freed from fear and jeopardy. Alas, alas, I may not rest My head upon thy wounded breast, Obstructed by the massive dart Deep buried in thy bleeding heart.”

Then Níla from his bosom drew The fatal shaft that pierced him through, Like some tremendous serpent deep In caverns of a hill asleep. As from the hero’s wound it came, Shot from the shaft a gleam of flame, Like the last flashes of the sun Descending when his course is run. From the wide rent in crimson flood Rushed the full stream of Báli’s blood, Like torrents down a mountain’s side With golden ore and copper dyed. Then Tárá brushed with tender care The dust of battle from his hair, While her sad eyes poured down their rain Upon her lord untimely slain. Once more she looked upon the dead; Then to her bright-eyed child she said: “Turn hither, turn thy weeping eyes Where low in death thy father lies. By sinful deed and bitter hate Our lord has met his mournful fate. Bright as the sun at early morn To Yáma’s halls is Báli borne. Then go, my child, salute the king, From whom our bliss and honour spring.”

Obedient to his mother’s hest His father’s feet he gently pressed With twining arms and lingering hands: “Father,” he cried, “here Angad stands.”

Then Tárá: “Art thou stern and mute, Regardless of thy child’s salute? Hast thou no blessing for thy son, No word for little Angad, none? O, hero, at thy lifeless feet Here with my boy I take my seat, As some sad mother of the herd, By the fierce lion undeterred, Lies moaning by the grassy dell Wherein her lord and leader fell. How, having wrought that awful rite, The sacrifice of deadly fight, Wherein the shaft by Ráma sped Supplied the place of water shed, How hast thou bathed thee at the end Without thy wife her aid to lend?(609) Why do mine eyes no more behold Thy bright beloved chain of gold, Which, pleased with thee, the Immortals’ King About thy neck vouchsafed to fling? Still lingering on thy lifeless face I see the pride of royal race: Thus when the sun has set, his glow Still rests upon the Lord of Snow. Alas my hero! undeterred Thou wouldst not listen to my word. With tears and prayers I sued in vain: Thou wouldst not listen, and art slain. Gone is my bliss, my glory: I And Angad now with thee will die.”

Canto XXIV. Sugríva’s Lament.

But when Sugríva saw her weep O’erwhelmed in sorrow’s rushing deep, Swift through his bosom pierced the sting Of anguish for the fallen king. At the sad sight his eyes beheld A flood of bitter tears outwelled, And, with his bosom racked and rent, To Ráma with his train he went. He came with faltering steps and slow Where Ráma held his mighty bow And arrow like a venomed snake, And to the son of Raghu spake: “Well hast thou kept, O King, thy vow: The promised fruit is gathered now. But life is marred, my soul to-day Turns sickening from all joy away. For, while this queen laments and sighs Amid a mourning people’s cries, And Angad weeps his father slain, How can my heart delight to reign? For outrage, fury, senseless pride, My brother, doomed of yore, has died. Yet, Raghu’s son, in bitter woe I mourn his fated overthrow. Ah, better far in pain and ill To dwell on Rishyamúka still Than gain the heaven of Gods and all Its pleasures by my brother’s fall. Did not he cry,—great-hearted foe,— “Go, for I will not slay thee, Go”? With his brave soul those words agree: My speech, my deeds, are worthy me. How can a brother counterweigh His grievous loss with joys of sway, And see with dull unpitying eye So brave and good a brother die? His lofty soul was nobly blind: My death alas, he ne’er designed; But I, urged blindly on by hate, Sought with his life my rage to sate. He smote me with a splintered tree: I groaned aloud and turned to flee, From stern reproaches he forbore, And gently bade me sin no more. Serene and dutiful and good He kept the laws of brotherhood: I, fierce and greedy, vengeful, base, Showed all the vices of our race. Ah me, dear friend, my brother’s fate Lays on my soul a crushing weight: A sin no heart should e’er conceive, But at the thought each soul should grieve: Sin such as Indra’s when his blow Laid heavenly Viśvarúpa(610) low. Yet earth, the waters of the seas, The race of women and the trees Were fain upon themselves to take The weight of sin for Indra’s sake. But who a Vánar’s soul will free, Or ease the load that crushes me? Wretch that I am, I may not claim The reverence due to royal name. How shall I reign supreme, or dare Affect the power I should not share? Ah me, I sorrow for my sin, The ruin of my race and kin, Polluted by a hideous crime World-hated till the end of time. Alas, the floods of sorrow roll With whelming force upon my soul: So gathers the descending rain In the deep hollow of the plain.”

Canto XXV. Ráma’s Speech.

Then Raghu’s son, whose feeling breast Shared the great woe that moved the rest, Strove with wise charm their grief to ease And gently spoke in words like these:

“You ne’er can raise the dead to bliss By agony of grief like this. Cease your lament, nor leave undone The funeral task you may not shun. As nature orders o’er the dead. Your tributary tears are shed, But Fate, directing each event, Is still the lord preëminent. Yes, all obey the changeless laws Of Fate the universal cause. By Fate, the lives of all proceed, That governs every word and deed, None acts, none sees his hest obeyed, But each and all by Fate are swayed. The world its ordered course maintains, And o’er that course Fate ever reigns. Fate ne’er exceeds the rule of Fate: Is ne’er too swift, is ne’er too late, And making nature its ally Forgets no life, nor passes by. No kith and kin, no power and force Can check or stay its settled course, No friend or client, grace or charm, That victor of the world disarm. So all who see with prudent eyes The hand of Fate must recognize, For virtue rules, or love, or gain, As Fate’s unchanged decrees ordain. Báli has died and won the meed That waits in heaven on noble deed, Throned in the seats the brave may reach By liberal hand and gentle speech, True to a warrior’s duty, bold In fight, the hero lofty-souled Deigned not to guard his life: he died, And now in heaven is glorified. Then cease these tears and wild despair: Turn to the task that claims your care, For Báli’s is the glorious fate Which warriors count most fortunate.”

When Ráma’s speech had found a close, Brave Lakshmaṇ, terror of his foes, With wise and soothing words addressed Sugríva still with woe oppressed: “Arise Sugríva,” thus he said, “Perform the service of the dead. Prepare with Tárá and her son That Báli’s rites be duly done. A store of funeral wood provide Which wind and sun and time have dried And richest sandal fit to grace The pyre of one of royal race. With words of comfort soft and kind Console poor Angad’s troubled mind, Nor let thy heart be thus cast down, For thine is now the Vánars’ town. Let Angad’s care a wreath supply, And raiment rich with varied dye, And oil and perfumes for the fire, And all the solemn rites require. Go, hasten to the town, O King, And Tárá’s little quickly bring. A virtue is despatch: and speed Is best of all in hour of need. Go, let a chosen band prepare The litter of the dead to bear. For stout and tall and strong of limb Must be the chiefs who carry him.”

He spoke,—his friends’ delight and pride,— Then stood again by Ráma’s side. When Tára(611) heard the words he said Within the town he quickly sped, And brought, on stalwart shoulders laid, The litter for the rites arrayed, Framed like a car for Gods, complete With painted sides and royal seat, With latticed windows deftly made, And golden birds and trees inlaid: Well joined and wrought in every part, A marvel of ingenious art. Where pleasure mounds in carven wood And many a graven figure stood. The best of jewels o’er it hung, And wreaths of flowers around it clung, And over all was raised on high A canopy of saffron dye, While like the sun of morning shone The brilliant blooms that lay thereon. That glorious litter Ráma eyed. And spake to Lakshmaṇ by his side: “Let Báli on the bier be placed And with all funeral service graced.” Sugríva then with many a tear Drew Báli’s body to the bier Whereon, with weeping Angad’s aid, The relics of the chief were laid Neath many a vesture’s varied fold, And wreaths and ornaments and gold. Then King Sugríva bade them speed The obsequies by law decreed: “Let Vánars lead the way and throw Rich gems around them as they go, And be the chosen bearers near Behind them laden with the bier. No costly rite may you deny, Used when the proudest monarchs die: As for a king of widest sway. Perform his obsequies to-day.” Sugríva gave his high behest; Then Princely Tára and the rest, With little Angad weeping, led The long procession of the dead. Behind the funeral litter came, With Tárá first, each widowed dame, In tears and shrieks her loss deplored, Add cried aloud, My lord! My lord! While wood and hill and valley sent In echoes back the shrill lament. Then on a low and sandy isle Was reared the hero’s funeral pile By crowds of toiling Vánars, where The mountain stream ran fresh and fair, The Vánar chiefs, a noble band, Had laid the litter on the sand, And stood a little space apart, Each mourning in his inmost heart. But Tárá, when her weeping eye Saw Báli, on the litter lie, Laid his dear head upon her lap, And wailed aloud her dire mishap; “O mighty Vánar, lord and king, To whose fond breast I loved to cling, Of goodly arms, wise, brave, and bold, Rise, look upon me as of old. Rise up, my sovereign, dost thou see A crowd of subjects weep for thee? Still o’er thy face, though breath has fled, The joyous light of life is spread: Thus around the sun, although he set, A crimson glory lingers yet. Death clad in Ráma’s form to-day Hast dragged thee from the world away. One shaft from his tremendous bow Dooms us to widowhood and woe. Hast thou, O Vánar King, no eyes Thy weeping wives to recognize, Who for the length of way unmeet Have followed thee with weary feet? Yet every moon-faced beauty here By thee, O King was counted dear. Lord of the Vánar race, hast thou No eyes to see Sugríva now? About thee stands in mournful mood A sore-afflicted multitude, And Tára and thy lords of state Around their monarch weep and wait. Arise my lord, with gentle speech, As was thy wont, dismissing each, Then in the forest will we play And love shall make our spirits gay.”

The Vánar dames raised Tárá, drowned In floods of sorrow, from the ground; And Angad with Sugríva’s aid, O’erwhelmed with anguish and dismayed, Weeping for his departed sire, Placed Báli’s body on the pyre: Then lit the flame, and round the dead Passed slowly with a mourner’s tread. Thus with full rites the funeral train Performed the service for the slain, Then sought the flowing stream and made Libations to the parted shade. There, setting Angad first in place, The chieftains of the Vánar race, With Tárá and Sugríva, shed The water that delights the dead.

Canto XXVI. The Coronation.

Each Vánar councillor and peer In crowded numbers gathered near Sugríva, mournful king, while yet His vesture from the wave was wet, Before the chief of Raghu’s seed Unwearied in each arduous deed, They stood and raised the reverent hand As saints before Lord Brahmá stand. Then Hanumán of massive mould, Like some tall hill of glistering gold, Son of the God whose wild blasts shake The forest, thus to Ráma spake: “By thy kind favour, O my lord, Sugríva, to his home restored Triumphant, has regained to-day His rank and power and royal sway. He now will call each faithful friend, Enter the city, and attend With sage advice and prudent care To every task that waits him there. Then balm and unguent shall anoint Our monarch, as the laws appoint, And gems and precious wreaths shall be His grateful offering, King, to thee. Do thou, O Ráma, with thy friend Thy steps within the city bend; Our ruler on his throne install, And with thy presence cheer us all.”

Then, skilled in lore and arts that guide The speaker, Raghu’s son replied: “For fourteen years I might not break The mandate that my father spake; Nor can I, till that time be fled, The street of town or village tread. Let King Sugríva seek the town Most worthy of her high renown, There let him be without delay Anointed, and begin his sway.”

This answered, to Sugríva then Thus spake anew the king of men: “Do thou who knowest right ordain Prince Angad consort of thy reign; For he is noble, true, and bold, And trained a righteous course to hold Gifts like his sire’s that youth adorn Born eldest to the eldest born. This is the month of Śrávaṇ,(612) first Of those that see the rain-clouds burst. Four months, thou knowest well, extends The season when the rain descends. No time for deeds of war is this: Seek thou thy fair metropolis, And I with Lakshmaṇ, O my friend, The time upon this hill will spend. An ample cavern opens there Made lovely by the mountain air, And lotuses and lilies fill The pleasant lake and murmuring rill. When Kártik’s(613) month shall clear the skies, Then tempt the mighty enterprise. Now, chieftain to thy home repair, And be anointed sovereign there.”

Sugríva heard: he bowed his head: Within the lovely town he sped Which Báli’s royal will had swayed, Where thousand Vánar chiefs arrayed Gathered in order round their king, And led him on with welcoming. Low on the earth the lesser crowd Fell in prostration as they bowed. Sugríva looked with grateful eyes, Spake to them all and bade them rise. Then through the royal bowers he strode Wherein the monarch’s wives abode. Soon from the inner chambers came The Vánar of exalted fame; And joyful friends drew near and shed King-making balm upon his head, Like Gods anointing in the skies Their sovereign of the thousand eyes.(614) Then brought they, o’er their king to hold The white umbrella decked with gold, And chouries with their waving hair In golden handles wondrous fair; And fragrant herbs and seed and spice, And sparkling gems exceeding price, And every bloom from woods and leas, And gum distilled from milky trees; And precious ointment white as milk, And spotless robes of cloth and silk, Wreaths of sweet flowers whose glories gleam In grassy grove, on lake or stream. And fragrant sandal and each scent That makes the soft breeze redolent; Grain, honey, odorous seed, and store Of oil and curd and golden ore; A noble tiger’s skin, a pair Of sandals wrought with costliest care, Eight pairs of damsels drawing nigh Brought unguents stained with varied dye. Then gems and cates and robes displayed Before the twice-born priests were laid, That they would deign in order due To consecrate the king anew. The sacred grass was duly spread And sacrificial flame was fed, Which Scripture-learned priests supplied With oil which texts had sanctified. Then, with all rites ordained of old, High on the terrace bright with gold, Whereon a glorious carpet lay, And fresh-culled garlands sweet and gay, Placed on his throne, Sugríva bent His looks toward the Orient. In horns from forehead of the bull, In pitchers bright and beautiful, In urns of gold the Vánara took Pure water brought from stream and brook, From every consecrated strand And every sea that beats the land. Then, as prescribed by sacred lore And many a mighty sage of yore,(615) The leaders of the Vánars poured The sacred water on their lord.(616) From every Vánar at the close Of that imperial rite arose Shouts of glad triumph, loud and long Repeated by the high-souled throng. Sugríva, when the rite was done, Obeyed the hest of Raghu’s son, Prince Angad to his breast he strained, And partner of his sway ordained. Once more from all the host rang out The loud huzza and jovful shout. “Well done! well done!” each Vánar cried, And good Sugríva glorified. Then with glad voices loudly raised Were Ráma and his brother praised; And bright Kishkindhá shone that day With happy throngs and banners gay.

Canto XXVII. Ráma On The Hill.

But when the solemn rite was o’er, And bold Sugríva reigned once more, The sons of Raghu sought the hill, Praśravaṇ of the rushing rill, Where roamed the tiger and the deer, And lions raised their voice of fear; Thick set with trees of every kind, With trailing shrubs and plants entwined; Home of the ape and monkey, lair Of mountain cat and pard and bear. In cloudy gloom against the sky The sanctifying hills rose high. Pierced in their crest, a spacious cave To Raghu’s sons a shelter gave. Then Ráma, pure from every crime, In words well suited to the time To Lakshmaṇ spake, whose faithful zeal Watched humbly for his brother’s weal: “I love this spacious cavern where There breathes a fresh and pleasant air. Brave brother, let us here remain Throughout the season of the rain. For in mine eyes this mountain crest Is above all, the loveliest. Where copper-hued and black and white Show the huge blocks that face the height; Where gleams the shine of varied ore, Where dark clouds hang and torrents roar; Where waving woods are fair to see, And creepers climb from tree to tree; Where the gay peacock’s voice is shrill, And sweet birds carol on the hill; Where odorous breath is wafted far From Jessamine and Sinduvár;(617) And opening flowers of every hue Give wondrous beauty to the view. See, too, this pleasant water near Our cavern home is fresh and clear; And lilies gay with flower and bud Are glorious on the lovely flood. This cave that fares north and east Will shelter us till rain has ceased; And towering hills that rise behind Will screen us from the furious wind. Close by the cavern’s portal lies And level stone of ample size And sable hue, a mighty block Long severed from the parent rock. Now let thine eye bent northward rest A while upon that mountain crest, High as a cloud that brings the rain, And dark as iron rent in twain. Look southward, brother, now and view A cloudy pile of paler hue Like Mount Kailása’s topmost height Where ores of every tint are bright. See, Lakshman, see before our cave That clear brook eastward roll its wave As though ’twere Gangá’s infant rill Down streaming from the three-peaked hill. See, by the water’s gentle flow Aśoka, sál, and sandal grow. And every lovely tree most fair With leaf and bud and flower is there. See there, beneath the bending trees That fringe her bank, the river flees, Clothed with their beauty like a maid In all her robes and gems arrayed, While from the sedgy banks are heard The soft notes of each amorous bird. O see what lovely islets stud Like gems the bosom of the flood, And sárases and wild swans crowd About her till she laughs aloud. See, lotus blooms the brook o’erspread, Some tender blue, some dazzling red, And opening lilies white as snow Their buds in rich profusion show. There rings the joyous peacock’s scream, There stands the curlew by the stream, And holy hermits love to throng Where the sweet waters speed along. Ranged on the grassy margin shine Gay sandal trees in glittering line, And all the wondrous verdure seems The offspring of creative dreams. O conquering Prince, there cannot be A lovelier place than this we see. Here sheltered on the beauteous height Our days will pass in calm delight. Nor is Kishkindhá’s city, gay With grove and garden, far away. Thence will the breeze of evening bring Sweet music as the minstrels sing; And, when the Vánars dance, will come The sound of tabour and of drum. Again to spouse and realm restored, Girt by his friends, the Vánar lord Great glory has acquired; and how Can he be less than happy now?”

This said, the son of Raghu made His dwelling in that pleasant shade Upon the mountain’s shelving side That sweetly all his wants supplied. But still the hero’s troubled mind No comfort in his woe could find, Yet mourning for his stolen wife Dearer to Ráma than his life, Chief when he saw the Lord of Night Rise slowly o’er the eastern height, He tossed upon his leafy bed With eyes by sleep unvisited. Outwelled the tears in ceaseless flow, And every sense was numbed by woe. Each pang that pierced the mourner through Smote Lakshmaṇ’s faithful bosom too, Who, troubled for his brother’s sake, With wisest words the prince bespake: “Arise, my brother, and be strong: Thy hero heart has mourned too long. Thou knowest well that tears and sighs Will mar the mightiest enterprise. Thine was the soul that loved to dare: To serve the Gods was still thy care; And ne’er may sorrow’s sting subdue A heart so resolute and true. How canst thou hope to slay in fight The giant cruel in his might? Unwearied must the champion be Who strives with such a foe as he. Tear out this sorrow by the root; Again be bold and resolute. Arise, my brother, and subdue The demon and his wicked crew. Thou canst destroy the earth, her seas, Her rooted hills and giant trees Unseated by thy furious hand: And shall one fiend thy power withstand? Wait through this season of the rain Till suns of autumn dry the plain, Then shall thy giant foe, and all His host and realm, before thee fall. I wake thy valour that has slept Amid the tears thine eyes have wept; As drops of oil in worship raise The dormant flame to sudden blaze.”

The son of Raghu heard: he knew His brother’s rede was wise and true; And, honouring his friendly guide, In gentle words he thus replied: “Whate’er a hero firm and bold, Devoted, true, and lofty-souled Should speak by deep affection led, Such are the words which thou hast said. I cast away each pensive thought That brings the noblest plans to naught, And each uninjured power will strain Until the purposed end we gain. Thy prudent words will I obey, And till the close of rain-time stay, When King Sugríva will invite To action, and the streams be bright. The hero saved in hour of need Repays the debt with friendly deed: But hated by the good are they Who take the boon and ne’er repay.”

Canto XXVIII. The Rains.

“See, brother, see” thus Ráma cried On Mályavat’s(618) dark-wooded side, “A chain of clouds, like lofty hills, The sky with gathering shadow fills. Nine months those clouds have borne the load Conceived from sunbeams as they glowed, And, having drunk the seas, give birth, And drop their offspring on the earth. Easy it seems at such a time That flight of cloudy stairs to climb, And, from their summit, safely won, Hang flowery wreaths about the sun. See how the flash of evening’s red Fringes the fleecy clouds o’erhead Till all the sky is streaked and lined With bleeding wounds incarnadined, Or the wide firmament above Shows like a lover sick with love And, pale with cloudlets, heaves a sigh In the soft breeze that wanders by. See, by the fervent heat embrowned, How drenched with recent showers, the ground Pours out in floods her gushing tears, Like Sítá wild with torturing fears. So softly blows this cloud-born breeze Cool through the boughs of camphor trees That one might hold it in the cup Of hollowed hands and drink it up. See, brother, where that rocky steep, Where odorous shrubs in rain-drops weep, Shows like Sugríva when they shed Tne royal balm upon his head. Like students at their task appear These hills whose misty peaks are near: Black deerskin(619) garments wrought of cloud Their forms with fitting mantles shroud, Each torrent from the summit poured Supplies the place of sacred cord.(620) And winds that in their caverns moan Sound like the voice’s undertone.(621) From east to west red lightnings flash, And, quivering neath the golden lash, The great sky like a generous steed Groans inly at each call to speed. Yon lightning, as it flashes through The giant cloud of sable hue, Recalls my votaress Sítá pressed Mid struggles to the demon’s breast. See, on those mountain ridges stand Sweet shrubs that bud and bloom expand. The soft rain ends their pangs of grief, And drops its pearls on flower and leaf. But all their raptures stab me through And wake my pining love anew.(622) Now through the air no wild bird flies, Each lily shuts her weary eyes; And blooms of opening jasmin show The parting sun has ceased to glow. No captain now for conquest burns, But homeward with his host returns; For roads and kings’ ambitious dreams Have vanished neath descending streams. This is the watery month(623) wherein The Sámar’s(624) sacred chants begin. Áshádha(625) past, now Kośal’s lord(626) The harvest of the spring has stored,(627) And dwells within his palace freed From every care of pressing need. Full is the moon, and fierce and strong Impetuous Sarjú(628) roars along As though Ayodhyá’s crowds ran out To greet their king with echoing shout. In this sweet time of ease and rest No care disturbs Sugríva’s breast, The foe that marred his peace o’erthrown, And queen and realm once more his own. Alas, a harder fate is mine, Reft both of realm and queen to pine, And, like the bank which floods erode, I sink beneath my sorrow’s load. Sore on my soul my miseries weigh, And these long rains our action stay, While Rávan seems a mightier foe Than I dare hope to overthrow. I saw the roads were barred by rain, I knew the hopes of war were vain; Nor could I bid Sugríva rise, Though prompt to aid my enterprise. E’en now I scarce can urge my friend On whom his house and realm depend, Who, after toil and peril past, Is happy with his queen at last. Sugríva after rest will know The hour is come to strike the blow, Nor will his grateful soul forget My succour, or deny the debt I know his generous heart, and hence Await the time with confidence When he his friendly zeal will show, And brooks again untroubled flow.”(629)

Canto XXIX. Hanumán’s Counsel.

No flash of lightning lit the sky, No cloudlet marred the blue on high. The Saras(630) missed the welcome rain, The moon’s full beams were bright again. Sugríva, lapped in bliss, forgot The claims of faith, or heeded not; And by alluring joys misled The path of falsehood learned to tread. In careless ease he passed each hour, And dallied in his lady’s bower. Each longing of his heart was stilled, And every lofty hope fulfilled. With royal Rumá by his side, Or Tárá yet a dearer bride, He spent each joyous day and night In revelry and wild delight, Like Indra whom the nymphs entice To taste the joys of Paradise. The power to courtiers’ hands resigned, To all their acts his eyes were blind. All doubt, all fear he cast aside And lived with pleasure for his guide. But sage Hanúmán, firm and true, Whose heart the lore of Scripture knew, Well trained to meet occasion, trained In all by duty’s law ordained, Strove with his prudent speech to find Soft access to the monarch’s mind. He, skilled in every gentle art Of eloquence that wins the heart, Sugríva from his trance to wake, His salutary counsel spake:

“The realm is won, thy name advanced, The glory of thy house enhanced, And now thy foremost care should be To aid the friends who succoured thee. He who is firm and faithful found To friendly ties in honour bound, Will see his name and fame increase And his blest kingdom thrive in peace. Wide sway is his who truly boasts That friends and treasure, self and hosts, All blent in one harmonious whole, Are subject to his firm control. Do thou, whose footsteps never stray From the clear bounds of duty’s way, Assist, as honour bids thee, now Thy friends, observant of thy vow. For if all cares we lay not by, And to our friend’s assistance fly, We, after, toil in idle haste, And all the late endeavour waste. Up! nor the promised help delay Until the hour have slipped away. Up! and with Raghu’s son renew The search for Sítá lost to view. The hour is come: he hears the call, But not on thee reproaches fall From him who labours to repress His eager spirit’s restlessness. Long joined to thee in friendly ties He made thy fame and fortune rise, In gentle gifts by none excelled. In splendid might unparalleled. Up, to his succour, King! repay The favour of that prosperous day, And to thy bravest captains send Prompt mandates to assist thy friend. The cry for help thou wilt not spurn Although no grace demands return: And wilt thou not thine aid afford To him who realm and life restored? Exert thy power, and thou hast won The love of Daśaratha’s son: And wilt thou for his summons wait, And, till he call thee, hesitate? Think not the hero needs thy power To save him in the desperate hour: He with his arrows could subdue The Gods and all the demon crew, And only waits that he may see Redeemed the promise made by thee. For thee he risked his life and fought, For thee that great deliverance wrought. Then let us trace through earth and skies His lady wheresoe’er she lies. Through realms above, beneath, we flee, And plant our footsteps on the sea. Then why, O Lord of Vánars, still Delay us waiting for thy will? Give thy commands, O King, and say What task has each and where the way. Before thee myriad Vánars stand To sweep through heaven, o’er seas and land.”

Sugríva heard the timely rede That roused him in the day of need, And thus to Níla prompt and brave His hest the imperial Vánar gave: “Go, Níla, to the distant hosts That keep in arms their several posts, And all the armies that protect The quarters,(631) with their chiefs, collect. To all the luminaries placed In intermediate regions haste, And bid each captain rise and lead His squadrons to their king with speed. Do thou meanwhile with strictest care All that the time requires prepare. The loitering Vánar who delays To gather here ere thrice five days, Shall surely die for his offence, Condemned for sinful negligence.”

Canto XXX. Ráma’s Lament.

But Ráma in the autumn night Stood musing on the mountain height, While grief and love that scorned control Shook with wild storms the hero’s soul. Clear was the sky, without a cloud The glory of the moon to shroud. And bright with purest silver shone Each hill the soft beams looked upon. He knew Sugríva’s heart was bent On pleasure, gay and negligent. He thought on Janak’s child forlorn From his fond arms for ever torn. He mourned occasion slipping by, And faint with anguish heaved each sigh. He sat where many a varied streak Of rich ore marked the mountain peak. He raised his eyes the sky to view, And to his love his sad thoughts flew. He heard the Sáras cry, and faint With sorrow poured his love-born plaint: “She, she who mocked the softest tone Of wild birds’ voices with her own,— Where strays she now, my love who played So happy in our hermit shade? How can my absent love behold The bright trees with their flowers of gold, And all their gleaming glory see With eyes that vainly look for me? How is it with my darling when From the deep tangles of the glen Float carols of each bird elate With rapture singing to his mate? In vain my weary glances rove From lake to hill, from stream to grove: I find no rapture in the scene, And languish for my fawn-eyed queen. Ah, does strong love with wild unrest, Born of the autumn, stir her breast? And does the gentle lady pine Till her bright eyes shall look in mine?”

Thus Raghu’s son in piteous tone, O’erwhelmed with sorrow, made his moan. E’en as the bird that drinks the rains(632) To Indra thousand-eyed complains. Then Lakshmaṇ who had wandered through The copses where the berries grew, Returning to the cavern found His brother chief in sorrow drowned, And pitying the woes that broke The spirit of the hero spoke:

“Why cast thy strength of soul away, And weakly yield to passion’s sway? Arise, my brother, do and dare Ere action perish in despair. Recall the firmness of thy heart, And nerve thee for a hero’s part. Whose is the hand unscathed to sieze The red flame quickened by the breeze? Where is the foe will dare to wrong Or keep the Maithil lady long?” Then with pale lips that sorrow dried The son of Raghu thus replied: “Lord Indra thousand-eyed, has sent The sweet rain from the firmament, Sees the rich promise of the grain, And turns him to his rest again. The clouds with voices loud and deep, Veiling each tree upon the steep, Up on the thirsty earth have shed Their precious burden and are fled. Now in kings’ hearts ambition glows: They rush to battle with their foes;(633) But in Sugríva’s sloth I see No care for deeds of chivalry. See, Lakshmaṇ, on each breezy height A thousand autumn blooms are bright. See how the wings of wild swans gleam On every islet of the stream. Four months of flood and rain are past: A hundred years they seemed to last To me whom toil and trouble tried, My Sítá severed from my side. She, gentlest woman, weak and young, Still to her lord unwearied clung. Still by the exile’s side she stood In the wild ways of Daṇḍak wood, Like a fond bird disconsolate If parted from her darling mate. Sugríva, lapped in soft repose, Untouched by pity for my woes, Scorns the poor exile, dispossessed, By Rávaṇ’s mightier arm oppressed, The wretch who comes to sue and pray From his lost kingdom far away. Hence falls on me the Vánar’s scorn, A suitor friendless and forlorn. The time is come: with heedless eye He sees the hour of action fly,— Unmindful, now his hopes succeed, Of promise made in stress of need. Go seek him sunk in bliss and sloth, Forgetful of his royal oath, And as mine envoy thus upbraid The monarch for his help delayed: “Vile is the wretch who will not pay The favour of an earlier day, Hope in the supplicant’s breast awakes, And then his plighted promise breaks. Noblest, mid all of women born, Who keeps the words his lips have sworn, Yea, if those words be good or ill, Maintains his faith unbroken still. The thankless who forget to aid The friend who helped them when they prayed, Dishonoured in their death shall lie, And dogs shall pass their corpses by. Sure thou wouldst see my strained arm hold My bow of battle backed with gold, Wouldst gaze upon its awful form Like lightning flashing through the storm, And hear the clanging bowstring loud As thunder from a labouring cloud.”

His valour and his strength I know: But pleasure’s sway now sinks them low, With thee, my brother, for ally That strength and valour I defy. He promised, when the rains should end, The succour of his arm to lend. Those months are past: he dares forget, And, lapped in pleasure, slumbers yet. No thought disturbs his careless breast For us impatient and distressed, And, while we sadly wait and pine, Girt by his lords he quaffs the wine. Go, brother, go, his palace seek, And boldly to Sugríva speak, Thus give the listless king to know What waits him if my anger glow: Still open, to the gloomy God, Lies the sad path that Báli trod. “Still to thy plighted word be true, Lest thou, O King, that path pursue. I launched the shaft I pointed well. And Báli, only Báli, fell. But, if from truth thou dare to stray, Both thee and thine this hand shall slay.” Thus be the Vánar king addressed, Then add thyself what seems the best.”

Canto XXXI. The Envoy.

Thus Ráma spoke, and Lakshmaṇ then Made answer to the prince of men: “Yea, if the Vánar, undeterred By fear of vengeance, break his word, Loss of his royal power ere long Shall pay the traitor for the wrong. Nor deem I him so void of sense To brave the bitter consequence. But if enslaved to joy he lie, And scorn thy grace with blinded eye, Then let him join his brother slain: Unmeet were such a wretch to reign. Quick rises, kindling in my breast, The wrath that will not be repressed, And bids me in my fury slay The breaker of his faith to-day. Let Báli’s son thy consort trace With bravest chiefs of Vánar race.”

Thus spoke the hero, and aglow With rage of battle seized his bow. But Ráma thus in gentler mood With fitting words his speech renewed: “No hero with a soul like thine To paths of sin will e’er incline, He who his angry heart can tame Is worthiest of a hero’s name. Not thine, my brother, be the part So alien from the tender heart, Nor let thy feet by wrath misled Forsake the path they loved to tread. From harsh and angry words abstain: With gentle speech a hearing gain, And tax Sugríva with the crime Of failing faith and wasted time.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, bravest of the brave, Obeyed the hest that Ráma gave, To whom devoting every thought The Vánar’s royal town he sought. As Mandar’s mountain heaves on high His curved peak soaring to the sky, So Lakshmaṇ showed, his dread bow bent Like Indra’s(634) in the firmament. His brother’s wrath, his brother’s woe Inflamed his soul to fiercest glow. The tallest trees to earth were cast As furious on his way he passed, And where he stepped, so fiercely fleet, The stones were shivered by his feet. He reached Kishkindhá’s city deep Embosomed where the hills were steep, Where street and open square were lined With legions of the Vánar kind. Then, as his lips with fury swelled, The lord of Raghu’s line beheld A stream of Vánar chiefs outpoured To do obeisance to their lord. But when the mighty prince in view Of the thick coming Vánars drew, They turned them in amaze to seize Crags of the rock and giant trees. He saw, and fiercer waxed his ire, As oil lends fury to the fire. Scarce had the Vánar chieftains seen That wrathful eye, that troubled mien Fierce as the God’s who rules the dead, When, turned in wild affright, they fled. Speeding in breathless terror all Sought King Sugríva’s council hall, And there made known their tale of fear, That Lakshmaṇ wild with rage, was near. The king, untroubled by alarms, Held Tárá in his amorous arms, And in the distant bower with her Heard not each clamorous messenger. Then, summoned at the lords’ behest Forth from the city portals pressed, Each like some elephant or cloud, The Vánars in a trembling crowd: Fierce warriors all with massive jaws And terrors of their tiger claws, Some matched ten elephants, and some A hundred’s strength could overcome. Some chieftains, mightier than the rest, Ten times a hundred’s force possessed. With eyes of fury Lakshmaṇ viewed The Vánars’ tree-armed multitude. Thus garrisoned from side to side The city walls assault defied. Beyond the moat that girt the wall Advanced the Vánar chiefs; and all Upon the plain in firm brigade, Impetuous warriors, stood arrayed. Red at the sight flashed Lakshmaṇ’s eyes, His bosom heaved tumultuous sighs, And forth the fire of fury broke Like flame that flashes through the smoke. Like some fierce snake the hero stood: His bow recalled the expanded hood, And in his shaft-head bright and keen The flickering of its tongue was seen: And in his own all-conquering might The venom of its deadly bite. Prince Angad marked his angry look, And every hope his heart forsook. Then, his large eyes with fury red, To Angad Lakshmaṇ turned and said:

“Go tell the king that Lakshmaṇ waits For audience at the city gates, Whose heart, O tamer of thy foes, Is heavy with his brother’s woes. Bid him to Ráma’s word attend, And ask if he will aid his friend. Go, let the king my message learn: Then hither with all speed return.”

Prince Angad heard and wild with grief Cried as he looked upon the chief: “’Tis Lakshmaṇ’s self: impelled by ire He seeks the city of my sire.” At the fierce words and furious look Of Raghu’s son he quailed and shook. Back through the city gates he sped, And, laden with the tale of dread, Sought King Sugríva, filled his ears And Rumá’s with his doubts and fears. To Rumá and the king he bent, And clasped their feet most reverent, Clasped the dear feet of Tárá, too, And told the startling tale anew.

But King Sugríva’s ear was dulled, By love and wine and languor lulled, Nor did the words that Angad spake The slumberer from his trance awake. But soon as Raghu’s son came nigh The startled Vánars raised a cry, And strove to win his grace, while dread Each anxious heart disquieted. They saw, and, as they gathered round, Rose from the mighty throng a sound Like torrents when they downward dash, Or thunder with the lightning’s flash. The shouting of the Vánars broke Sugríva’s slumber, and he woke: Still with the wine his eyes were red, His neck with flowers was garlanded. Roused at the voice of Angad came Two Vánar lords of rank and fame; One Yaksha, one Prabháva hight,— Wise counsellors of gain and right. They came and raised their voices high, And told that Raghu’s son was nigh: “Two brothers steadfast in their truth, Each glorious in the bloom of youth, Worthy of rule, have left the skies, And clothed their forms in men’s disguise. One at thy gates, in warlike hands Holding his mighty weapon, stands. His message is the charioteer That brings the eager envoy near, Urged onward by his bold intent, And by the hest of Ráma sent.” The gathered Vánars saw and fled, And raised aloud their cry of dread. Son of Queen Tárá, Angad ran To parley with the godlike man. Still fiery-eyed with rage and hate Stands Lakshmaṇ at the city gate, And trembling Vánars scarce can fly Scathed by the lightning of his eye. “Go with thy son, thy kith and kin, The favour of the prince to win, And bow thy reverent head that so His fiery wrath may cease to glow. What righteous Ráma bids thee, do, And to thy plighted word be true.”

Canto XXXII. Hanumán’s Counsel.

Sugríva heard, and, trained and tried In counsel, to his lords replied: “No deed of mine, no hasty word The anger of the prince has stirred. But haply some who hate me still And watch their time to work me ill, Have slandered me to Raghu’s son, Accused of deeds I ne’er have done. Now, O my lords—for you are wise— Speak truly what your hearts advise, And, pondering each event, inquire The reason of the prince’s ire. No fear have I of Lakshmaṇ: none: No dread of Raghu’s mightier son. But wrath, that fires a friendly breast Without due cause, disturbs my rest. With labour light is friendship gained, But with severest toil maintained. And doubt is strong, and faith is weak, And friendship dies when traitors speak. Hence is my troubled bosom cold With fear of Ráma lofty-souled; For heavy on my spirit weigh His favours I can ne’er repay.”

He ceased: and Hanumán of all The Vánars in the council hall In wisdom first, and rank, expressed The thoughts that filled his prudent breast: “No marvel thou rememberest yet The service thou shouldst ne’er forget, How the brave prince of Raghu’s seed Thy days from fear and peril freed; And Báli for thy sake o’erthrew, Whom Indra’s self might scarce subdue. I doubt not Ráma’s anger burns For the scant love thy heart returns. For this he sends his brother, him Whose glory never waxes dim. Sunk in repose thy careless eye Marks not the seasons as they fly, Nor sees that autumn has begun With dark blooms opening to the sun. Clear is the sky: no cloudlet mars The splendour of the shining stars. The balmy air is soft and still, And clear and bright are lake and rill. Thou heedest not with blinded eyes The hour for warlike enterprise. Hence Lakshmaṇ hither comes to break Thy slothful trance and bid thee wake. Then, Monarch, with a patient ear The high-souled Ráma’s message hear, Which, reft of wife and realm and friends, Thus by another’s mouth he sends. Thou, Vánar King, hast done amiss: And now I see no way but this: Before his envoy humbly stand And sue for peace with suppliant hand. High duty bids a courtier seek His master’s weal, and freely speak. So by no thought of fear controlled My speech, O King, is free and bold, For Ráma, if his anger glow, Can, with the terrors of his bow This earth with all the Gods subdue, Gandharvas,(635) and the demon crew. Unwise to stir his wrathful mood Whose favour must again be wooed. And, most of all, unwise for one Grateful like thee for service done. Go with thy son and kinsmen: bend Thy humble head and greet thy friend. And, like a fond obedient spouse, Be faithful to thy plighted vows.”

Canto XXXIII. Lakshman’s Entry.

Through the fair city Lakshmaṇ came, Invited in Sugríva’s name. Within the gates the guardian bands, Of Vánars raised their suppliant hands, And in their ordered ranks, amazed, Upon the princely hero gazed, They marked each burning breath he drew, The fury of his soul they knew. Their hearts were chilled with sudden fear: They gazed, but dared not venture near, Before his eyes the city, gay With gems and flowery gardens, lay, Where fane and palace rose on high, And things of beauty charmed the eye. Where trees of every blossom grew Yielding their fruit in season due To Vánars of celestial seed Who wore each varied form at need, Fair-faced and glorious with the shine Of heavenly robes and wreaths divine. There sandal, aloe, lotus bloomed, And there delicious breath perfumed The city’s broad street, redolent Of sugary mead(636) and honey scent. There many a lofty palace rose Like Vindhya or the Lord of Snows, And with sweet murmur sparkling rills Leapt lightly down the sheltering hills. On many a glorious palace, raised For prince and noble,(637) Lakshmaṇ gazed: Like clouds of paly hue they shone With fragrant wreaths that hung thereon: There wealth of jewels was enshrined, And fairer gems of womankind. There gleamed, of noble height and size, Like Indra’s mansion in the skies, Protected by a crystal fence Of rock, the royal residence, With roof and turret high and bright Like Mount Kailása’s loftiest height. There blooming trees, Mahendra’s gift, High o’er the walls were seen to lift Their golden fruited boughs, that made With leaf and flower delicious shade. He saw a band of Vánars wait, Wielding their weapons, at the gate Where golden portals flashed between Celestial garlands red and green. Within Sugríva’s fair abode Unchecked the mighty hero strode, As when the sun of autumn shrouds His glory in a pile of clouds. Through seven wide courts he quickly passed, And reached the royal tower at last, Where seats were set with couch and bed Of gold and silver richly spread. While the young chieftain’s feet drew near The sound of music reached his ear, As the soft breathings of the flute Came blending with the voice and lute. Then beauty showed her youth and grace And varied charm of form and face: Soft bright-eyed creatures, fair and young,— Gay garlands round their necks were hung, And greater charms to each were lent By richest dress and ornament. He saw the calm attendants wait About their lord in careless state, Heard women’s girdles chime in sweet Accordance with their tinkling feet. He heard the anklet’s silvery sound, He saw the calm that reigned around, And o’er him, as he listened, came A rush of rage, a flood of shame. He drew his bowstring: with the clang From ease to west the welkin rang: Then in his modest mood withdrew A little from the ladies’ view. And sternly silent stood apart, While wrath for Ráma filled his heart. Sugríva knew the sounding string, And at the call the Vánar king Sprang swiftly from his golden seat, And feared the coming prince to meet. Then with cold lips that terror dried To beauteous Tárá thus he cried: “What cause of anger, O my spouse Fair with the charm of lovely brows, Sets Lakshmaṇ’s gentle breast on fire, And brings him in unwonted ire? Say, canst thou see, O faultless dame, A cause to fill his soul with flame? For there must be a reason when Such fury stirs the king of men. Reveal the sin, if sin of mine Anger the lord of Raghu’s line. Or go thyself, his rage subdue, And with soft words his favour woo. Soon as on thee his eyes are set His heart this anger will forget, For men like him of lofty mind Are never stern with womankind. First let thy gentle speech disarm His fury, and his spirit charm, And I, from fear of peril free, The conqueror of his foes will see.”

She heard: with faltering steps and slow, With eyes that shone with trembling glow, With gold-girt body gently bent To meet the stranger prince she went. When Lakshmaṇ saw the Vánar queen With tranquil eyes and modest mien, Before the dame he bent his head, And anger, at her presence, fled. Made bold by draughts of wine, and cheered By Lakshmaṇ’s look no more she feared, And in the trust his favour lent She thus addressed him eloquent: “Whence springs thy burning fury? say: Who dares thy will to disobey? Who checks the maddened flames that seize On forests full of withered trees?”

Then Lakshmaṇ spoke, her mind to ease, His kind reply in words like these:

“Thy lord his days in pleasure spends, Heedless of duty and of friends, Nor dost thou mark, though fondly true, The evil path his steps pursue. He cares not for affairs of state, Nor us forlorn and desolate, But sits a mere spectator still, A sensual slave to pleasure’s will. Four months were fixed, the time agreed When he should help us in our need: But, bound in toils of pleasure fast, He sees not that the months are past. Where beats the heart which draughts of wine To virtue or to gain incline? Hast thou not heard those draughts destroy Virtue and gain and love and joy? For those who, helped at need, refuse Their aid in turn, their virtue lose: And they who scorn a friend disdain A treasure naught may buy again. Thy lord has cast his friend away, Nor feared from virtue’s path to stray, If this be true, declare, O dame Who knowest duty’s every claim, What further work remains for us Deceived and disappointed thus.”

She listened, for his words were kind, Where virtue showed with gain combined, And thus in turn the prince addressed, As hope was rising in his breast: “No time, no cause of wrath I see With those who live and honour thee: And thou shouldst bear without offence Thy servant’s fitful negligence. I know the seasons glide away, While Ráma maddens at delay I know what deed our thanks has earned, I know that grace should be returned. But still I know, whate’er befall, That conquering love is lord of all; Know where Sugríva’s thoughts, possessed By one absorbing passion, rest. But he whom sensual joys debase Heeds not the claim of time and place, And sees not with his blinded sight His duty or his gain aright. O pardon him who loves me! spare The Vánar caught in pleasure’s snare, And once again let Ráma grace With favour him who rules our race. E’en royal saints, whose chief delight Was penance and austerest rite, At love’s commandment have unbent, Beguiled by sweetest blandishment. And know, Sugríva, roused at last, The order to his lords has passed, And, long by love and bliss delayed, Wakes all on fire your hopes to aid. A countless host his city fills, New-gathered from a thousand hills: Impetuous chiefs, who wear at need Each varied form, his legions lead. Come then, O hero, kept aloof By modest awe, nor fear reproof: A faithful friend untouched by blame May look upon another’s dame.”

He passed within, by Tárá pressed, And by his own impatient breast, Refulgent there in sunlike sheen Sugríva on his throne was seen. Gay garlands round his neck were twined, And Rumá by her lord recline.

Canto XXXIV. Lakshman’s Speech.

Sugríva started from his rest With doubt and terror in his breast. He heard the prince’s furious tread He saw his eyes glow fiercely red. Swift sprang the monarch to his feet Upstarting from his golden seat. Rose Rumá and her fellows, too, And closely round Sugríva drew, As round the moon’s full glory stand Attendant stars in glittering band. Sugríva glanced with reddened eyes, Raised his joined hands in suppliant guise Flew to the door, and rooted there Stood like the tree that grants each prayer.(638) And Lakshmaṇ saw, and, fiercely moved, With angry speech the king reproved:

“Famed is the prince who loves the truth, Whose soul is touched with tender ruth, Who, liberal, keeps each sense subdued, And pays the debt of gratitude. But all unmeet a king to be, The meanest of the mean is he Who basely breaks the promise made To trusting friends who lent him aid. He sins who for a steed has lied, As if a hundred steeds had died: Or if he lie, a cow to win, Tenfold as heavy is the sin. But if the lie a man betray, Both he and his shall all decay.(639) O Vánar King, the thankless man Is worthy of the general ban, Who takes assistance of his friends, And in his turn no service lends. This verse of old by Brahmá sung Is echoed now by every tongue. Hear what He cried in angry mood Bewailing man’s ingratitude: “For draughts of wine, for slaughtered cows, For treacherous theft, for broken vows A pardon is ordained: but none For thankless scorn of service done.” Ungrateful, Vánar King, art thou, And faithless to thy plighted vow. For Ráma brought thee help, and yet Thou shunnest to repay the debt: Or, grateful, thou hadst surely pressed To aid the hero in his quest. Thou art, in vulgar pleasures drowned, False to thy bond in honour bound. Nor yet has Ráma’s guileless heart Discerned thee for the thing thou art— A snake who holds the frogs that cries And lures fresh victims as it dies. Brave Ráma, born for glorious fate, Has set thee in thy high estate, And to the Vánars’ throne restored, Great-souled himself, their mean-souled lord. Now if thy pride disown what he, High thoughted prince, has done for thee, Struck by his arrows shalt thou fall, And Báli meet in Yáma’s hall. Still open, to the gloomy God, Lies the sad path thy brother trod. Then to thy plighted word be true, Nor let thy steps that path pursue. Methinks the shafts of Ráma, shot Like thunderbolts, thou heedest not, Who canst, absorbed in sensual bliss, Thy promise from thy mind dismiss.”

Canto XXXV. Tárá’s Speech.

He ceased: and Tárá starry-eyed Thus to the angry prince replied: “Not to my lord shouldst thou address A speech so fraught with bitterness: Not thus reproached my lord should be, And least of all, O Prince, by thee. He is no thankless coward—no— With spirit dead to valour’s glow. From paths of truth he never strays, Nor wanders in forbidden ways. Ne’er will Sugríva’s heart forget, By Ráma saved, the lasting debt. Still in his grateful breast will live The succour none but he could give. Restored to fame by Ráma’s grace, To empire o’er the Vánar race, From ceaseless dread and toil set free, Restored to Rumá and to me: By grief and care and exile tried, New to the bliss so long denied, Like Viśvámitra once, alas, He marks not how the seasons pass. That saint ten thousand years remained, By sweet Ghritáchí’s(640) love enchained, And deemed those years, that flew away So lightly, but a single day. O, if those years unheeded flew By him who times and seasons knew, Unequalled for his lofty mind, What marvel meaner eyes are blind? Then be not angry, Raghu’s son, And let thy brother feel for one Who many a weary year has spent Stranger to love and blandishment. Let not this wrath thy soul inflame, Like some mean wretch unknown to fame: For high and noble hearts like thine Love mercy and to ruth incline, Calm and deliberate, and slow With anger’s raging fire to glow. At length, O righteous prince, relent, Nor let my words in vain be spent, This sudden blaze of fury slake, I pray thee for Sugríva’s sake. He would renounce at Ráma’s call Rumá and Angad, me and all Who call him lord: his gold and grain, The favour of his friend to gain. His arm shall slay the fiend more base In soul than all his impious race, And happy Ráma reunite To Sítá, rival in delight Of the triumphant Moon when he Rejoins his darling Rohiṇí.(641) Ten million million demons guard The gates of Lanká firmly barred. All hope until that host be slain, To smite the robber king is vain. Nor with Sugríva’s aid alone May king and host be overthrown. Thus ere he died—for well he knew— Spake Báli, and his words are true. I know not what his proofs might be, But speak the words he spake to me. Hence far and wide our lords are sent To raise the mightiest armament, For their return Sugríva waits Ere he can sally from his gates. Still is the oath Sugríva swore Kept firmly even as before: And the great host this day will be Assembled by the king’s decree, Ten thousand thousand troops, who wear The form of monkey and of bear, Prepared for thee the war to wage: Then let thy wrath no longer rage. The matrons of the Vánar race See marks of fury in thy face; They see thine eyes like blood are red, And will not yet be comforted.”

Canto XXXVI. Sugríva’s Speech.

She ceased: and Lakshmaṇ gave assent, Won by her gentle argument. So Tárá’s pleading, just and mild, His softening heart had reconciled. His altered mood Sugríva saw, And cast aside the fear and awe Like raiment heavy with the rain Which on his troubled soul had lain. Then quickly to the ground he threw His flowery garland, bright of hue, Which round his royal neck he wore, And, sobered, was himself once more. Then turning to the princely man In soothing words the king began: “My glory, wealth, and royal sway To other hands had passed away: But Ráma to my rescue came, And gave me back my power and fame. O Lakshmaṇ, say, whose grateful heart Could nurse the hope to pay in part, By service of a life, the deed Of Ráma sprung of heavenly seed? His foeman Rávaṇ shall be slain, And Sítá shall be his again. The hero’s side I will not leave, But he the conquest shall achieve. What need of help has he who drew His bow, and one great arrow flew Through seven tall trees, a mountain rent, And cleft the earth with force unspent? What aid needs he who shook his bow, And at the sound the earth below With hill and wood and rooted rock Quaked feverous with the thunder shock? Yet all my legions will I bring, And follow close the warrior king Marching on his impetuous way Fierce Rávaṇ and his hosts to slay. If I be guilty of offence, Careless through love or negligence, Let him his loyal slave forgive; For error cleaves to all who live.”

Thus king Sugríva, good and brave, In humble words his answer gave, Softened was Lakshmaṇ’s angry mood Who thus his friendly speech renewed: “My brother, Vánar King, will see A champion and a friend in thee. So strong art thou, so brave and bold, So pure in thought, so humble-souled, That thou deservest well to reign And all a monarch’s bliss to gain. Lend thou my brother aid, and all His foes beneath his arm will fall. Full well the words thou speakest suit A chieftain wise and resolute. With grateful heart that loves the right, And foot that never yields in fight. O come, and my sad brother cheer Who mourns the wife he holds so dear. O pardon, friend, my harsh address, And Ráma’s frantic bitterness.”

Canto XXXVII. The Gathering.

He ceased: and King Sugríva cried To sage Hanúmán(642) by his side: “Summon the Vánar legions, those Who dwell about the Lord of Snows: Those who in Vindhyan groves delight, Kailása’s, or Mahendra’s height, Dwell on the Five bright Peaks, or where Mandar’s white summit cleaves the air: Wherever they are wandring free In highlands by the western sea, On that east hill whence springs the sun, Or where he sinks when day is done. Call the great chiefs whose legions fill The forests of the Lotus Hill,(643) Where every one in strength and size With the stupendous Anjan(644) vies. Call those, with tints of burnished gold Whom Maháśaila’s caverns hold: Those who on Dhúmra roam, or hide In the wild woods on Meru’s side. Call those who, brilliant as the sun, On high Maháruṇ leap and run, Quaffing sweet juices that distil From odorous trees upon the hill, Call those whom tranquil haunts delight, Where dwell the sage and anchorite In groves that through their wide extent Exhale a thousand blossoms’ scent. Send out, send out: from coast to coast Assemble all the Vánar host: With force, with words, with gifts of price Compel, admonish and entice. Already envoys have been sent To warn them of their lord’s intent. Let others urged by thee repeat My mandate that their steps be fleet. Those lords who yielding to the sway Of love’s delight would fain delay, Urge hither with the utmost speed, Or with thee to my presence lead: And those who linger to the last Until ten days be come and passed, And dare their sovereign to defy, For their offence shall surely die. Thousands, yea millions, shall there be, Obedient to their king’s decree, The lions of the Vánar race, Assembled from each distant place, Forth shall they haste like hills in size, Or mighty clouds that veil the skies, And swiftly speeding on their way Bring all our legions in array.” He ceased: the son of Váyu(645) heard, Submissive to his sovereign’s word; And sent his rapid envoys forth To east and west and south and north. They bent their airy course afar Along the paths of bird and star, And sped through ether farther yet Where Vishṇu’s splendid sphere is set.(646) By sea, on hill, by wood and lake They called to arms for Ráma’s sake, As each with terror in his breast Obeyed his awful king’s behest. Three million Vánars, fierce and strong As Anjan’s self, a wondrous throng Sped from the spot where Ráma still Gazed restless from the woody hill. Ten million others, brave and bold, With coats that shone like burning gold, Came flying from the mountain crest Where sinks the weary sun to rest. Impetuous from the northern skies, Where Mount Kailása’s summits rise, Ten hundred millions hasted, hued Like manes of lions, ne’er subdued: The dwellers on Himálaya’s side, Whose food his roots and fruit supplied, With rangers of the Vindhyan chain And neighbours of the Milky Main.(647) Some from the palm groves where they fed, Some from the woods of betel sped: In countless numbers, fierce and brave, They came from mountain, lake, and cave.

As on their way the Vánars went To rouse each distant armament, They chanced that wondrous tree to view That on Himálaya’s summit grew. Of old upon that sacred height Was wrought Maheśvar’s(648) glorious rite, Which every God in heaven beheld, And his glad heart with triumph swelled. There from pure seed at random sown Bright plants with luscious fruit had grown, And, sweet as Amrit to the taste, The summit of the mountain graced. Who once should eat the virtuous fruit That sprang from so divine a root, One whole revolving moon should be From every pang of hunger free. The Vánars culled the fruit they found Ripe on the sacrificial ground With rare celestial odours sweet, To lay them at Sugríva’s feet. Those noble envoys scoured the land To summon every Vánar band Then swiftly homeward at the head Of countless armaments they sped. They gathered by Kishkindhá’s wall. They thronged Sugríva’s palace hall, And, richly laden, bare within That fruit of heavenly origin. Their gifts before their king they spread, And thus in tones of triumph said:

“Through every land our way we took To visit hill and wood and brook, And all thy hosts from east to west Flock hither at their lord’s behest.” Sugríva with delighted look The present of his envoys took, Then bade them go, with gracious speech Rewarding and dismissing each.

Canto XXXVIII. Sugríva’s Departure.

Thus all the princely Vánars, true To their appointed tasks, withdrew. Sugríva deemed already done The work he planned for Raghu’s son. Then Lakshmaṇ gently spoke and cheered Sugríva for his valour feared: “Now, chieftain, if thy will be so, Forth from Kishkindhá let us go.” Sugríva’s heart swelled high with pride As to the prince he thus replied: “Come, speed we forth without delay: ’Tis mine thy mandate to obey.” Sugríva bade the dames adieu, And Tárá and the rest withdrew. Then at their chieftain’s summons came The Vánars first in rank and fame, A trusty brave and reverent band, Meet e’en before a queen to stand. They at his call made haste to bring The litter of the glorious king. “Mount, O my friend.” Sugríva cried, And straight Sumitrá’s son complied. Then took by Lakshmaṇ’s side his place The sovereign of the woodland race, Upraised by Vánars, fleet and strong, Who bore the glittering load along. On high above his royal head A paly canopy was spread, And chouries white in many a hand The forehead of the monarch fanned, And shell and drum and song and shout Pealed round him as the king passed out. About the monarch went a throng Of Vánar warriors brave and strong, As onward to the mountain shade Where Ráma dwelt his way he made. Soon as the lovely spot he viewed Where Ráma lived in solitude, The Vánar monarch, far-renowed, With Lakshmaṇ, lightly stepped to ground, And to the son of Raghu went Joining his raised hands reverent. As their great leader raised his hands, So suppliant stood the Vánar bands. Well pleased the son of Raghu saw Those legions, hushed in reverent awe, Stand silent like the tranquil floods That raise their hands of lotus buds. But Ráma, when the king, to greet His friend, had bowed him at his feet, Raised him who ruled the Vánar race, And held him in a close embrace: Then, when his arms he had unknit, Besought him by his side to sit, And thus with gentle words the best Of men the Vánar king addressed:

“The prince who well his days divides, And knows aright the times and tides To follow duty, joy, or gain, He, only he, deserves to reign. But he who wealth and virtue leaves, And every hour to pleasure cleaves, Falls from his bliss like him who wakes From slumber on a branch that breaks. True king is he who smites his foes, And favour to his servants shows, And of that fruit makes timely use Which virtue, wealth, and joy produce. The hour is come that bids thee rise To aid me in my enterprise. Then call thy nobles to debate, And with their help deliberate.”

“Lost was my power,” the king replied, “All strength had fled, all hope had died. The Vánars owned another lord, But by thy grace was all restored. All this, O conqueror of the foe, To thee and Lakshmaṇ’s aid I owe. And his should be the villain’s shame Who durst deny the sacred claim. These Vánar chiefs of noblest birth Have at my bidding roamed the earth, And brought from distant regions all Our legions at their monarch’s call: Fierce bears with monkey troops combined, And apes of every varied kind, Terrific in their forms, who dwell In grove and wood and bosky dell: The bright Gandharvas’ brood, the seed Of Gods,(649) they change their shapes at need. Each with his legions in array, Hither, O Prince, they make their way. They come: and tens of millions swell To numbers that no tongue may tell.(650) For thee their armies will unite With chiefs, Mahendra’s peers in might. From Meru and from Vindhya’s chain They come like clouds that bring the rain. These round thee to the war will go, To smite to earth thy demon foe; Will slay the Rákshas and restore Thy consort when the fight is o’er.”

Canto XXXIX. The Vánar Host.

Then Ráma, best of all who guide Their steps by duty, thus replied: “What marvel if Lord Indra send The kindly rain, O faithful friend? If, thousand-rayed, the God of Day Drive every darksome cloud away? Or, rising high, the Lord of Night Flood the broad heaven with silver light? What marvel, King, that one like thee The glory of his friends should be? No marvel, O my lord, that thou Hast shown thy noble nature now. Thy heart, Sugríva, well I know: Naught from thy lips but truth may flow, With thee for friend and champion all My foes beneath my arm will fall. The Rákshas, when my queen he stole, Brought sure destruction on his soul, Like Anuhláda(651) who beguiled Queen Śachí called Puloma’s child. Yes, near, Sugríva, is the day When I my demon foe shall slay, As conquering Indra in his ire Slew Queen Paulomí’s haughty sire.”(652) He ceased: thick clouds of dust rose high To every quarter of the sky: The very sun grew faint and pale Behind the darkly-gathering veil. The mighty clouds that hung o’erhead From east to west thick darkness spread, And earth to her foundations shook With hill and forest, lake and brook. Then hidden was the ground beneath Fierce warriors armed with fearful teeth, Hosts numberless, each lord in size A match for him who rules the skies: From many a sea and distant hill, From rock and river, lake and rill. Some like the morning sun were bright, Some, like the moon, were silver white: These green as lotus fibres, those White-coated from their native snows.(653) Then Śatabali came in view Girt by a countless retinue. Like some gold mountain high in air Tárá’s illustrious sire(654) was there. There Rumá‘s father,(655) far-renowned, With tens of thousands ranged around. There, tinted like the tender green Of lotus filaments, was seen, Compassed by countless legions, one Whose face was as the morning sun, Hanúmán’s father good and great, Kesarí,(656) wisest in debate. There the proud king Gaváksha, feared For his strong warrior arm, appeared. There Dhúmra, mighty lord, the dread Of foes, his ursine legions led. There Panas, first for warlike fame, With twenty million warriors came. There glorious Níla, dark of hue, Arrayed his countless troops in view. There moved lord Gavaya brave and bold, Resplendent like a hill of gold, And near him Darímukha stood With millions from the hill and wood And Dwivid famed for strength and speed, And Mamda, both of Aśvin seed. There Gaja, strong and glorious, led The countless troops around him spread, And Jámbaván(657) the king whose sway The bears delighted to obey, With swarming myriads onward pressed True to his lord Sugríva’s hest; And princely Ruman, dear to fame, Led millions whom no hosts could tame, All these and many a chief beside(658) Came onward fierce in warlike pride. They covered all the plain, and still Pressed forward over wood and hill. In rows for many a league around They rested on the grassy ground; Or to Sugríva made their way, Like clouds about the Lord of Day, And to the king their proud heads bent In power and might preeminent. Sugríva then to Ráma sped, And raised his reverent hands, and said That every chief from coast to coast Was present with his warrior host.

Canto XL. The Army Of The East.

With practised eye the king reviewed The Vánars’ countless multitude, And, joying that his hest was done, Thus spake to Raghu’s mighty son: “See, all the Vánar hosts who fear My sovereign might are gathered here. Chiefs strong as Indra’s self, who speed Wher’er they list, these armies lead. Fierce and terrific to the view As Daityas or the Dánav(659) crew, Famed in all lands for souls afire With lofty thoughts, they never tire, O’er hill and vale they wander free, And islets of the distant sea. And these gathered myriads, all Will serve thee, Ráma, at thy call. Whate’er thy heart advises, say: Thy mandates will the host obey.”

Then answered Ráma, as he pressed The Vánar monarch to his breast: “O search for my lost Sítá, strive To find her if she still survive: And in thy wondrous wisdom trace Fierce Rávaṇ to his dwelling-place. And when by toil and search we know Where Sítá lies and where the foe, With thee, dear friend, will I devise Fit means to end the enterprise. Not mine, not Lakshmaṇ’s is the power To guide us in the doubtful hour. Thou, sovereign of the Vánars, thou Must be our hope and leader now.”

He ceased: at King Sugríva’s call Near came a Vánar strong and tall. Huge as a towering mountain, loud As some tremendous thunder cloud, A prince who warlike legions led: To him his sovereign turned and said: “Go, take ten thousand(660) of our race Well trained in lore of time and place, And search the eastern region; through Groves, woods, and hills thy way pursue. There seek for Sítá, trace the spot Where Rávaṇ hides, and weary not. Search for the captive in the caves Of mountains, and by woods and waves. To Sarjú,(661) Kauśikí,(662) repair, Bhagírath’s daughter(663) fresh and fair. Search mighty Yamun’s(664) peak, explore Swift Yamuná’s(665) delightful shore, Sarasvati(666) and Sindhu’s(667) tide, And rapid Śona’s(668) pebbly side. Then roam afar by Mahí’s(669) bed Where Kálamahí’s groves are spread. Go where the silken tissue shines, Go to the land of silver mines.(670) Visit each isle and mountain steep And city circled by the deep, And distant villages that high About the peaks of Mandar lie. Speed over Yavadwipa’s land,(671) And see Mount Śiśir(672) proudly stand Uplifting to the skies his head By Gods and Dánavs visited. Search each ravine and mountain pass, Each tangled thicket deep in grass. Search every cave with utmost care If haply Ráma’s queen be there. Then pass beyond the sounding sea Where heavenly beings wander free, And Śona’s(673) waters swift and strong With ruddy billows foam along. Search where his shelving banks descend, Search where the hanging woods extend. Try if the pathless thickets screen The robber and the captive queen. Search where the torrent floods that rend The mountain to the plains descend: Search dark abysses where they rave, Search mountain slope and wood and cave Then on with rapid feet and gain The inlands of the fearful main Where, tortured by the tempest’s lash, Against rude rocks the billows dash: An ocean like a sable cloud, Whose margent monstrous serpents crowd: An ocean rising with a roar To beat upon an iron shore. On, onward still! your feet shall tread Shores of the sea whose waves are red, Where spreading wide your eyes shall see The guilt-tormenting cotton tree(674) And the wild spot where Garuḍ(675) dwells Which gems adorn and ocean shells, High as Kailása, nobly decked, Wrought by the heavenly architect.(676) Huge giants named Mandehas(677) there In each foul shape they love to wear, Numbing the soul with terror’s chill, Hang from the summit of the hill. When darts the sun his earliest beam They plunge them in the ocean stream, New vigour from his rays obtain, And hang upon the rocks again. Speed onward still: your steps shall be At length beside the Milky Sea Whose every ripple as it curls Gleams glorious with its wealth of pearls. Amid that sea like pale clouds spread The white Mount Rishabh(678) rears his head. About the mountain’s glorious waist Woods redolent of bloom are braced. A lake where lotuses unfold Their silver buds with threads of gold, Sudarśan ever bright and fair Where white swans sport, lies gleaming there, The wandering Kinnar’s(679) dear resort, Where heavenly nymphs and Yakshas(680) sport. On! leave the Milky Sea behind: Another flood your search shall find, A waste of waters, wild and drear, That chills each living heart with fear. There see the horse’s awful head, Wrath-born, that flames in Ocean’s bed.(681) There rises up a fearful cry From the sea things that move thereby, When, helpless, powerless for flight, They gaze upon the horrid sight. Past to the northern shore, and then Beyond the flood three leagues and ten Your wondering glances will behold Mount Játarúpa(682) bright with gold. There like the young moon pale of hue The monstrous serpent(683) will ye view, The earth’s supporter, whose bright eyes Resemble lotus leaves in size. He rests upon the mountain’s brow, And all the Gods before him bow. Ananta with a thousand heads His length in robes of azure spreads. A triple-headed palm of gold— Meet standard for the lofty-souled— Springs towering from the mountain’s crest Beneath whose shade he loves to rest, So that in eastern realms each God May use it as a measuring-rod. Beyond, with burning gold aglow, The eastern steep his peaks will show, Which in unrivalled glory rise A hundred leagues to pierce the skies, And all the neighbouring air is bright With golden trees that clothe the height. A lofty peak uprises there Ten leagues in height and one league square Saumanas, wrought of glistering gold, Ne’er to be loosened from its hold. There his first step Lord Vishṇu placed When through the universe he paced, And with his second lightly pressed The loftiest peak of Meru’s crest. When north of Jambudwíp(684) the sun A portion of his course has run, And hangs above this mountain height, Then creatures see the genial light. Vaikhánases,(685) saints far renowned, And Bálakhilyas(686) love the ground Where in their glory half divine, Touched by the morning glow, they shine The light that flashes from that steep Illumines all Sudarśandwíp,(687) And on each creature, as it glows, The sight and strength of life bestows. Search well that mountain’s woody side If Rávaṇ there his captive hide. The rising sun, the golden hill The air with growing splendours fill, Till flashes from the east the red Of morning with the light they shed. This, where the sun begins his state, Is earth and heaven’s most eastern gate. Through all the mountain forest seek By waterfall and cave and peak. Search every nook and bosky dell, If Rávaṇ there with Sítá dwell. There, Vánars, there your steps must stay: No farther eastward can ye stray. Beyond no sun, no moon gives light, But all is sunk in endless night. Thus far, O Vánar lords, may you O’er sea and land your search pursue. But wild and dark and known to none Is the drear space beyond the sun. That mountain whence the sun ascends Your long and weary journey ends.(688) Now go, and in a month return, And let success my praises earn. He who beyond tho month shall stay Will with his life the forfeit pay.”

Canto XLI. The Army Of The South.

He gathered next a chosen band For service in the southern land. He summoned Níla son of Fire, And, offspring of the eternal Sire, Jámbaván bold and strong and tall, And Hanumán, the best of all, And many a valiant lord beside,(689) With Angad for their chief and guide. “Go forth,” he cried, “with all this host Exploring to the southern coast: The thousand peaks that Vindhya shows Where every tree and creeper grows: Where Narmadá’s(690) sweet waters run, And serpents bask them in the sun: Where Krishṇaveṇí’s(691) currents flee, And sparkles fair Godávarí.(692) Through Mekhal(693) pass and Utkal’s(694) land: Go where Daśárṇa’s(695) cities stand. Avantí(696) seek, of high renown, And Abravanti’s(697) glorious town. Search every hill and brook and cave Where Daṇḍak’s woods their branches wave Ayomukh’s(698) woody hill explore Whose sides are bright with richest ore, Lifting his glorious head on high From bloomy groves that round him lie. Search well his forests where the breeze Blows fragrant from the sandal trees. Then will you see Káverí’s(699) stream Whose pleasant waters glance and gleam, And to the lovely banks entice The sportive maids of Paradise. High on the top of Malaya’s(700) hill, In holy musing, calm and still, Sits, radiant as the Lord of Light, Agastya,(701) noblest anchorite. Soon as that lofty-thoughted lord His high permission shall accord, Pass Támraparṇí’s(702) flood whose isles Are loved by basking crocodiles. The sandal woods that fringe her side Those islets and her waters hide; While, like an amorous matron, she Speeds to her own dear lord the sea. Thence hasting on your way behold The Páṇḍyas’(703) gates of pearl and gold. Then, with your task maturely planned, On ocean’s shore your feet will stand. Where, by Agastya’s high decree, Mahendra,(704) planted in the sea, With tinted peaks against the tide Rises in solitary pride, And glorious in his golden glow Spurns back the waves that beat below. Fair mountain, bright with creepers’ bloom And every tint that trees assume, Where Yaksha, God, and heavenly maid Meet wandering in the lovely shade, At changing moon and solemn tide By Indra’s presence glorified. One hundred leagues in fair extent An island(705) fronts the continent: No man may tread its glittering shore, With utmost heed that isle explore, For the fair country owns the sway Of Rávaṇ whom we burn to slay. A mighty monster stands to keep The passage of the southern deep. Lifting her awful arms on high She grasps e’en shadows as they fly. Speed through that isle, and onward still Where in mid sea the Flowery Hill(706) Raises on high his bloomy head By saints and angels visited. There, with a hundred gleaming peaks Bright as the sun, the sky he seeks, One glorious peak the Lord of Day Gilds ever with his loving ray; Thereon ne’er yet the glances fell Of thankless wretch or infidel. Bow to that hill in reverence due, And then once more your search pursue. Beyond that glorious mountain hie, And Súryaván,(707) proud hill is nigh. Your rapid course yet farther bend Where Vaidyut’s(708) airy peaks ascend. There trees of noblest sort, profuse Of wealth, their kindly gifts produce. Their precious fruits, O Vánars, taste, The honey sip, and onward haste. Next will ye see Mount Kunjar rise, Who cheers with beauty hearts and eyes. There is Agastya’s(709) mansion, decked By heaven’s all moulding architect. Near Bhogavatí(710) stands, the place Where dwell the hosts of serpent race: A broad-wayed city, walled and barred, Which watchful legions keep and guard, The fiercest of the serpent youth, Each awful for his venomed tooth: And throned in his imperial hall Is Vásuki(711) who rules them all. Explore the serpent city well, Search town and tower and citadel, And scan each field and wood that lies Around it, with your watchful eyes. Beyond that spot your way pursue: A noble mountain shall ye view, Named Rishabh, like a mighty bull, With gems made bright and beautiful. All trees of sandal flourish there Of heavenly fragrance, rich and rare. But, though they tempt your longing eyes, Avoid to touch them, and be wise. For Rohitas, a guardian band Of fierce Gandharvas, round them stand, Who five bright sovereign lords(712) obey, In glory like the God of Day. Here by good deeds a home is won With shapes like fire, the moon, the sun. Here they who merit heaven by worth Dwell on the confines of the earth. There stay: beyond it, dark and drear, Lies the departed spirits’ sphere, And, girt with darkness, far from bliss, Is Yáma’s sad metropolis.(713) So far, my lords, o’er land and sea Your destined course is plain and free. Beyond your steps you may not set, Where living thing ne’er journeyed yet. With utmost care these realms survey, And all you meet upon the way. And, when the lady’s course is traced, Back to your king, O Vánars, haste. And he who tells me he has seen. After long search, the Maithil queen, Shall gain a noble guerdon: he In power and bliss shall equal me. Dear as my very life, above His fellows in his master’s love; I call him, yea though stained with crime. My kinsman from that happy time.”

Canto XLII. The Army Of The West.

Then to Susheṇ Sugríva bent, And thus addressed him reverent: “Two hundred thousand of our best With thee, my lord, shall seek the west. Explore Suráshṭra’s(714)] distant plain, Explore Váhlíka’s(715) wild domain, And all the pleasant brooks that flee Through mountains to the western sea. Search clustering groves on mountain heights, And woods the home of anchorites. Search where the breezy hills are high, Search where the desert regions lie. Search all the western land beset With woody mountains like a net. The country‘s farthest limit reach, And stand upon the ocean beach. There wander through the groves of palm Where the soft air is full of balm. Through grassy dell and dark ravine Seek Rávaṇ and the Maithil queen. Go visit Somagiri’s(716) steep Where Sindhu(717) mingles with the deep. There lions, borne on swift wings, roam The levels of their mountain home, And elephants and monsters bear, Caught from the ocean, to their lair. You Vánars, changing forms at will, With rapid search must scour the hill, And his sky-kissing peak of gold Where loveliest trees their blooms unfold. There golden-peaked, ablaze with light, Uprises Páriyátra’s(718) height Where wild Gandharvas, fierce and fell, In bands of countless myriads dwell. Pluck ye no fruit within the wood; Beware the impious neighbourhood, Where, very mighty, strong, and hard To overcome, the fruit they guard. Yet search for Janak’s daughter still, For Vánars there need fear no ill. Near, bright as turkis, Vajra(719) named, There stands a hill of diamond framed. Soaring a hundred leagues in pride, With trees and creepers glorified. Search there each cave and dark abyss By waterfall and precipice. Far in that sea the wild waves beat On Chakraván’s(720) firm-rooted feet. Where the great discus,(721) thousand rayed, By Vísvakarmá’s(722) art was made. When Panchajan(723) the fiend was slain. And Hayagríva,(724) fierce in vain, Thence taking shell and discus went Lord Vishṇu, God preëminent. On! sixty thousand hills of gold With wondering eyes shall ye behold, Where in his glory every one Is brilliant as the morning sun. Full in the midst King Meru,(725) best Of mountains, lifts his lofty crest, On whom of yore, as all have heard, The sun well-pleased this boon conferred: “On thee, O King, on thee and thine Light, day and night, shall ever shine. Gandharvas, Gods who love thee well And on thy sacred summits dwell, Undimmed in lustre, bright and fair, The golden sheen shall ever share.” The Viśvas,(726) Vasus,(727) they who ride The tempest,(728) every God beside, Draw nigh to Meru’s lofty crest When evening darkens in the west, And to the parting Lord of Day The homage of their worship pay, Ere yet a while, unseen of all, Behind Mount Asta’s(729) peaks he fall. Wrought by the heavenly artist’s care A glorious palace glitters there, And round about it sweet birds sing Where the gay trees are blossoming: The home of Varuṇ(730) high-souled lord, Wrist-girded with his deadly cord.(731) With ten tall stems, a palm between Meru and Asta’s hill is seen: Pure silver from the base it springs, And far and wide its lustre flings. Seek Rávaṇ and the dame by brook, In pathless glen, in leafy nook On Meru’s crest a hermit lives Bright with the light that penance gives: Sávarṇi(732) is he named, renowned As Brahmá’s peer, with glory crowned. There bowing down in reverence speak And ask him of the dame you seek. Thus far the splendid Lord of Day Pursues through heaven his ceaseless way, Shedding on every spot his light; Then sinks behind Mount Asta’s height, Thus far advance: the sunless sea Beyond is all unknown to me. Susheṇ of mighty arm, long tried In peril, shall your legions guide. Receive his words with high respect, And ne’er his lightest wish neglect. He is my consort’s sire, and hence Deserves the utmost reverence.”

Canto XLIII. The Army Of The North.

Forth went the legions of the west: And wise Sugríva addressed Śatabal, summoned from the crowd. To whom the sovereign cried aloud: “Go forth, O Vánar chief, go forth, Explore the regions of the north. Thy host a hundred thousand be, And Yáma’s sons(733) attend on thee. With dauntless courage, strength, and skill Search every river, wood, and hill. Through every land in order go Right onward to the Hills of Snow. Search mid the peaks that shine afar, In woods of Lodh and Deodár.(734) Search if with Janak’s daughter, screened By sheltering rocks, there lie the fiend. The holy grounds of Soma tread By Gods and minstrels visited. Reach Kála’s mount, and flats that lie Among the peaks that tower on high. Then leave that hill that gleams with ore, And fair Sudarśan’s heights explore. Then on to Devasakhá(735) hie, Loved by the children of the sky. A dreary land you then will see Without a hill or brook or tree, A hundred leagues, bare, wild, and dread In lifeless desolation, spread. Pursue your onward way, and haste Through the dire horrors of the waste Until triumphant with delight You reach Kailása’s glittering height. There stands a palace decked with gold, For King Kuvera(736) wrought of old, A home the heavenly artist planned And fashioned with his cunning hand. There lotuses adorn the flood With full-blown flower and opening bud Where swans and mallards float, and gay Apsarases(737) come down to play. There King Vaiśravaṇ’s(738) self, the lord By all the universe adored, Who golden gifts to mortals sends, Lives with the Guhyakas(739) his friends. Search every cavern in the steep, And green glens where the moonbeams sleep, If haply in that distant ground The robber and the dame be found. Then on to Krauncha’s hill,(740) and through His fearful pass your way pursue: Though dark and terrible the vale Your wonted courage must not fail. There through abyss and cavern seek, On lofty ridge, and mountain peak, On, on! pursue your journey still By valley, lake, and towering hill. Reach the North Kurus’ land, where rest The holy spirits of the blest: Where golden buds of lilies gleam Resplendent on the silver stream, And leaves of azure turkis throw Soft splendour on the waves below. Bright as the sun at early morn Fair pools that happy clime adorn, Where shine the loveliest flowers on stems Of crystal and all valued gems. Blue lotuses through all the land The glories of their blooms expand, And the resplendent earth is strown With peerless pearl and precious stone. There stately trees can scarce uphold The burthen of their fruits of gold, And ever flaunt their gay attire Of flower and leaf like flames of fire. All there sweet lives untroubled spend In bliss and joy that know not end, While pearl-decked maidens laugh, or sing To music of the silvery string.(741) Still on your forward journey keep, And rest you by the northern deep, Where springing from the billows high Mount Somagiri(742) seeks the sky, And lightens with perpetual glow The sunless realm that lies below. There, present through all life’s extent, Dwells Brahmá Lord preëminent, And round the great God, manifest In Rudra(743) forms high sages rest. Then turn, O Vánars: search no more, Nor tempt the sunless, boundless shore.”

Canto XLIV. The Ring.

But special counselling he gave To Hanumán the wise and brave: To him on whom his soul relied, With friendly words the monarch cried: “O best of Vánars, naught can stay By land or sea thy rapid way, Who through the air thy flight canst bend, And to the Immortals’ home ascend. All realms, I ween, are known to thee With every mountain, lake, and sea. In strength and speed which naught can tire Thou, worthy rival of thy sire The mighty monarch of the wind, Where’er thou wilt a way canst find. Exert thy power, O swift and strong, Bring back the lady lost so long, For time and place, O thou most wise, Lie open to thy searching eyes.”

When Ráma heard that special hest To Hanumán above the rest, He from the monarch’s favour drew Hope of success and trust anew That he on whom his lord relied, In toil and peril trained and tried, Would to a happy issue bring The task commanded by the king. He gave the ring that bore his name, A token for the captive dame, That the sad lady in her woe The missive of her lord might know. “This ring,” he said, “my wife will see, Nor fear an envoy sent by me. Thy valour and thy skill combined, Thy resolute and vigorous mind, And King Sugríva’s high behest, With joyful hopes inspire my breast.”

Canto XLV. The Departure.

Away, away the Vánars sped Like locusts o’er the land outspread. To northern realms where rising high The King of Mountains cleaves the sky, Fierce Śatabal with vast array Of Vánar warriors led the way. Far southward, as his lord decreed, Wise Hanumán, the Wind-God’s seed, With Angad his swift way pursued, And Tára’s warlike multitude, Strong Vinata with all his band Betook him to the eastern land, And brave Susheṇ in eager quest Sped swiftly to the gloomy west. Each Vánar chieftain sought with speed The quarter by his king decreed, While from his legions rose on high The shout and boast and battle cry: “We will restore the dame and beat The robber down beneath our feet. My arm alone shall win the day From Rávaṇ met in single fray, Shall rob the robber of his life, And rescue Ráma’s captive wife All trembling in her fear and woe. Here, comrades, rest: no farther go: For I will vanquish hell, and she Shall by this arm again be free. The rooted mountains will I rend, The mightiest trees will break and bend, Earth to her deep foundations cleave, And make the calm sea throb and heave. A hundred leagues from steep to steep In desperate bound my feet shall leap. My steps shall tread unchecked and free, Through woods, o’er land and hill and sea, Range as they list from flood to fell, And wander through the depths of hell.”

Canto XLVI. Sugríva’s Tale.

“How, King,” cried Ráma, “didst thou gain Thy lore of sea and hill and plain?” “I told thee how,” Sugríva said, “From Báli’s arm Máyáví fled(744) To Malaya’s hill, and strove to save His life by hiding in the cave. I told how Báli sought, to kill His foe, the hollow of the hill; Nor need I, King, again unfold The wondrous tale already told. Then, wandering forth, my way I took By many a town and wood and brook. I roamed the earth from place to place, Till, like a mirror’s polished face, The whole broad disk, that lies between Its farthest bounds, mine eyes had seen. I wandered first to eastern skies Where fairest trees rejoiced mine eyes, And many a cave and wooded hill Where lilies robed the lake and rill. There metal dyes that hill(745) adorn Whence springs the sun to light the morn. There, too, I viewed the Milky sea, Where nymphs of heaven delight to be. Then to the south I made my way From regions of the rising day, And roamed o’er Vindhya, where the breeze Is odorous of sandal trees. Still in my fear I found no rest: I sought the regions of the west, And gazed on Asta,(746) where the sun Sinks when his daily course is run. Then from that noblest hill I fled And to the northern country sped, Saw Himaván,(747) and Meru’s steep, And stood beside the northern deep. But when, by Báli’s might oppressed, E’en in those wilds I could not rest, Came Hanumán the wise and brave, And thus his prudent counsel gave: “’I told thee how Matanga(748) cursed Thy tyrant, that his head should burst In pieces, should he dare invade The precincts of that tranquil shade. There may we dwell in peace and be From thy oppressor’s malice free.” We went to Rishyamúka’s hill, And spent our days secure from ill Where, with that curse upon his head, The cruel Báli durst not tread.”

Canto XLVII. The Return.

Thus forth in quest of Sítá went The legions King Sugríva sent. To many a distant town they hied By many a lake and river’s side. As their great sovereign’s order taught, Through valleys, plains, and groves they sought. They toiled unresting through the day: At night upon the ground they lay Where the tall trees, whose branches swayed Beneath their fruit, gave pleasant shade. Then, when a weary month was spent, Back to Praśravaṇ’s hill they went, And stood with faces of despair Before their king Sugríva there. Thus, having wandered through the east, Great Vinata his labours ceased, And weary of the fruitless pain Returned to meet the king again, Brave Śatabali to the north Had led his Vánar legions forth. Now to Sugríva he sped With all his host dispirited. Susheṇ the western realms had sought, And homeward now his legions brought. All to Sugríva came, where still He sat with Ráma on the hill. Before their sovereign humbly bent And thus addressed him reverent: “On every hill our steps have been, By wood and cave and deep ravine; And all the wandering brooks we know Throughout the land that seaward flow, Our feet by thy command have traced The tangled thicket and the waste, And dens and dingles hard to pass for creeping plants and matted grass. Well have we searched with toil and pain, And monstrous creatures have we slain But Hanumán of noblest mind The Maithil lady yet will find; For to his quarter of the sky(749) The robber fiend was seen to fly.”

Canto XLVIII. The Asur’s Death.

But Hanumán still onward pressed With Tára, Angad, and the rest, Through Vindhya’s pathless glens he sped And left no spot unvisited. He gazed from every mountain height, He sought each cavern dark as night, And wandered through the bloomy shade By pool and river and cascade, But, though they sought in every place, Of Sítá yet they found no trace. On fruit and woodland berries fed Through many a lonely wild they sped, And reached at last, untouched by fear, A desert terrible and drear: A fruitless waste, a land of gloom Where trees were bare of leaf and bloom, Where every scanty stream was dried, And niggard earth her roots denied. No elephants through all the ground, No buffaloes or deer are found. There roams no tiger, pard, or bear, No creature of the wood is there. No bird displays his glittering wings, No tree, no shrub, no creeper springs. There rise no lilies from the flood, Resplendent with their flower and bud, Where the delighted bees may throng About the fragrance with their song. There lived a hermit Kaṇdu named, For truth and wealth of penance famed. Whom fervent zeal and holy rite Had dowered with all-surpassing might. His little son, a ten year child— So chanced it—perished in the wild. His death with fury stirred the sage, Who cursed the forest in his rage, Doomed from that hour to shelter none, A waste for bird and beast to shun. They searched by every forest edge, They searched each cave and mountain ledge, And thickets whence the water fell Wandering through the tangled dell. Striving to do Sugríva’s will They roamed along each leafy rill. But vain were all endeavours, vain The careful search, the toil and pain. Through one dark grove they scarce could wind, So thick were creepers intertwined. There as they struggled through the wood Before their eyes an Asur(750) stood. High as a towering hill, his pride The very Gods in heaven defied. When on the fiend their glances fell Each braced him for the combat well. The demon raised his arm on high, And rushed upon them with a cry. Him Angad smote,—for, sure, he thought This was the fiend they long had sought. From his huge mouth by Angad felled, The blood in rushing torrents welled, As, like a mountain from his base Uptorn, he dropped upon his face. Thus fell the mighty fiend: and they Through the thick wood pursued their way; Then, weary with the toil, reclined Where leafy boughs to shade them twined.

Canto XLIX. Angad’s Speech.

Then Angad spake: “We Vánars well Have searched each valley, cave, and dell, And hill, and brook, and dark recess, And tangled wood, and wilderness. But all in vain: no eye has seen The robber or the Maithil queen. A dreary time has passed away, And stern is he we all obey. Come, cast your grief and sloth aside: Again be every effort tried; So haply may our toil attain The sweet success that follows pain. Laborious effort, toil, and skill, The firm resolve, the constant will Secure at last the ends we seek: Hence, O my friends, I boldly speak. Once more then, noble hearts, once more Let us to-day this wood explore, And, languor and despair subdued, Purchase success with toil renewed. Sugríva is a king austere, And Ráma’s wrath we needs must fear. Come, Vánars, ye think it wise, And do the thing that I advise.”

Then Gandhamádan thus replied With lips that toil and thirst had dried; “Obey his words, for wise and true Is all that he has counselled you. Come, let your hosts their toil renew And search each grove and desert through, Each towering hill and forest glade. By lake and brook and white cascade, Till every spot, as our great lord Commanded, be again explored.”

Uprose the Vánars one and all, Obedient to the chieftain’s call, And over the southern region sped Where Vindhya’s tangled forests spread. They clomb that hill that towers on high Like a huge cloud in autumn’s sky, Where many a cavern yawns, and streaks Of radiant silver deck the peaks. In eager search they wandered through The forests where the Lodh trees grew, Where the dark leaves were thick and green, But found not Ráma’s darling queen. Then faint with toil, their hearts depressed, Descending from the mountain’s crest, Their weary limbs a while to ease They lay beneath the spreading trees.

Canto L. The Enchanted Cave.

Angad and Tára by his side, Again rose Hanumán and tried Each mountain cavern, dark and deep, And stony pass and wooded steep, The lion’s and the tiger’s home, By rushing torrents white with foam. Then with new ardour, south and west, O’er Vindhya’s height the search they pressed. The day prescribed was near and they Still wandered on their weary way. They reached the southern land beset With woody mountains like a net. At length a mighty cave they spied That opened in a mountain’s side. Where many a verdant creeper grew And o’er the mouth its tendrils threw. Thence issued crane, and swan, and drake, And trooping birds that love the lake. The Vánars rushed within to cool Their fevered lips in spring or pool. Vast was the cavern dark and dread, Where not a ray of light was shed; Yet not the more their eyesight failed, Their courage sank or valour quailed. On through the gloom the Vánars pressed With hunger, thirst, and toil distressed, Poor helpless wanderers, sad, forlorn, With wasted faces wan and worn. At length, when life seemed lost for aye, They saw a splendour as of day, A wondrous forest, fair and bright, Where golden trees shot flamy light. And lotus-covered pools were there With pleasant waters fresh and fair, And streams their rippling currents rolled By seats of silver and of gold. Fair houses reared their stately height Of burnished gold and lazulite, And glorious was the lustre thrown Through lattices of precious stone. And there were flowers and fruit on stems Of coral decked with rarest gems, And emerald leaves on silver trees, And honeycomb and golden bees. Then as the Vánars nearer drew, A holy woman met their view, Around her form was duly tied A garment of the blackdeer’s hide.(751) Pure votaress she shone with light Of fervent zeal and holy rite. Then Hanumán before the rest With reverent words the dame addressed: “Who art thou? say: and who is lord Of this vast cave with treasures stored?”

Canto LI. Svayamprabhá.

“Assailed by thirst and hunger, dame, Within a gloomy vault we came. We saw the cavern opening wide, And straight within its depths we hied. But utterly amazed are we At all the marvels that we see. Whose are the golden trees that gleam With splendour like the morning’s beam? These cates of noblest sort? these roots? This wondrous store of rarest fruits? Whose are these calm and cool retreats, These silver homes and golden seats, And lattices of precious stones? Who is the happy lord that owns The golden trees, of rarest scent, Neath loads of fruit and blossom bent? Who, strong in holy zeal, had power To deck the streams with richest dower, And bade the lilies bright with gold The glory of their blooms unfold, Where fish in living gold below The sheen of changing colours show? Thine is the holy power, I ween, That beautified the wondrous scene; But if another’s, lady, deign To tell us, and the whole explain.”

To him the lady of the cave In words like these her answer gave: “Skilled Maya framed in days of old This magic wood of growing gold. The chief artificer in place Was he of all the Dánav race. He, for his wise enchantments famed, This glorious dwelling planned and framed He for a thousand years endured The sternest penance, and secured From Brahmá of all boons the best, The knowledge Uśanas(752) possessed. Lord, by that boon, of all his will, He fashioned all with perfect skill; And, with his blissful state content, In this vast grove a season spent. By Indra’s jealous bolt he fell For loving Hemá’s(753) charms too well. And Brahmá on that nymph bestowed The treasures of this fair abode, Wherein her tranquil days to spend In happiness that ne’er may end. Sprung of a lineage old and high, Merusávarṇi’s(754) daughter, I Guard ever for that heavenly dame This home, Svayamprabhá(755) my name,— For I have loved the lady long, So skilled in arts of dance and song. But say what cause your steps has led The mazes of this grove to tread. How, strangers did ye chance to spy The wood concealed from wanderer’s eye? Tell clearly why ye come: but first Eat of this fruit and quench your thirst.”

Canto LII. The Exit.

“Ráma,” he cried, “a prince whose sway All peoples of the earth obey, To Daṇḍak’s tangled forest came With his brave brother and his dame. From that dark shade of forest boughs The giant Rávaṇ stole his spouse. Our king Sugríva’s orders send These Vánars forth to aid his friend, That so the lady be restored Uninjured to her sorrowing lord. With Angad and the rest, this band Has wandered through the southern land, With careful search in every place The lady and the fiend to trace. We roamed the southern region o’er, And stood upon the ocean’s shore. By hunger pressed our strength gave way; Beneath the spreading trees we lay, And cried, worn out with toil and woe, “No farther, comrades, can we go.” Then as our sad eyes looked around We spied an opening in the ground, Where all was gloomy dark behind The creeping plants that o’er it twined. Forth trooping from the dark-recess Came swans and mallards numberless, With drops upon their shining wings As newly bathed where water springs. “On, comrades, to the cave,” I cried And all within the portal hied. Each clasping fast another’s hand Far onward pressed the Vánar band; And still, as thirst and hunger drove, We traced the mazes of the grove. Here thou with hospitable care Hast fed us with the noblest fare, Preserving us, about to die, With this thy plentiful supply. But how, O pious lady, say, May we thy gracious boon repay?”

He ceased: the ascetic dame replied: “Well, Vánars, am I satisfied. A life of holy works I lead, And from your hands no service need.” Then spake again the Vánar chief: “We came to thee and found relief. Now listen to a new distress, And aid us, holy votaress. Our wanderings in this vasty cave Exhaust the time Sugríva gave. Once more then, lady, grant release, And let thy suppliants go in peace Again upon their errand sped, For King Sugríva’s ire we dread. And the great task our sovereign set, Alas, is unaccomplished yet.”

Thus Hanumán their leader prayed, And thus the dame her answer made: “Scarce may the living find their way Returning hence to light of day; But I will free you through the might Of penance, fast, and holy rite. Close for a while your eyes, or ne’er May you return to upper air.” She ceased: the Vánars all obeyed; Their fingers on their eyes they laid, And, ere a moment’s time had fled, Were through the mazy cavern led. Again the gracious lady spoke, And joy in every bosom woke: “Lo, here again is Vindhya’s hill, Whose valleys trees and creepers fill; And, by the margin of the sea, Praśravaṇ where you fain would be.” With blessings then she bade adieu, And swift within the cave withdrew.

Canto LIII. Angad’s Counsel.

They looked upon the boundless main The awful seat of Varuṇ’s reign. And heard his waters roar and rave Terrific with each crested wave. Then, in the depths of sorrow drowned, They sat upon the bosky ground, And sadly, as they pondered, grieved For days gone by and naught achieved. Pain pierced them through with sharper sting When, gazing on the trees of spring, They saw each waving bough that showed The treasures of its glorious load, And helpless, fainting with the weight Of woe they sank disconsolate. Then, lion-shouldered, stout and strong, The noblest of the Vánar throng, Angad the prince imperial rose, And, deeply stricken by the woes That his impetuous spirit broke, Thus gently to the chieftains spoke: “Mark ye not, Vánars, that the day Our monarch fixed has passed away? The month is lost in toil and pain, And now, my friends, what hopes remain? On you, in lore of counsel tried, Our king Sugríva most relied. Your hearts, with strong affection fraught, His weal in every labour sought, And the true valour of your band Was blazoned wide in every land. Forth on the toilsome search you sped, By me—for so he willed it—led, To us, of every hope bereft, Death is the only refuge left. For none a happy life may see Who fails to do our king’s decree. Come, let us all from food abstain, And perish thus, since hope is vain. Stern is our king and swift to ire, Imperious, proud, and fierce like fire, And ne’er will pardon us the crime Of fruitless search and wasted time. Far better thus to end our lives, And leave our wealth, our homes and wives, Leave our dear little ones and all, Than by his vengeful hand to fall. Think not Sugríva’s wrath will spare Me Báli’s son, imperial heir: For Raghu’s royal son, not he, To this high place anointed me. Sugríva, long my bitter foe, With eager hand will strike the blow, And, mindful of the old offence, Will slay me now for negligence, Nor will my pitying friends have power To save me in the deadly hour. No—here, O chieftains, will I lie By ocean’s marge, and fast and die.”

They heard the royal prince declare The purpose of his fixt despair; And all, by common terror moved, His speech in these sad words approved: “Sugríva’s heart is hard and stern, And Ráma’s thoughts for Sítá yearn. Our forfeit lives will surely pay For idle search and long delay, And our fierce king will bid us die The favour of his friend to buy.”

Then Tára softly spake to cheer The Vánars’ hearts oppressed by fear: “Despair no more, your doubts dispel: Come in this ample cavern dwell. There may we live in blissful ease Mid springs and fruit and bloomy trees, Secure from every foe’s assault, For magic framed the wondrous vault. Protected there we need not fear Though Ráma and our king come near; Nor dread e’en him who batters down The portals of the foeman’s town.”(756)

Canto LIV. Hanumán’s Speech.

But Hanumán, while Tára, best Of splendid chiefs his thought expressed, Perceived that Báli’s princely son A kingdom for himself had won.(757) His keen eye marked in him combined The warrior’s arm, the ruler’s mind, And every noble gift should grace The happy sovereign of his race: Marked how he grew with ripening age More glorious and bold and sage,— Like the young moon that night by night Shines on with ever waxing light,— Brave as his royal father, wise As he who counsels in the skies:(758) Marked how, forwearied with the quest, He heeded not his liege’s hest, But Tára’s every word obeyed Like Indra still by Śukra(759) swayed. Then with his prudent speech he tried To better thoughts the prince to guide, And by division’s skilful art The Vánars and the youth to part: “Illustrious Angad, thou in fight Hast far surpassed thy father’s might, Most worthy, like thy sire of old, The empire of our race to hold. The Vánars’ fickle people range From wish to wish and welcome change. Their wives and babes they will not leave And to their new-made sovereign cleave. No art, no gifts will draw away The Vánars from Sugríva’s sway, Through hope of wealth, through fear of pain Still faithful will they all remain. Thou fondly hopest in this cave The vengeance of the foe to brave. But Lakshmaṇ’s arm a shower will send Of deadly shafts those walls to rend. Like Indra’s bolts his shafts have power To cleave the mountain like a flower. O Angad, mark my counsel well: If in this cave thou choose to dwell, These Vánar hosts with one accord Will quit thee for their lawful lord, And turn again with thirsty eyes To wife and babe and all they prize. Thou in the lonely cavern left Of followers and friends bereft, Wilt be in all thy woe, alas, Weak as a blade of trembling grass: And Lakshmaṇ’s arrows, keen and fierce From his strong bow, thy heart will pierce. But if in lowly reverence meek Sugríva’s court with us thou seek, He, as thy birth demands, will share The kingdom with the royal heir. Thy loving kinsman, true and wise, Looks on thee still with favouring eyes. Firm in his promise, pure is he, And ne’er will vex or injure thee. He loves thy mother, lives for her A faithful friend and worshipper. That mother’s love thou mayst not spurn: Her only child, return, return.”

Canto LV. Angad’s Reply.

“What truth or justice canst thou find,” Cried Angad, “in Sugríva’s mind? Where is his high and generous soul, His purity and self-control? How is he worthy of our trust, Righteous, and true, and wise, and just, Who, shrinking not from sin and shame, Durst take his living brother’s dame? Who, when, in stress of mortal strife His noble brother fought for life, Against the valiant warrior barred The portal which he stood to guard? Can he be grateful—he who took The hand of Ráma, and forsook That friend who saved him in his woes, To whom his life and fame he owes? Ah no! his heart is cold and mean, What bids him search for Ráma’s queen? Not honour’s law, not friendship’s debt, But angry Lakshmaṇ’s timely threat. No prudent heart will ever place Its trust in one so false and base, Who heeds not friendship, kith or kin, Who scorns the law and cleaves to sin. But true or false, whate’er he be, One consequence I clearly see; Me, in my youth anointed heir Against his wish, he will not spare, But strike with eager hand the blow That rids him of a household foe. Shall I of power and friends despoiled, In all my purpose crossed and foiled,— Shall I Kishkindhá seek, and wait, Like some poor helpless thing, my fate? The cruel wretch through lust of sway Will seize upon his hapless prey, And to a prison’s secret gloom The remnant of my years will doom. ’Tis better far to fast and die Than hopeless bound in chains to lie, Your steps, O Vánars, homeward bend And leave me here my life to end. Better to die of hunger here Than meet at home the fate I fear. Go, bow you at Sugríva’s feet, And in my name the monarch greet. Before the sons of Raghu bend, And give the greeting that I send. Greet kindly Rumá too, for she A son’s affection claims from me, And gently calm with friendly care My mother Tárá’s wild despair; Or when she hears her darling’s fate The queen will die disconsolate.”

Thus Angad bade the chiefs adieu: Then on the ground his limbs he threw Where sacred Darbha(760) grass was spread, And wept as every hope had fled. The moving words of Angad drew Down aged cheeks the piteous dew. And, as the chieftains’ eyes grew dim, They swore to stay and die with him. On holy grass whose every blade Was duly, pointing southward, laid, The Vánars sat them down and bent Their faces to the orient, While “Here, O comrades, let us die With Angad,” was the general cry.

Canto LVI. Sampáti.

Then came the vultures’ mighty king Where sat the Vánars sorrowing,— Sampáti,(761) best of birds that fly On sounding pinions through the sky, Jaṭáyus’ brother, famed of old, Most glorious and strong and bold. Upon the slope of Vindhya’s hill He saw the Vánars calm and still. These words he uttered while the sight Filled his fierce spirit with delight: “Behold how Fate with changeless laws Within his toils the sinner draws, And brings me, after long delay, A rich and noble feast to-day, These Vánars who are doomed to die My hungry maw to satisfy.”

He spoke no more: and Angad heard The menace of the mighty bird; And thus, while anguish filled his breast, The noble Hanumán addressed: “Vivasvat’s(762) son has sought this place For vengeance on the Vánar race. See, Yáma, wroth for Sítá’s sake, Is come our guilty lives to take. Our king’s decree is left undone, And naught achieved for Raghu’s son. In duty have we failed, and hence Comes punishment for dire offence. Have we not heard the marvels wrought By King Jaṭáyus,(763) how he fought With Rávaṇ’s might, and, nobly brave, Perished, the Maithil queen to save? There is no living creature, none, But loves to die for Raghu’s son, And in long toils and dangers we Have placed our lives in jeopardy. Blest is Jaṭáyus, he who gave His life the Maithil queen to save, And proved his love for Ráma well When by the giant’s hand he fell. Now raised to bliss and high renown He fears not fierce Sugríva’s frown. Alas, alas! what miseries spring From that rash promise of the king!(764) His own sad death, and Ráma sent With Lakshmaṇ forth to banishment: The Maithil lady borne away: Jaṭáyus slain in mortal fray: The fall of Báli when the dart Of Ráma quivered in his heart: And, after toil and pain and care, Our misery and deep despair.”

He ceased: the feathered monarch heard, His heart with ruth and wonder stirred: “Whose is that voice,” the vulture cried, “That tells me how Jaṭáyus died, And shakes my inmost soul with woe For a loved brother’s overthrow? After long days at length I hear The glorious name of one so dear. Once more, O Vánar chieftains, tell How King Jaṭáyus fought and fell. But first your aid, I pray you, lend, And from this peak will I descend. The sun has burnt my wings, and I No longer have the power to fly.”

Canto LVII. Angad’s Speech.

Though grief and woe his utterance broke They trusted not the words he spoke; But, looking still for secret guile, Reflected in their hearts a while: “If on our mangled limbs he feed, We gain the death ourselves decreed.”

Then rose the Vánar chiefs, and lent Their arms to aid the bird’s descent; And Angad spake: “There lived of yore A noble Vánar king who bore The name of Riksharajas, great And brave and strong and fortunate. His sons were like their father: fame Knows Báli and Sugríva’s name. Praised in all lands, a glorious king Was Báli, and from him I spring. Brave Ráma, Daśaratha’s heir, A glorious prince beyond compare, His sire and duty’s law obeyed, And sought the depths of Daṇḍak’ shade Sítá his well-beloved dame, And Lakshmaṇ, with the wanderer came. A giant watched his hour, and stole The sweet delight of Ráma’s soul. Jaṭáyus, Daśaratha’s friend, Swift succour to the dame would lend. Fierce Rávaṇ from his car he felled, And for a time the prize withheld. But bleeding, weak with years, and tired, Beneath the demon’s blows expired, Due rites at Ráma’s hands obtained, And bliss that ne’er shall minish, gained. Then Ráma with Sugríva made A covenant for mutual aid, And Báli, to the field defied, By conquering Ráma’s arrow died. Sugríva then, by Ráma’s grace, Was monarch of the Vánar race. By his command a mighty host Seeks Ráma’s queen from coast to coast. Sent forth by him, in every spot We looked for her, but find her not. Vain is the toil, as though by night We sought to find the Day-God’s light. In lands unknown at length we found A spacious cavern under ground, Whose vaults that stretch beneath the hill Were formed by Maya’s magic skill. Through the dark maze our steps were bent, And wandering there a month we spent, And lost, in fruitless error, thus The days our king allotted us. Thus we though faithful have transgressed, And failed to keep our lord’s behest. No chance of safety can we see, No lingering hope of life have we. Sugríva’s wrath and Ráma’s hate Press on our souls with grievous weight: And we, because ’tis vain to fly, Resolve at length to fast and die.”

Canto LVIII. Tidings Of Sítá.

The piteous tears his eye bedewed As thus his speech the bird renewed; “Alas my brother, slain in fight By Rávaṇ’s unresisted might! I, old and wingless, weak and worn, O’er his sad fate can only mourn. Fled is my youth: in life’s decline My former strength no more is mine. Once on the day when Vritra(765) died, We brothers, in ambitious pride, Sought, mounting with adventurous flight, The Day-God garlanded with light. On, ever on we urged our way Where fields of ether round us lay, Till, by the fervent heat assailed, My brother’s pinions flagged and failed. I marked his sinking strength, and spread My stronger wings to screen his head, Till, all my feathers burnt away, On Vindhya’s hill I fell and lay. There in my lone and helpless state I heard not of my brother’s fate.”

Thus King Sampáti spoke and sighed: And royal Angad thus replied: “If, brother of Jatáyus, thou Hast heard the tale I told but now, Obedient to mine earnest prayer The dwelling of that fiend declare. O, say where cursed Rávaṇ dwells, Whom folly to his death impels.”

He ceased. Again Sampáti spoke, And hope in every breast awoke: “Though lost my wings, and strength decayed, Yet shall my words lend Ráma aid. I know the worlds where Vishṇu trod,(766) I know the realm of Ocean’s God; How Asurs fought with heavenly foes, And Amrit from the churning rose.(767) A mighty task before me lies, To prosper Ráma’s enterprise, A task too hard for one whom length Of days has rifled of his strength. I saw the cruel Rávaṇ bear A gentle lady through the air. Bright was her form, and fresh and young, And sparkling gems about her hung. “O Ráma, Ráma!” cried the dame, And shrieked in terror Lakshmaṇ’s name, As, struggling in the giant’s hold, She dropped her gauds of gems and gold. Like sun-light on a mountain shone The silken garments she had on, And glistened o’er his swarthy form As lightning flashes through the storm. That giant Rávaṇ, famed of old, Is brother of the Lord of Gold.(768) The southern ocean roars and swells Round Lanká, where the robber dwells In his fair city nobly planned And built by Viśvakarmá’s(769) hand. Within his bower securely barred, With monsters round her for a guard, Still in her silken vesture clad Lies Sítá, and her heart is sad. A hundred leagues your course must be Beyond this margin of the sea. Still to the south your way pursue, And there the giant Rávaṇ view. Then up, O Vánars, and away! For by my heavenly lore I say, There will you see the lady’s face, And hither soon your steps retrace. In the first field of air are borne The doves and birds that feed on corn. The second field supports the crows And birds whose food on branches grows. Along the third in balanced flight Sail the keen osprey and the kite. Swift through the fourth the falcon springs The fifth the slower vulture wings. Up to the sixth the gay swans rise, Where royal Vainateya(770) flies. We too, O chiefs, of vulture race, Our line from Vinatá may trace, Condemned, because we wrought a deed Of shame, on flesh and blood to feed. But all Suparṇa’s(771) wondrous powers And length of keenest sight are ours, That we a hundred leagues away Through fields of air descry our prey. Now from this spot my gazing eye Can Rávaṇ and the dame descry. Devise some plan to overleap This barrier of the briny deep. Find the Videhan lady there, And joyous to your home repair. Me too, O Vánars, to the side Of Varuṇ’s(772) home the ocean, guide, Where due libations shall be paid To my great-hearted brother’s shade.”

Canto LIX. Sampáti’s Story.

They heard his counsel to the close, Then swiftly to their feet they rose; And Jámbaván with joyous breast The vulture king again addressed:

“Where, where is Sítá? who has seen, Who borne away the Maithil queen? Who would the lightning flight withstand by Lakshmaṇ’s hand?”

Again Sampáti spoke to cheer The Vánars as they bent to hear: “Now listen, and my words shall show What of the Maithil dame I know, And in what distant prison lies The lady of the long dark eyes. Scorched by the fiery God of Day, High on this mighty hill I lay. A long and weary time had passed, And strength and life were failing fast. Yet, ere the breath had left my frame, My son, my dear Supárśva, came. Each morn and eve he brought me food, And filial care my life renewed. But serpents still are swift to ire, Gandharvas slaves to soft desire, And we, imperial vultures, need A full supply our maws to feed. Once he turned at close of day, Stood by my side, but brought no prey. He looked upon my ravenous eye, Heard my complaint and made reply: “Borne on swift wings ere day was light I stood upon Mahendra’s(773) height, And, far below, the sea I viewed And birds in countless multitude. Before mine eyes a giant flew Whose monstrous form was dark of hue And struggling in his grasp was borne A lady radiant as the morn. Swift to the south his course he bent, And cleft the yielding element. The holy spirits of the air Came round me as I marvelled there, And cried as their bright legions met: “O say, is Sítá living yet?” Thus cried the saints and told the name Of him who held the struggling dame. Then while mine eye with eager look Pursued the path the robber took, I marked the lady’s streaming hair, And heard her cry of wild despair. I saw her silken vesture rent And stripped of every ornament, Thus, O my father, fled the time: Forgive, I pray, the heedless crime.” In vain the mournful tale I heard My pitying heart to fury stirred, What could a helpless bird of air, Reft of his boasted pinions, dare? Yet can I aid with all that will And words can do, and friendly skill.”

Canto LX. Sampáti’s Story.

Then from the flood Sampáti paid Due offerings to his brother’s shade. He bathed him when the rites were done, And spake again to Báli’s son: “Now listen, Prince, while I relate How first I learned the lady’s fate. Burnt by the sun’s resistless might I fell and lay on Vindhya’s height. Seven nights in deadly swoon I passed, But struggling life returned at last. Around I bent my wondering view, But every spot was strange and new. I scanned the sea with eager ken, And rock and brook and lake and glen, I saw gay trees their branches wave, And creepers mantling o’er the cave. I heard the wild birds’ joyous song, And waters as they foamed along, And knew the lovely hill must be Mount Vindhya by the southern sea. Revered by heavenly beings, stood Near where I lay, a sacred wood, Where great Niśakar dwelt of yore And pains of awful penance bore. Eight thousand seasons winged their flight Over the toiling anchorite— Upon that hill my days were spent,— And then to heaven the hermit went. At last, with long and hard assay, Down from that height I made my way, And wandered through the mountain pass Rough with the spikes of Darbha grass. I with my misery worn, and faint Was eager to behold the saint: For often with Jaṭáyus I Had sought his home in days gone by. As nearer to the grove I drew The breeze with cooling fragrance blew, And not a tree that was not fair, With richest flower and fruit was there. With anxious heart a while I stayed Beneath the trees’ delightful shade, And soon the holy hermit, bright With fervent penance, came in sight. Behind him bears and lions, tame As those who know their feeder, came, And tigers, deer, and snakes pursued His steps, a wondrous multitude, And turned obeisant when the sage Had reached his shady hermitage. Then came Niśakar to my side And looked with wondering eyes, and cried: “I knew thee not, so dire a change Has made thy form and feature strange. Where are thy glossy feathers? where The rapid wings that cleft the air? Two vulture brothers once I knew: Each form at will could they endue. They of the vulture race were kings, And flew with Mátariśva’s(774) wings. In human shape they loved to greet Their hermit friend, and clasp his feet. The younger was Jaṭáyus, thou The elder whom I gaze on now. Say, has disease or foeman’s hate Reduced thee from thy high estate?”

Canto LXI. Sampáti’s Story.

“Ah me! o’erwhelmed with shame and weak With wounds,” I cried, “I scarce can speak. My hapless brother once and I Our strength of flight resolved to try. And by our foolish pride impelled Our way through realms of ether held. We vowed before the saints who tread The wilds about Kailása’s head, That we with following wings would chase The swift sun to his resting place. Up on our soaring pinions through The fields of cloudless air we flew. Beneath us far, and far away, Like chariot wheels bright cities lay, Whence in wild snatches rose the song Of women mid the gay-clad throng, With sounds of sweetest music blent And many a tinkling ornament. Then as our rapid wings we strained The pathway of the sun we gained. Beneath us all the earth was seen Clad in her garb of tender green, And every river in her bed Meandered like a silver thread. We looked on Meru far below And Vindhya and the Lord of Snow, Like elephants that bend to cool Their fever in a lilied pool. But fervent heat and toil o’ercame The vigour of each yielding frame, Our weary hearts began to quail, And wildered sense to reel and fail. We knew not, fainting and distressed, The north or south or east or west. With a great strain mine eyes I turned Where the fierce sun before me burned, And seemed to my astonished eyes The equal of the earth in size.(775) At length, o’erpowered, Jaṭáyus fell Without a word to say farewell, And when to earth I saw him hie I followed headlong from the sky.(776) With sheltering wings I intervened And from the sun his body screened, But lost, for heedless folly doomed, My pinions which the heat consumed. In Janasthán, I hear them say, My hapless brother fell and lay. I, pinionless and faint and weak, Dropped upon Vindhya’s woody peak. Now with my swift wings burnt away, Reft of my brother and my sway, From this tall mountain’s summit I Will cast me headlong down and die.”

Canto LXII. Sampáti’s Story.

“As to the saint I thus complained My bitter tears fell unrestrained. He pondered for a while, then broke The silence, and thus calmly spoke: “Forth from thy sides again shall spring, O royal bird, each withered wing, And all thine ancient power and might Return to thee with strength of sight. A noble deed has been foretold In prophecy pronounced of old: Nor dark to me are future things, Seen by the light which penance brings. A glorious king shall rise and reign, The pride of old Ikshváku’s strain. A good and valiant prince, his heir, Shall the dear name of Ráma bear. With his brave brother Lakshmaṇ he An exile in the woods shall be, Where Rávaṇ, whom no God may slay,(777) Shall steal his darling wife away. In vain the captive will be wooed With proffered love and dainty food, She will not hear, she will not taste: But, lest her beauty wane and waste, Lord Indra’s self will come to her With heavenly food, and minister. Then envoys of the Vánar race By Ráma sent will seek this place. To them, O roamer of the air, The lady’s fate shalt thou declare. Thou must not move—so maimed thou art Thou canst not from this spot depart. Await the day and moment due, And thy burnt wings will sprout anew. I might this day the boon bestow And bid again thy pinions grow, But wait until thy saving deed The nations from their fear have freed. Then for this glorious aid of thine The princes of Ikshváku’s line, And Gods above and saints below Eternal gratitude shall owe. Fain would mine aged eyes behold That pair of whom my lips have told, Yet wearied here I must not stay, But leave my frame and pass away.”

Canto LXIII. Sampáti’s Story.

“With this and many a speech beside My failing heart he fortified, With glorious hope my breast inspired, And to his holy home retired. I scaled the mountain height, to view The region round, and looked for you. In ceaseless watchings night and day A hundred seasons passed away, And by the sage’s words consoled I wait the hour and chance foretold. But since Niśakar sought the skies. And cast away all earthly ties, Full many a care and doubt has pressed With grievous weight upon my breast. But for the saint who turned aside My purpose I had surely died. Those hopeful words the hermit spake, That bid me live for Ráma’s sake, Dispel my anguish as the light Of lamp and torch disperse the night.”

He ceased: and in the Vánars’ view Forth from his side young pinions grew, And boundless rapture filled his breast As thus the chieftains he addressed: “Joy, joy! the pinions, which the Lord Of Day consumed, are now restored Through the dear grace & boundless might Of that illustrious anchorite. The fire of youth within me burns, And all my wonted strength returns. Onward, ye Vánars, toil strive, And you shall find the dame alive. Look on these new-found wings, and hence Be strong in surest confidence.”

Swift from the crag he sprang to try His pinions in his native sky. His words the chieftains’ doubts had stilled, And every heart with courage filled.(778)

Canto LXIV. The Sea.

Shouts of triumphant joy outrang As to their feet the Vánars sprang: And, on the mighty task intent, Swift to the sea their steps they bent. They stood and gazed upon the deep, Whose billows with a roar and leap On the sea banks ware wildly hurled,— The mirror of the mighty world. There on the strand the Vánars stayed And with sad eyes the deep surveyed, Here, as in play, his billows rose, And there he slumbered in repose. Here leapt the boisterous waters, high As mountains, menacing the sky, And wild infernal forms between The ridges of the waves were seen. They saw the billows rave and swell, And their sad spirits sank and fell; For ocean in their deep despair Seemed boundless as the fields of air. Then noble Angad spake to cheer The Vánars and dispel their fear: “Faint not: despair should never find Admittance to a noble mind. Despair, a serpent’s mortal bite, Benumbs the hero’s power and might.”

Then passed the weary night, and all Assembled at their prince’s call, And every lord of high estate Was gathered round him for debate. Bright was the chieftains’ glorious band Round Angad on the ocean strand, As when the mighty Storm-Gods meet Round Indra on his golden seat. Then princely Angad looked on each, And thus began his prudent speech: “What chief of all our host will leap A hundred leagues across the deep? Who, O illustrious Vánars, who Will make Sugríva’s promise true, And from our weight of fear set free The leaders of our band and me? To whom, O warriors, shall we owe A sweet release from pain and woe, And proud success, and happy lives With our dear children and our wives, Again permitted by his grace To look with joy on Ráma’s face, And noble Lakshmaṇ, and our lord The king, to our sweet homes restored?”

Thus to the gathered lords he spoke; But no reply the silence broke. Then with a sterner voice he cried: “O chiefs, the nation’s boast and pride, Whom valour strength and power adorn, Of most illustrious lineage born, Where’er you will you force a way, And none your rapid course can stay. Now come, your several powers declare. And who this desperate leap will dare?”

Canto LXV. The Council.

But none of all the host was found To clear the sea with desperate bound, Though each, as Angad bade, declared His proper power and what he dared.(779) Then spake good Jámbaván the sage, Chief of them all for reverend age; “I, Vánar chieftains, long ago Limbs light to leap could likewise show, But now on frame and spirit weighs The burthen of my length of days. Still task like this I may not slight, When Ráma and our king unite. So listen while I tell, O friends, What lingering strength mine age attends. If my poor leap may aught avail, Of ninety leagues, I will not fail. Far other strength in youth’s fresh prime I boasted, in the olden time, When, at Prahláda’s(780) solemn rite, I circled in my rapid flight Lord Vishṇu, everlasting God, When through the universe he trod. But now my limbs are weak and old, My youth is fled, its fire is cold, And these exhausted nerves to strain In such a task were idle pain.”

Then Angad due obeisance paid, And to the chief his answer made: “Then I, ye noble Vánars, I Myself the mighty leap will try: Although perchance the power I lack To leap from Lanká’s island back.”

Thus the impetuous chieftain cried, And Jámbaván the sage replied: “Whate’er thy power and might may be, This task, O Prince, is not for thee. Kings go not forth themselves, but send The servants who their best attend. Thou art the darling and the boast, The honoured lord of all the host. In thee the root, O Angad, lies Of our appointed enterprise; And thee, on whom our hopes depend, Our care must cherish and defend.”

Then Báli’s noble son replied: “Needs must I go, whate’er betide, For, if no chief this exploit dare, What waits us all save blank despair,— Upon the ground again to lie In hopeless misery, fast, and die? For not a hope of life I see If we neglect our king’s decree.” Then spoke the aged chief again: “Nay our attempt shall not be vain, For to the task will I incite A chieftain of sufficient might.”

Canto LXVI. Hanumán.

The chieftain turned his glances where The legions sat in mute despair; And then to Hanumán, the best Of Vánar lords, these words addressed: “Why still, and silent, and apart, O hero of the dauntless heart? Thou keepest treasured in thy mind The laws that rule the Vánar kind, Strong as our king Sugríva, brave As Ráma’s self to slay or save. Through every land thy praise is heard, Famous as that illustrious bird, Aríshṭanemi’s son,(781) the king Of every fowl that plies the wing. Oft have I seen the monarch sweep With sounding pinions o’er the deep, And in his mighty talons bear Huge serpents struggling through the air. Thy arms, O hero, match in might The ample wings he spreads for flight; And thou with him mayest well compare In power to do, in heart to dare. Why, rich in wisdom, power, and skill, O hero, art thou lingering still? An Apsaras(782) the fairest found Of nymphs for heavenly charms renowned, Sweet Punjikasthalá, became A noble Vánar’s wedded dame. Her heavenly title heard no more, Anjaná was the name she bore, When, cursed by Gods, from heaven she fell In Vánar form on earth to dwell, New-born in mortal shape the child Of Kunjar monarch of the wild. In youthful beauty wondrous fair, A crown of flowers about her hair, In silken robes of richest dye She roamed the hills that kiss the sky. Once in her tinted garments dressed She stood upon the mountain crest, The God of Wind beside her came, And breathed upon the lovely dame. And as he fanned her robe aside The wondrous beauty that he eyed In rounded lines of breast and limb And neck and shoulder ravished him; And captured by her peerless charms He strained her in his amorous arms. Then to the eager God she cried In trembling accents, terrified: “Whose impious love has wronged a spouse So constant in her nuptial vows?” He heard, and thus his answer made: “O, be not troubled, nor afraid, But trust, and thou shalt know ere long My love has done thee, sweet, no wrong, So strong and brave and wise shall be The glorious child I give to thee. Might shall be his that naught can tire, And limbs to spring as springs his sire.” Thus spoke the God; the conquered dame Rejoiced in heart nor feared the shame. Down in a cave beneath the earth The happy mother gave thee birth. Once o’er the summit of the wood Before thine eyes the new sun stood. Thou sprangest up in haste to seize What seemed the fruitage of the trees. Up leapt the child, a wondrous bound, Three hundred leagues above the ground, And, though the angered Day-God shot His fierce beams on him, feared him not. Then from the hand of Indra came A red bolt winged with wrath and flame. The child fell smitten on a rock, His cheek was shattered by the shock, Named Hanumán(783) thenceforth by all In memory of the fearful fall. The wandering Wind-God saw thee lie With bleeding cheek and drooping eye, And stirred to anger by thy woe Forbade each scented breeze to blow. The breath of all the worlds was stilled, And the sad Gods with terror filled Prayed to the Wind, to calm the ire And soothe the sorrow of the sire. His fiery wrath no longer glowed, And Brahmá’s self the boon bestowed That in the brunt of battle none Should slay with steel the Wind-God’s son. Lord Indra, sovereign of the skies, Bent on thee all his thousand eyes, And swore that ne’er the bolt which he Hurls from the heaven should injure thee. ’Tis thine, O mighty chief, to share The Wind-God’s power, his son and heir. Sprung from that glorious father thou, And thou alone, canst aid us now. This earth of yore, through all her climes, I circled one-and-twenty times, And gathered, as the Gods decreed, Great store of herbs from hill and mead, Which, scattered o’er the troubled wave, The Amrit to the toilers gave. But now my days are wellnigh told, My strength is gone, my limbs are old, And thou, the bravest and the best, Art the sure hope of all the rest. Now, mighty chief, the task assay: Thy matchless power and strength display. Rise up, O prince, our second king, And o’er the flood of ocean spring. So shall the glorious exploit vie With his who stepped through earth and sky.”(784)

He spoke: the younger chieftain heard, His soul to vigorous effort stirred, And stood before their joyous eyes Dilated in gigantic size.

Canto LXVII. Hanumán’s Speech.

Soon as his stature they beheld, Their fear and sorrow were dispelled; And joyous praises loud and long Rang out from all the Vánar throng. On the great chief their eyes they bent In rapture and astonishment, As, when his conquering foot he raised, The Gods upon Náráyaṇ(785) gazed. He stood amid the joyous crowd, Bent to the chiefs, and cried aloud: “The Wind-God, Fire’s eternal friend, Whose blasts the mountain summits rend, With boundless force that none may stay, Takes where he lists his viewless way. Sprung from that glorious father, I In power and speed with him may vie, A thousand times with airy leap Can circle loftiest Meru’s steep: With my fierce arms can stir the sea Till from their bed the waters flee And rush at my command to drown This land with grove and tower and town. I through the fields of air can spring Far swifter than the feathered King, And leap before him as he flies, On sounding pinions through the skies. I can pursue the Lord of Light Uprising from the eastern height, And reach him ere his course be sped With burning beams engarlanded. I will dry up the mighty main, Shatter the rocks and rend the plain. O’er earth and ocean will I bound, And every flower that grows on ground, And bloom of climbing plants shall show Strewn on the ground, the way I go, Bright as the lustrous path that lies Athwart the region of the skies.(786) The Maithil lady will I find,— Thus speaks mine own prophetic mind,— And cast in hideous ruin down The shattered walls of Lanká’s town.”

Still on the chief in rapt surprise The Vánar legions bent their eyes, And thus again sage Jámbaván Addressed the glorious Hanumán: “Son of the Wind, thy promise cheers The Vánars’ hearts, and calms their fears, Who, rescued from their dire distress, With prospering vows thy way will bless. The holy saints their favour lend, And all our chiefs the deed commend Urging thee forward on thy way: Arise then, and the task assay. Thou art our only refuge; we, Our lives and all, depend on thee.”

Then sprang the Wind-God’s son the best Of Vánars, on Mahendra’s crest, And the great mountain rocked and swayed By that unusual weight dismayed, As reels an elephant beneath The lion’s spring and rending teeth. The shady wood that crowned him shook, The trembling birds the boughs forsook, And ape and pard and lion fled From brake and lair disquieted.

BOOK V.(787)

Canto I. Hanumán’s Leap.

Thus Rávaṇ’s foe resolved to trace The captive to her hiding-place Through airy pathways overhead Which heavenly minstrels visited. With straining nerve and eager brows, Like some strong husband of the cows, In ready might he stood prepared For the bold task his soul has dared. O’er gem-like grass that flashed and glowed The Vánar like a lion strode. Roused by the thunder of his tread, The beasts to shady coverts fled. Tall trees he crushed or hurled aside, And every bird was terrified. Around him loveliest lilies grew, Pale pink, and red, and white, and blue, And tints of many a metal lent The light of varied ornament. Gandharvas, changing forms at will, And Yakshas roamed the lovely hill, And countless Serpent-Gods were seen Where flowers and grass were fresh and green. As some resplendent serpent takes His pastime in the best of lakes, So on the mountain’s woody height The Vánar wandered with delight. Then, standing on the flowery sod, He paid his vows to saint and God. Svayambhu(788) and the Sun he prayed, And the swift Wind to lend him aid, And Indra, sovereign of the skies, To bless his hardy enterprise. Then once again the chief addressed The Vánars from the mountain crest: “Swift as a shaft from Ráma’s bow To Rávaṇ’s city will I go, And if she be not there will fly And seek the lady in the sky; Or, if in heaven she be not found, Will hither bring the giant bound.”

He ceased; and mustering his might Sprang downward from the mountain height, While, shattered by each mighty limb, The trees unrooted followed him. The shadow on the ocean cast By his vast form, as on he passed, Flew like a ship before the gale When the strong breeze has filled the sail, And where his course the Vánar held The sea beneath him raged and swelled. Then Gods and all the heavenly train Poured flowerets down in gentle rain; Their voices glad Gandharvas raised, And saints in heaven the Vánar praised. Fain would the Sea his succour lend And Raghu’s noble son befriend. He, moved by zeal for Ráma’s sake, The hill Maináka(789) thus bespake: “O strong Maináka, heaven’s decree In days of old appointed thee To be the Asurs bar, and keep The rebels in the lowest deep. Thou guardest those whom heaven has cursed Lest from their prison-house they burst, And standest by the gates of hell Their limitary sentinel. To thee is given the power to spread Or spring above thy watery bed. Now, best of noble mountains, rise And do the thing that I advise. E’en now above thy buried crest Flies mighty Hanumán, the best Of Vánars, moved for Ráma’s sake A wonderous deed to undertake. Lift up thy head that he may stay And rest him on his weary way.”

He heard, and from his watery shroud, As bursts the sun from autumn cloud, Rose swifty, crowned with plant and tree, And stood above the foamy sea.(790) There with his lofty peaks upraised Bright as a hundred suns he blazed, And crest and crag of burnished gold Flashed on the flood that round him rolled. The Vánar thought the mountain rose A hostile bar to interpose, And, like a wind-swept cloud, o’erthrew The glittering mountain as he flew. Then from the falling hill rang out A warning voice and joyful shout. Again he raised him high in air To meet the flying Vánar there, And standing on his topmost peak In human form began to speak:(791) “Best of the Vánars’ noblest line, A mighty task, O chief, is thine. Here for a while, I pray thee, light And rest upon the breezy height. A prince of Raghu’s line was he Who gave his glory to the Sea,(792) Who now to Ráma’s envoy shows High honour for the debt he owes. He bade me lift my buried head Uprising from my watery bed, And woo the Vánar chief to rest A moment on my glittering crest. Refresh thy weary limbs, and eat My mountain fruits for they are sweet. I too, O chieftain, know thee well; Three worlds thy famous virtues tell; And none, I ween, with thee may vie Who spring impetuous through the sky. To every guest, though mean and low. The wise respect and honour show; And how shall I neglect thee, how Slight the great guest so near me now? Son of the Wind, ’tis thine to share The might of him who shakes the air; And,—for he loves his offspring,—he Is honoured when I honour thee. Of yore, when Krita’s age(793) was new, The little hills and mountains flew Where’er they listed, borne on wings More rapid than the feathered king’s.(794) But mighty terror came on all The Gods and saints who feared their fall. And Indra in his anger rent Their pinions with the bolts he sent. When in his ruthless fury he Levelled his flashing bolt at me, The great-souled Wind inclined to save, And laid me neath the ocean’s wave. Thus by the favour of the sire I kept my cherished wings entire; And for this deed of kindness done I honour thee his noble son. O come, thy weary limbs relieve, And honour due from me receive.” “I may not rest,” the Vánar cried; “I must not stay or turn aside. Yet pleased am I, thou noblest hill, And as the deed accept thy will.”

Thus as he spoke he lightly pressed With his broad hand the mountain’s crest, Then bounded upward to the height Of heaven, rejoicing in his might, And through the fields of boundless blue, The pathway of his father, flew. Gods, saints, and heavenly bards beheld That flight that none had paralleled, Then to the Nágas’ mother(795) came And thus addressed the sun-bright dame: “See, Hanumán with venturous leap Would spring across the mighty deep,— A Vánar prince, the Wind-God’s seed: Come, Surasá, his course impede. In Rákshas form thy shape disguise, Terrific, like a hill in size: Let thy red eyes with fury glow, And high as heaven thy body grow. With fearful tusks the chief defy, That we his power and strength may try. He will with guile thy hold elude, Or own thy might, by thee subdued.”

Pleased with the grateful honours paid, The godlike dame their words obeyed, Clad in a shape of terror she Sprang from the middle of the sea, And, with fierce accents that appalled All creatures, to the Vánar called: “Come, prince of Vánars, doomed to be My food this day by heaven’s decree. Such boon from ages long ago To Brahmá’s favouring will I owe.”

She ceased, and Hanumán replied, By shape and threat unterrified: “Brave Ráma with his Maithil spouse Lodged in the shade of Daṇḍak’s boughs, Thence Rávan king of giants stole Sítá the joy of Ráma’s soul. By Ráma’s high behest to her I go a willing messenger; And never shouldst them hinder one Who toils for Daśaratha’s son. First captive Sítá will I see, And him who sent and waits for me, Then come and to thy will submit, Yea, by my truth I promise it.” “Nay, hope not thus thy life to save; Not such the boon that Brahmá gave. Enter my mouth,” was her reply, “Then forward on thy journey hie!”(796)

“Stretch, wider stretch thy jaws,” exclaimed The Vánar chief, to ire inflamed; And, as the Rákshas near him drew, Ten leagues in height his stature grew. Then straight, her threatening jaws between, A gulf of twenty leagues was seen. To fifty leagues he waxed, and still Her mouth grew wider at her will. Then smaller than a thumb became, Shrunk by his power, the Vánar’s frame.(797) He leaped within, and turning round Sprang through the portal at a bound. Then hung in air a moment, while He thus addressed her with a smile: “O Daksha’s child,(798) farewell at last! For I within thy mouth have passed. Thou hast the gift of Brahmá’s grace: I go, the Maithil queen to trace.” Then, to her former shape restored, She thus addressed the Vánar lord: “Then forward to the task, and may Success and joy attend thy way! Go, and the rescued lady bring In triumph to her lord and king.”

Then hosts of spirits as they gazed The daring of the Vánar praised. Through the broad fields of ether, fast Garuḍ’s royal self, he passed, The region of the cloud and rain, Loved by the gay Gandharva train, Where mid the birds that came and went Shone Indra’s glorious bow unbent, And like a host of wandering stars Flashed the high Gods’ celestial cars. Fierce Sinhiká(799) who joyed in ill And changed her form to work her will, Descried him on his airy way And marked the Vánar for her prey. “This day at length,” the demon cried, “My hunger shall be satisfied,” And at his passing shadow caught Delighted with the cheering thought. The Vánar felt the power that stayed And held him as she grasped his shade, Like some tall ship upon the main That struggles with the wind in vain. Below, above, his eye he bent And scanned the sea and firmament. High from the briny deep upreared The monster’s hideous form appeared, “Sugríva’s tale,” he cried, “is true: This is the demon dire to view Of whom the Vánar monarch told, Whose grasp a passing shade can hold.” Then, as a cloud in rain-time grows His form, dilating, swelled and rose. Wide as the space from heaven to hell Her jaws she opened with a yell, And rushed upon her fancied prey With cloud-like roar to seize and slay. The Vánar swift as thought compressed His borrowed bulk of limb and chest, And stood with one quick bound inside The monstrous mouth she opened wide. Hid like the moon when Ráhu draws The orb within his ravening jaws. Within that ample cavern pent The demon’s form he tore and rent, And, from the mangled carcass freed, Came forth again with thought-like speed.(800) Thus with his skill the fiend he slew, Then to his wonted stature grew. The spirits saw the demon die And hailed the Vánar from the sky: “Well hast thou fought a wondrous fight Nor spared the fiend’s terrific might, On, on! perform the blameless deed, And in thine every wish succeed. Ne’er can they fail in whom combine Such valour, thought, and skill as thine.”

Pleased with their praises as they sang, Again through fields of air he sprang, And now, his travail wellnigh done, The distant shore was almost won. Before him on the margent stood In long dark line a waving wood, And the fair island, bright and green With flowers and trees, was clearly seen, And every babbling brook that gave Her lord the sea a tribute wave. He lighted down on Lamba’s peak Which tinted metals stain and streak, And looked where Lanká’s splendid town Shone on the mountain like a crown.

Canto II. Lanká.

The glorious sight a while he viewed, Then to the town his way pursued. Around the Vánar as he went Breathed from the wood delicious scent, And the soft grass beneath his feet With gem-like flowers was bright and sweet. Still as the Vánar nearer drew More clearly rose the town to view. The palm her fan-like leaves displayed, Priyálas(801) lent their pleasant shade, And mid the lower greenery far Conspicuous rose the Kovidár.(802) A thousand trees mid flowers that glowed Hung down their fruit’s delicious load,(803) And in their crests that rocked and swayed Sweet birds delightful music made. And there were pleasant pools whereon The glories of the lotus shone; And gleams of sparkling fountains, stirred By many a joyous water-bird. Around, in lovely gardens grew Blooms sweet of scent and bright of hue, And Lanká, seat of Rávaṇ’s sway, Before the wondering Vánar lay: With stately domes and turrets tall, Encircled by a golden wall, And moats whose waters were aglow With lily blossoms bright below: For Sítá’s sake defended well With bolt and bar and sentinel, And Rákshases who roamed in bands With ready bows in eager hands. He saw the stately mansions rise Like pale-hued clouds in autumn skies; Where noble streets were broad and bright, And banners waved on every height. Her gates were glorious to behold Rich with the shine of burnished gold: A lovely city planned and decked By heaven’s creative architect,(804) Fairest of earthly cities meet To be the Gods’ celestial seat. The Vánar by the northern gate Thus in his heart began debate “Our mightiest host would strive in vain To take this city on the main: A city that may well defy The chosen warriors of the sky; A city never to be won E’en by the arm of Raghu’s son. Here is no hope by guile to win The hostile hearts of those within. ’Twere vain to war, or bribe, or sow Dissension mid the Vánar foe. But now my search must I pursue Until the Maithil queen I view: And, when I find the captive dame, Make victory mine only aim. But, if I wear my present shape, How shall I enter and escape The Rákshas troops, their guards and spies, And sleepless watch of cruel eyes? The fiends of giant race who hold This mighty town are strong and bold; And I must labour to elude The fiercely watchful multitude. I in a shape to mock their sight Must steal within the town by night, Blind with my art the demons’ eyes, And thus achieve my enterprise. How may I see, myself unseen Of the fierce king, the captive queen, And meet her in some lonely place, With none beside her, face to face?”

When the bright sun had left the skies The Vánar dwarfed his mighty size, And, in the straitest bounds restrained, The bigness of a cat retained.(805) Then, when the moon’s soft light was spread, Within the city’s walls he sped.

Canto III. The Guardian Goddess.

There from the circling rampart’s height He gazed upon the wondrous sight; Broad gates with burnished gold displayed, And courts with turkises inlaid; With gleaming silver, gems, and rows Of crystal stairs and porticoes. In semblance of a Rákshas dame The city’s guardian Goddess came,— For she with glances sure and keen The entrance of a foe had seen,— And thus with fury in her eye Addressed him with an angry cry: “Who art thou? what has led thee, say, Within these walls to find thy way? Thou mayst not enter here in spite Of Rávaṇ and his warriors’ might.” “And who art thou?” the Vánar cried, By form and frown unterrified, “Why hast thou met me by the gate, And chid me thus infuriate?”

He ceased: and Lanká made reply: “The guardian of the town am I, Who watch for ever to fulfil My lord the Rákshas monarch’s will. But thou shalt fall this hour, and deep Shall be thy never-ending sleep.”

Again he spake: “In spite of thee This golden city will I see. Her gates and towers, and all the pride Of street and square from side to side, And freely wander where I please Amid her groves of flowering trees; On all her beauties sate mine eye. Then, as I came, will homeward hie.”

Swift with an angry roar she smote With her huge hand the Vánar’s throat. The smitten Vánar, rage-impelled, With fist upraised the monster felled: But quick repented, stirred with shame And pity for a vanquished dame, When with her senses troubled, weak With terror, thus she strove to speak: “O spare me thou whose arm is strong: O spare me, and forgive the wrong. The brave that law will ne’er transgress That spares a woman’s helplessness. Hear, best of Vánars, brave and bold, What Brahmá’s self of yore foretold; “Beware,” he said, “the fatal hour When thou shalt own a Vánar’s power. Then is the giants’ day of fear, For terror and defeat are near.” Now, Vánar chief, o’ercome by thee, I own the truth of heaven’s decree. For Sítá’s sake will ruin fall On Rávaṇ, and his town, and all.”

Canto IV. Within The City.

The guardian goddess thus subdued, The Vánar chief his way pursued, And reached the broad imperial street Where fresh-blown flowers were bright and sweet. The city seemed a fairer sky Where cloud-like houses rose on high, Whence the soft sound of tabors came Through many a latticed window frame, And ever and anon rang out The merry laugh and joyous shout. From house to house the Vánar went And marked each varied ornament, Where leaves and blossoms deftly strung About the crystal columns hung. Then soft and full and sweet and clear The song of women charmed his ear, And, blending with their dulcet tones, Their anklets’ chime and tinkling zones. He heard the Rákshas minstrel sing The praises of their matchless king; And softly through the evening air Came murmurings of text and prayer. Here moved a priest with tonsured head, And there an eager envoy sped, Mid crowds with hair in matted twine Clothed in the skins of deer and kine,— Whose only arms, which none might blame, Were blades of grass and holy flame(806) There savage warriors roamed in bands With clubs and maces in their hands, Some dwarfish forms, some huge of size, With single ears and single eyes. Some shone in glittering mail arrayed With bow and mace and flashing blade; Fiends of all shapes and every hue, Some fierce and foul, some fair to view. He saw the grisly legions wait In strictest watch at Rávaṇ’s gate, Whose palace on the mountain crest Rose proudly towering o’er the rest, Fenced with high ramparts from the foe, And lotus-covered moats below. But Hanumán, unhindered, found Quick passage through the guarded bound, Mid elephants of noblest breed, And gilded car and neighing steed.

[I omit Canto V. which corresponds to chapter XI. in Gorresio’s edition. That scholar justly observes: “The eleventh chapter, Description of Evening, is certainly the work of the Rhapsodists and an interpolation of later date. The chapter might be omitted without any injury to the action of the poem, and besides the metre, style, conceits and images differ from the general tenour of the poem; and that continual repetition of the same sounds at the end of each hemistich which is not exactly rime, but assonance, reveals the artificial labour of a more recent age.” The following sample will probably be enough.

Fair shone the moon, as if to lend His cheering light to guide a friend, And, circled by the starry host, Looked down upon the wild sea-coast. The Vánar cheiftain raised his eyes, And saw him sailing through the skies Like a bright swan who joys to take His pastime on a silver lake; Fair moon that calms the mourner’s pain. Heaves up the waters of the main, And o’er the life beneath him throws A tender light of soft repose, The charm that clings to Mandar’s hill, Gleams in the sea when winds are still, And decks the lilly’s opening flower, Showed in that moon her sweetest power.

I am unable to show the difference of style in a translation.]

Canto VI. The Court.

The palace gates were guarded well By many a Rákshas sentinel, And far within, concealed from view, Were dames and female retinue For charm of form and face renowned; Whose tinkling armlets made a sound, Clashed by the wearers in their glee, Like music of a distant sea. The hall beyond the palace gate, Rich with each badge of royal state, Where lines of noble courtiers stood, Showed like a lion-guarded wood. There the wild music rose and fell Of drum and tabor and of shell, Through chambers at each holy tide By solemn worship sanctified. Through grove and garden, undismayed, From house to house the Vánar strayed, And still his wondering glances bent On terrace, dome, and battlement: Then with a light and rapid tread Prahasta’s(807) home he visited, And Kumbhakarṇa’s(808) courtyard where A cloudy pile rose high in air; And, wandering o’er the hill, explored The garden of each Rákshas lord. Each court and grove he wandered through, Then nigh to Rávaṇ’s palace drew. She-demons watched it foul of face, Each armed with sword and spear and mace, And warrior fiends of every hue, A strange and fearful retinue. There elephants in many a row, The terror of the stricken foe. Huge Airávat,(809) deftly trained In battle-fields, stood ready chained. Fair litters on the ground were set Adorned with gems and golden net. Gay bloomy creepers clothed the walls; Green bowers were there and picture halls, And chambers made for soft delight. Broad banners waved on every height. And from the roof like Mandar’s hill The peacock’s cry came loud and shrill.(810)

Canto VII. Rávan’s Palace.

He passed within the walls and gazed On gems and gold that round him blazed, And many a latticed window bright With turkis and with lazulite. Through porch and ante-rooms he passed Each richer, fairer than the last; And spacious halls where lances lay, And bows and shells, in fair array: A glorious house that matched in show All Paradise displayed below. Upon the polished floor were spread Fresh buds and blossoms white and red, And women shone, a lovely crowd, As lightning flashes through a cloud: A palace splendid as the sky Which moon and planets glorify: Like earth whose towering hills unfold Their zones and streaks of glittering gold; Where waving on the mountain brows The tall trees bend their laden boughs, And every bough and tender spray With a bright load of bloom is gay, And every flower the breeze has bent Fills all the region with its scent. Near the tall palace pale of hue Shone lovely lakes where lilies blew, And lotuses with flower and bud Gleamed on the bosom of the flood. There shone with gems that flashed afar The marvel of the Flower-named(811) car, Mid wondrous dwellings still confessed Supreme and nobler than the rest. Thereon with wondrous art designed Were turkis birds of varied kind. And many a sculptured serpent rolled His twisted coil in burnished gold. And steeds were there of noblest form With flying feet as fleet as storm: And elephants with deftest skill Stood sculptured by a silver rill, Each bearing on his trunk a wreath Of lilies from the flood beneath. There Lakshmí,(812) beauty’s heavenly queen, Wrought by the artist’s skill, was seen Beside a flower-clad pool to stand Holding a lotus in her hand.

Canto VIII. The Enchanted Car.

There gleamed the car with wealth untold Of precious gems and burnished gold; Nor could the Wind-God’s son withdraw His rapt gaze from the sight he saw, By Viśvakarmá’s(813) self proclaimed The noblest work his hand had framed. Uplifted in the air it glowed Bright as the sun’s diurnal road. The eye might scan the wondrous frame And vainly seek one spot to blame, So fine was every part and fair With gems inlaid with lavish care. No precious stones so rich adorn The cars wherein the Gods are borne, Prize of the all-resistless might That sprang from pain and penance rite,(814) Obedient to the master’s will It moved o’er wood and towering hill, A glorious marvel well designed By Viśvakarmá’s artist mind, Adorned with every fair device That decks the cars of Paradise. Swift moving as the master chose It flew through air or sank or rose,(815) And in its fleetness left behind The fury of the rushing wind: Meet mansion for the good and great, The holy, wise, and fortunate. Throughout the chariot’s vast extent Were chambers wide and excellent, All pure and lovely to the eyes As moonlight shed from cloudless skies. Fierce goblins, rovers of the night Who cleft the clouds with swiftest flight In countless hosts that chariot drew, With earrings clashing as they flew.

Canto IX. The Ladies’ Bower.

Where stately mansions rose around, A palace fairer still he found, Whose royal height and splendour showed Where Rávaṇ’s self, the king, abode. A chosen band with bow and sword Guarded the palace of their lord, Where Ráksha’s dames of noble race And many a princess fair of face Whom Rávaṇ’s arm had torn away From vanquished kings in slumber lay. There jewelled arches high o’erhead An ever-changing lustre shed From ruby, pearl, and every gem On golden pillars under them. Delicious came the tempered air That breathed a heavenly summer there, Stealing through bloomy trees that bore Each pleasant fruit in endless store. No check was there from jealous guard, No door was fast, no portal barred; Only a sweet air breathed to meet The stranger, as a host should greet A wanderer of his kith and kin And woo his weary steps within. He stood within a spacious hall With fretted roof and painted wall, The giant Rávaṇ’s boast and pride, Loved even as a lovely bride. ’Twere long to tell each marvel there, The crystal floor, the jewelled stair, The gold, the silver, and the shine Of chrysolite and almandine. There breathed the fairest blooms of spring; There flashed the proud swan’s silver wing, The splendour of whose feathers broke Through fragrant wreaths of aloe smoke. “’Tis Indra’s heaven,” the Vánar cried, Gazing in joy from side to side; “The home of all the Gods is this, The mansion of eternal bliss.” There were the softest carpets spread, Delightful to the sight and tread, Where many a lovely woman lay O’ercome by sleep, fatigued with play. The wine no longer cheered the feast, The sound of revelry had ceased. The tinkling feet no longer stirred, No chiming of a zone was heard. So when each bird has sought her nest, And swans are mute and wild bees rest, Sleep the fair lilies on the lake Till the sun’s kiss shall bid them wake. Like the calm field of winter’s sky Which stars unnumbered glorify, So shone and glowed the sumptuous room With living stars that chased the gloom. “These are the stars,” the chieftain cried, “In autumn nights that earth-ward glide, In brighter forms to reappear And shine in matchless lustre here.” With wondering eyes a while he viewed Each graceful form and attitude. One lady’s head was backward thrown, Bare was her arm and loose her zone. The garland that her brow had graced Hung closely round another’s waist. Here gleamed two little feet all bare Of anklets that had sparkled there, Here lay a queenly dame at rest In all her glorious garments dressed. There slept another whose small hand Had loosened every tie and band, In careless grace another lay With gems and jewels cast away, Like a young creeper when the tread Of the wild elephant has spread Confusion and destruction round, And cast it flowerless to the ground. Here lay a slumberer still as death, Save only that her balmy breath Raised ever and anon the lace That floated o’er her sleeping face. There, sunk in sleep, an amorous maid Her sweet head on a mirror laid, Like a fair lily bending till Her petals rest upon the rill. Another black-eyed damsel pressed Her lute upon her heaving breast, As though her loving arms were twined Round him for whom her bosom pined. Another pretty sleeper round A silver vase her arms had wound, That seemed, so fresh and fair and young A wreath of flowers that o’er it hung. In sweet disorder lay a throng Weary of dance and play and song, Where heedless girls had sunk to rest One pillowed on another’s breast, Her tender cheek half seen beneath Bed roses of the falling wreath, The while her long soft hair concealed The beauties that her friend revealed. With limbs at random interlaced Round arm and leg and throat and waist, That wreath of women lay asleep Like blossoms in a careless heap.

Canto X. Rávan Asleep.

Apart a dais of crystal rose With couches spread for soft repose, Adorned with gold and gems of price Meet for the halls of Paradise. A canopy was o’er them spread Pale as the light the moon beams shed, And female figures,(816) deftly planned, The faces of the sleepers fanned, There on a splendid couch, asleep On softest skins of deer and sheep. Dark as a cloud that dims the day The monarch of the giants lay, Perfumed with sandal’s precious scent And gay with golden ornament. His fiery eyes in slumber closed, In glittering robes the king reposed Like Mandar’s mighty hill asleep With flowery trees that clothe his steep. Near and more near the Vánar The monarch of the fiends to view, And saw the giant stretched supine Fatigued with play and drunk with wine. While, shaking all the monstrous frame, His breath like hissing serpents’ came. With gold and glittering bracelets gay His mighty arms extended lay Huge as the towering shafts that bear The flag of Indra high in air. Scars by Airávat’s tusk impressed Showed red upon his shaggy breast. And on his shoulders were displayed The dints the thunder-bolt had made.(817) The spouses of the giant king Around their lord were slumbering, And, gay with sparkling earrings, shone Fair as the moon to look upon. There by her husband’s side was seen Mandodarí the favourite queen, The beauty of whose youthful face Beamed a soft glory through the place. The Vánar marked the dame more fair Than all the royal ladies there, And thought, “These rarest beauties speak The matchless dame I come to seek. Peerless in grace and splendour, she The Maithil queen must surely be.”

Canto XI. The Banquet Hall.

But soon the baseless thought was spurned And longing hope again returned: “No: Ráma’s wife is none of these, No careless dame that lives at ease. Her widowed heart has ceased to care For dress and sleep and dainty fare. She near a lover ne’er would lie Though Indra wooed her from the sky. Her own, her only lord, whom none Can match in heaven, is Raghu’s son.”

Then to the banquet hall intent On strictest search his steps he bent. He passed within the door, and found Fair women sleeping on the ground, Where wearied with the song, perchance, The merry game, the wanton dance, Each girl with wine and sleep oppressed Had sunk her drooping head to rest. That spacious hall from side to side With noblest fare was well supplied, There quarters of the boar, and here Roast of the buffalo and deer, There on gold plate, untouched as yet The peacock and the hen were set. There deftly mixed with salt and curd Was meat of many a beast and bird, Of kid and porcupine and hare, And dainties of the sea and air. There wrought of gold, ablaze with shine Of precious stones, were cups of wine. Through court and bower and banquet hall The Vánar passed and viewed them all; From end to end, in every spot, For Sítá searched, but found her not.

Canto XII. The Search Renewed.

Again the Vánar chief began Each chamber, bower, and hall to scan. In vain: he found not her he sought, And pondered thus in bitter thought: “Ah me the Maithil queen is slain: She, ever true and free from stain, The fiend’s entreaty has denied, And by his cruel hand has died. Or has she sunk, by terror killed, When first she saw the palace filled With female monsters evil miened Who wait upon the robber fiend? No battle fought, no might displayed, In vain this anxious search is made; Nor shall my steps, made slow by shame, Because I failed to find the dame, Back to our lord the king be bent, For he is swift to punishment. In every bower my feet have been, The dames of Rávaṇ have I seen; But Ráma’s spouse I seek in vain, And all my toil is fruitless pain. How shall I meet the Vánar band I left upon the ocean strand? How, when they bid me speak, proclaim These tidings of defeat and shame? How shall I look on Angad’s eye? What words will Jámbaván reply? Yet dauntless hearts will never fail To win success though foes assail, And I this sorrow will subdue And search the palace through and through, Exploring with my cautious tread Each spot as yet unvisited.”

Again he turned him to explore Each chamber, hall, and corridor, And arbour bright with scented bloom, And lodge and cell and picture-room. With eager eye and noiseless feet He passed through many a cool retreat Where women lay in slumber drowned; But Sítá still was nowhere found.

Canto XIII. Despair And Hope.

Then rapid as the lightning’s flame From Rávaṇ’s halls the Vánar came. Each lingering hope was cold and dead, And thus within his heart he said: “Alas, my fruitless search is done: Long have I toiled for Raghu’s son; And yet with all my care have seen No traces of the ravished queen. It may be, while the giant through The lone air with his captive flew, The Maithil lady, tender-souled, Slipped struggling from the robber’s hold, And the wild sea is rolling now O’er Sítá of the beauteous brow. Or did she perish of alarm When circled by the monster’s arm? Or crushed, unable to withstand The pressure of that monstrous hand? Or when she spurned his suit with scorn, Her tender limbs were rent and torn. And she, her virtue unsubdued, Was slaughtered for the giant’s food. Shall I to Raghu’s son relate His well-beloved consort’s fate, My crime the same if I reveal The mournful story or conceal? If with no happier tale to tell I seek our mountain citadel, How shall I face our lord the king, And meet his angry questioning? How shall I greet my friends, and brook The muttered taunt, the scornful look? How to the son of Raghu go And kill him with my tale of woe? For sure the mournful tale I bear Will strike him dead with wild despair. And Lakshmaṇ ever fond and true, Will, undivided, perish too. Bharat will learn his brother’s fate, And die of grief disconsolate, And sad Śatrughna with a cry Of anguish on his corpse will die. Our king Sugríva, ever found True to each bond in honour bound, Will mourn the pledge he vainly gave, And die with him he could not save. Then Rumá his devoted wife For her dead lord will leave her life, And Tárá, widowed and forlorn, Will die in anguish, sorrow-worn. On Angad too the blow will fall Killing the hope and joy of all. The ruin of their prince and king The Vánars’ souls with woe will wring. And each, overwhelmed with dark despair, Will beat his head and rend his hair. Each, graced and honoured long, will miss His careless life of easy bliss, In happy troops will play no more On breezy rock and shady shore, But with his darling wife and child Will seek the mountain top, and wild With hopeless desolation, throw Himself, his wife, and babe, below. Ah no: unless the dame I find I ne’er will meet my Vánar kind. Here rather in some distant dell A lonely hermit will I dwell, Where roots and berries will supply My humble wants until I die; Or on the shore will raise a pyre And perish in the kindled fire. Or I will strictly fast until With slow decay my life I kill, And ravening dogs and birds of air The limbs of Hanumán shall tear. Here will I die, but never bring Destruction on my race and king. But still unsearched one grove I see With many a bright Aśoka tree. There will I enter in, and through The tangled shade my search renew. Be glory to the host on high, The Sun and Moon who light the sky, The Vasus(818) and the Maruts’(819) train, Ádityas(820) and the Aśvins(821) twain. So may I win success, and bring The lady back with triumphing.”

Canto XIV. The Asoka Grove.

He cleared the barrier at a bound; He stood within the pleasant ground, And with delighted eyes surveyed The climbing plants and varied shade, He saw unnumbered trees unfold The treasures of their pendent gold, As, searching for the Maithil queen, He strayed through alleys soft and green; And when a spray he bent or broke Some little bird that slept awoke. Whene’er the breeze of morning blew, Where’er a startled peacock flew, The gaily coloured branches shed Their flowery rain upon his head That clung around the Vánar till He seemed a blossom-covered hill,(822) The earth, on whose fair bosom lay The flowers that fell from every spray, Was glorious as a lovely maid In all her brightest robes arrayed, He saw the breath of morning shake The lilies on the rippling lake Whose waves a pleasant lapping made On crystal steps with gems inlaid. Then roaming through the enchanted ground, A pleasant hill the Vánar found, And grottoes in the living stone With grass and flowery trees o’ergrown. Through rocks and boughs a brawling rill Leapt from the bosom of the hill, Like a proud beauty when she flies From her love’s arms with angry eyes.

He clomb a tree that near him grew And leafy shade around him threw. “Hence,” thought the Vánar, “shall I see The Maithil dame, if here she be, These lovely trees, this cool retreat Will surely tempt her wandering feet. Here the sad queen will roam apart. And dream of Ráma in her heart.”

Canto XV. Sítá.

Fair as Kailása white with snow He saw a palace flash and glow, A crystal pavement gem-inlaid, And coral steps and colonnade, And glittering towers that kissed the skies, Whose dazzling splendour charmed his eyes. There pallid, with neglected dress, Watched close by fiend and giantess, Her sweet face thin with constant flow Of tears, with fasting and with woe; Pale as the young moon’s crescent when The first faint light returns to men: Dim as the flame when clouds of smoke The latent glory hide and choke; Like Rohiṇí the queen of stars Oppressed by the red planet Mars; From her dear friends and husband torn, Amid the cruel fiends, forlorn, Who fierce-eyed watch around her kept, A tender woman sat and wept. Her sobs, her sighs, her mournful mien, Her glorious eyes, proclaimed the queen. “This, this is she,” the Vánar cried, “Fair as the moon and lotus-eyed, I saw the giant Rávan bear A captive through the fields of air. Such was the beauty of the dame; Her form, her lips, her eyes the same. This peerless queen whom I behold Is Ráma’s wife with limbs of gold. Best of the sons of men is he, And worthy of her lord is she.”

Canto XVI. Hanumán’s Lament.

Then, all his thoughts on Sítá bent, The Vánar chieftain made lament: “The queen to Ráma’s soul endeared, By Lakshmaṇ’s pious heart revered, Lies here,—for none may strive with Fate, A captive, sad and desolate. The brothers’ might full well she knows, And bravely bears the storm of woes, As swelling Gangá in the rains The rush of every flood sustains. Her lord, for her, fierce Báli slew, Virádha’s monstrous might o’erthrew, For her the fourteen thousand slain In Janasthán bedewed the plain. And if for her Ikshváku’s son Destroyed the world ’twere nobly done. This, this is she, so far renowned, Who sprang from out the furrowed ground,(823) Child of the high-souled king whose sway The men of Míthilá obey: The glorious lady wooed and won By Daśaratha’s noblest son; And now these sad eyes look on her Mid hostile fiends a prisoner. From home and every bliss she fled By wifely love and duty led, And heedless of a wanderer’s woes, A life in lonely forests chose. This, this is she so fair of mould. Whose limbs are bright as burnished gold. Whose voice was ever soft and mild, Who sweetly spoke and sweetly smiled. O, what is Ráma’s misery! how He longs to see his darling now! Pining for one of her fond looks As one athirst for water brooks. Absorbed in woe the lady sees No Rákshas guard, no blooming trees. Her eyes are with her thoughts, and they Are fixed on Ráma far away.”

Canto XVII. Sítá’s Guard.

His pitying eyes with tears bedewed, The weeping queen again he viewed, And saw around the prisoner stand Her demon guard, a fearful band. Some earless, some with ears that hung Low as their feet and loosely swung: Some fierce with single ears and eyes, Some dwarfish, some of monstrous size: Some with their dark necks long and thin With hair upon the knotty skin: Some with wild locks, some bald and bare, Some covered o’er with bristly hair: Some tall and straight, some bowed and bent With every foul disfigurement: All black and fierce with eyes of fire, Ruthless and stern and swift to ire: Some with the jackal’s jaw and nose, Some faced like boars and buffaloes: Some with the heads of goats and kine, Of elephants, and dogs, and swine: With lions’ lips and horses’ brows, They walked with feet of mules and cows: Swords, maces, clubs, and spears they bore In hideous hands that reeked with gore, And, never sated, turned afresh To bowls of wine and piles of flesh. Such were the awful guards who stood Round Sítá in that lovely wood, While in her lonely sorrow she Wept sadly neath a spreading tree. He watched the spouse of Ráma there Regardless of her tangled hair, Her jewels stripped from neck and limb, Decked only with her love of him.

Canto XVIII. Rávan.

While from his shelter in the boughs The Vánar looked on Ráma’s spouse He heard the gathered giants raise The solemn hymn of prayer and praise.— Priests skilled in rite and ritual, who The Vedas and their branches(824) knew. Then, as loud strains of music broke His sleep, the giant monarch woke. Swift to his heart the thought returned Of the fair queen for whom he burned; Nor could the amorous fiend control The passion that absorbed his soul. In all his brightest garb arrayed He hastened to that lovely shade, Where glowed each choicest flower and fruit, And the sweet birds were never mute, And tall deer bent their heads to drink On the fair streamlet’s grassy brink. Near that Aśoka grove he drew,— A hundred dames his retinue. Like Indra with the thousand eyes Girt with the beauties of the skies. Some walked beside their lord to hold The chouries, fans, and lamps of gold. And others purest water bore In golden urns, and paced before. Some carried, piled on golden plates, Delicious food of dainty cates; Some wine in massive bowls whereon The fairest gems resplendent shone. Some by the monarch’s side displayed, Wrought like a swan, a silken shade: Another beauty walked behind, The sceptre to her care assigned. Around the monarch gleamed the crowd As lightnings flash about a cloud, And each made music as she went With zone and tinkling ornament. Attended thus in royal state The monarch reached the garden gate, While gold and silver torches, fed With scented oil a soft light shed.(825) He, while the flame of fierce desire Burnt in his eyes like kindled fire, Seemed Love incarnate in his pride, His bow and arrows laid aside.(826) His robe, from spot and blemish free Like Amrit foamy from the sea,(827) Hung down in many a loosened fold Inwrought with flowers and bright with gold. The Vánar from his station viewed, Amazed, the wondrous multitude, Where, in the centre of that ring Of noblest women, stood the king, As stands the full moon fair to view, Girt by his starry retinue.

Canto XIX. Sítá’s Fear.

Then o’er the lady’s soul and frame A sudden fear and trembling came, When, glowing in his youthful pride, She saw the monarch by her side. Silent she sat, her eyes depressed, Her soft arms folded o’er her breast, And,—all she could,—her beauties screened From the bold gazes of the fiend. There where the wild she-demons kept Their watch around, she sighed and wept. Then, like a severed bough, she lay Prone on the bare earth in dismay. The while her thoughts on love’s fleet wings Flew to her lord the best of kings. She fell upon the ground, and there Lay struggling with her wild despair, Sad as a lady born again To misery and woe and pain, Now doomed to grief and low estate, Once noble fair and delicate: Like faded light of holy lore, Like Hope when all her dreams are o’er; Like ruined power and rank debased, Like majesty of kings disgraced: Like worship foiled by erring slips, The moon that labours in eclipse; A pool with all her lilies dead, An army when its king has fled: So sad and helpless wan and worn, She lay among the fiends forlorn.

Canto XX. Rávan’s Wooing.

With amorous look and soft address The fiend began his suit to press: “Why wouldst thou, lady lotus-eyed, From my fond glance those beauties hide? Mine eager suit no more repel: But love me, for I love thee well. Dismiss, sweet dame, dismiss thy fear; No giant and no man is near. Ours is the right by force to seize What dames soe’er our fancy please.(828) But I with rude hands will not touch A lady whom I love so much. Fear not, dear queen: no fear is nigh: Come, on thy lover’s love rely, Some little sign of favor show, Nor lie enamoured of thy woe. Those limbs upon that cold earth laid, Those tresses twined in single braid,(829) The fast and woe that wear thy frame, Beseem not thee, O beauteous dame. For thee the fairest wreaths were meant, The sandal and the aloe’s scent, Rich ornaments and pearls of price, And vesture meet for Paradise. With dainty cates shouldst thou be fed, And rest upon a sumptuous bed. And festive joys to thee belong, The music, and the dance and song. Rise, pearl of women, rise and deck With gems and chains thine arms and neck. Shall not the dame I love be seen In vesture worthy of a queen? Methinks when thy sweet form was made His hand the wise Creator stayed; For never more did he design A beauty meet to rival thine. Come, let us love while yet we may, For youth will fly and charms decay, Come cast thy grief and fear aside, And be my love, my chosen bride. The gems and jewels that my hand Has reft from every plundered land,— To thee I give them all this day, And at thy feet my kingdom lay. The broad rich earth will I o’errun, And leave no town unconquered, none; Then of the whole an offering make To Janak,(830) dear, for thy sweet sake. In all the world no power I see Of God or man can strive with me. Of old the Gods and Asurs set In terrible array I met: Their scattered hosts to earth I beat, And trod their flags beneath my feet. Come, taste of bliss and drink thy fill, And rule the slave who serves thy will. Think not of wretched Ráma: he Is less than nothing now to thee. Stript of his glory, poor, dethroned, A wanderer by his friends disowned, On the cold earth he lays his head, Or is with toil and misery dead. And if perchance he lingers yet, His eyes on thee shall ne’er be set. Could he, that mighty monarch, who Was named Hiraṇyakaśipu, Could he who wore the garb of gold Win Glory back from Indra’s hold?(831) O lady of the lovely smile, Whose eyes the sternest heart beguile, In all thy radiant beauty dressed My heart and soul thou ravishest. What though thy robe is soiled and worn, And no bright gems thy limbs adorn, Thou unadorned art dearer far Than all my loveliest consorts are. My royal home is bright and fair; A thousand beauties meet me there, But come, my glorious love, and be The queen of all those dames and me.”

Canto XXI. Sítá’s Scorn.

She thought upon her lord and sighed, And thus in gentle tones replied: “Beseems thee not, O King, to woo A matron, to her husband true. Thus vainly one might hope by sin And evil deeds success to win. Shall I, so highly born, disgrace My husband’s house, my royal race? Shall I, a true and loyal dame, Defile my soul with deed of shame?”

Then on the king her back she turned, And answered thus the prayer she spurned: “Turn, Rávaṇ, turn thee from thy sin; Seek virtue’s paths and walk therein. To others dames be honour shown; Protect them as thou wouldst thine own. Taught by thyself, from wrong abstain Which, wrought on thee, thy heart would pain.(832) Beware: this lawless love of thine Will ruin thee and all thy line; And for thy sin, thy sin alone, Will Lanká perish overthrown. Dream not that wealth and power can sway My heart from duty’s path to stray. Linked like the Day-God and his shine, I am my lord’s and he is mine. Repent thee of thine impious deed; To Ráma’s side his consort lead. Be wise; the hero’s friendship gain, Nor perish in his fury slain. Go, ask the God of Death to spare, Or red bolt flashing through the air, But look in vain for spell or charm To stay my Ráma’s vengeful arm. Thou, when the hero bends his bow, Shalt hear the clang that heralds woe, Loud as the clash when clouds are rent And Indra’s bolt to earth is sent. Then shall his furious shafts be sped, Each like a snake with fiery head, And in their flight shall hiss and flame Marked with the mighty archer’s name.(833) Then in the fiery deluge all Thy giants round their king shall fall.”

Canto XXII. Rávan’s Threat.

Then anger swelled in Rávaṇ’s breast, Who fiercely thus the dame addressed: “’Tis ever thus: in vain we sue To woman, and her favour woo. A lover’s humble words impel Her wayward spirit to rebel. The love of thee that fills my soul Still keeps my anger in control, As charioteers with bit and rein The swerving of the steed restrain. The love that rules me bids me spare Thy forfeit life, O thou most fair. For this, O Sítá, have I borne The keen reproach, the bitter scorn, And the fond love thou boastest yet For that poor wandering anchoret; Else had the words which thou hast said Brought death upon thy guilty head. Two months, fair dame, I grant thee still To bend thee to thy lover’s will. If when that respite time is fled Thou still refuse to share my bed, My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel And serve thee for my morning meal.”(834)

The minstrel daughters of the skies Looked on her woe with pitying eyes, And sun-bright children of the Gods(835) Consoled the queen with smiles and nods. She saw, and with her heart at ease, Addressed the fiend in words like these; “Hast thou no friend to love thee, none In all this isle to bid thee shun The ruin which thy crime will bring On thee and thine, O impious King? Who in all worlds save thee could woo Me, Ráma’s consort pure and true, As though he tempted with his love Queen Śachí(836) on her throne above? How canst thou hope, vile wretch, to fly The vengeance that e’en now is nigh, When thou hast dared, untouched by shame, To press thy suit on Ráma’s dame? Where woods are thick and grass is high A lion and a hare may lie; My Ráma is the lion, thou Art the poor hare beneath the bough. Thou railest at the lord of men, But wilt not stand within his ken. What! is that eye unstricken yet Whose impious glance on me was set? Still moves that tongue that would not spare The wife of Daśaratha’s heir?”

Then, hissing like a furious snake, The fiend again to Sítá spake: “Deaf to all prayers and threats art thou, Devoted to thy senseless vow. No longer respite will I give, And thou this day shalt cease to live; For I, as sunlight kills the morn, Will slay thee for thy scathe and scorn.”

The Rákshas guard was summoned: all The monstrous crew obeyed the call, And hastened to the king to take The orders which he fiercely spake: “See that ye guard her well, and tame, Like some wild thing, the stubborn dame, Until her haughty soul be bent By mingled threat and blandishment.”(837)

The monsters heard: away he strode, And passed within his queens’ abode.

Canto XXIII. The Demons’ Threats.

Then round the helpless Sítá drew With fiery eyes the hideous crew, And thus assailed her, all and each, With insult, taunt, and threatening speech: “What! can it be thou prizest not This happy chance, this glorious lot, To be the chosen wife of one So strong and great, Pulastya’s son? Pulastya—thus have sages told— Is mid the Lords of Life(838) enrolled. Lord Brahmá’s mind-born son was he, Fourth of that glorious company. Viśravas from Pulastya sprang,— Through all the worlds his glory rang. And of Viśravas, large-eyed dame! Our king the mighty Rávaṇ came. His happy consort thou mayst be: Scorn not the words we say to thee.”

One awful demon, fiery-eyed, Stood by the Maithil queen and cried: ’Come and be his, if thou art wise, Who smote the sovereign of the skies, And made the thirty Gods and three,(839) O’ercome in furious battle, flee. Thy lover turns away with scorn From wives whom grace and youth adorn. Thou art his chosen consort, thou Shall be his pride and darling now.”

Another, Vikatá by name, In words like these addressed the dame: “The king whose blows, in fury dealt, The Nágas(840) and Gandharvas(841) felt, In battle’s fiercest brunt subdued, Has stood by thee and humbly wooed. And wilt thou in thy folly miss The glory of a love like this? Scared by his eye the sun grows chill, The wanderer wind is hushed and still. The rains at his command descend, And trees with new-blown blossoms bend. His word the hosts of demons fear, And wilt thou, dame, refuse to hear? Be counselled; with his will comply, Or, lady, thou shalt surely die.”

Canto XXIV. Sítá’s Reply.

Still with reproaches rough and rude Those fiends the gentle queen pursued: “What! can so fair a life displease, To dwell with him in joyous ease? Dwell in his bowers a happy queen In silk and gold and jewels’ sheen? Still must thy woman fancy cling To Ráma and reject our king? Die in thy folly, or forget That wretched wandering anchoret. Come, Sítá, in luxurious bowers Spend with our lord thy happy hours; The mighty lord who makes his own The treasures of the worlds o’erthrown.”

Then, as a tear bedewed her eye, The hapless lady made reply: “I loathe, with heart and soul detest The shameful life your words suggest. Eat, if you will, this mortal frame: My soul rejects the sin and shame. A homeless wanderer though he be, In him my lord, my life I see, And, till my earthly days be done, Will cling to great Ikshváku’s son.”

Then with fierce eyes on Sítá set They cried again with taunt and threat: Each licking with her fiery tongue The lip that to her bosom hung, And menacing the lady’s life With axe, or spear or murderous knife: “Hear, Sítá, and our words obey, Or perish by our hands to-day. Thy love for Raghu’s son forsake, And Rávaṇ for thy husband take, Or we will rend thy limbs apart And banquet on thy quivering heart. Now from her body strike the head, And tell the king the dame is dead. Then by our lord’s commandment she A banquet for our band shall be. Come, let the wine be quickly brought That frees each heart from saddening thought. Then to the western gate repair, And we will dance and revel there.”

Canto XXV. Sítá’s Lament.

On the bare earth the lady sank, And trembling from their presence shrank Like a strayed fawn, when night is dark, And hungry wolves around her bark. Then to a shady tree she crept, And thought upon her lord and wept. By fear and bitter woe oppressed She bathed the beauties of her breast With her hot tears’ incessant flow, And found no respite from her woe. As shakes a plantain in the breeze She shook, and fell on trembling knees; While at each demon’s furious look Her cheek its native hue forsook. She lay and wept and made her moan In sorrow’s saddest undertone, And, wild with grief, with fear appalled, On Ráma and his brother called: “O dear Kauśalyá,(842) hear me cry! Sweet Queen Sumitrá,(843) list my sigh! True is the saw the wise declare: Death comes not to relieve despair. ’Tis vain for dame or man to pray; Death will not hear before his day; Since I, from Ráma’s sight debarred, And tortured by my cruel guard, Still live in hopeless woe to grieve And loathe the life I may not leave, Here, like a poor deserted thing, My limbs upon the ground I fling, And, like a bark beneath the blast, Shall sink oppressed with woes at last. Ah, blest are they, supremely blest, Whose eyes upon my lord may rest; Who mark his lion port, and hear His gentle speech that charms the ear. Alas, what antenatal crime, What trespass of forgotten time Weighs on my soul, and bids me bow Beneath this load of misery now?”

Canto XXVI. Sítá’s Lament.

“I Ráma’s wife, on that sad day, By Rávaṇ’s arm was borne away, Seized, while I sat and feared no ill, By him who wears each form at will. A helpless captive, left forlorn To demons’ threats and taunts and scorn, Here for my lord I weep and sigh, And worn with woe would gladly die. For what is life to me afar From Ráma of the mighty car? The robber in his fruitless sin Would hope his captive’s love to win. My meaner foot shall never touch The demon whom I loathe so much. The senseless fool! he knows me not, Nor the proud soul his love would blot. Yea, limb from limb will I be rent, But never to his prayer consent; Be burnt and perish in the fire, But never meet his base desire. My lord was grateful, true and wise, And looked on woe with pitying eyes; But now, recoiling from the strife He pities not his captive wife. Alone in Janasthán he slew The thousands of the Rákshas crew. His arm was strong, his heart was brave, Why comes he not to free and save? Why blame my lord in vain surmise? He knows not where his lady lies. O, if he knew, o’er land and sea His feet were swift to set me free; This Lanká, girdled by the deep, Would fall consumed, a shapeless heap, And from each ruined home would rise A Rákshas widow’s groans and cries.”

Canto XXVII. Trijatá’s Dream.

Their threats unfeared, their counsel spurned, The demons’ breasts with fury burned. Some sought the giant king to bear The tale of Sítá’s fixt despair. With threats and taunts renewed the rest Around the weeping lady pressed. But Trijaṭá, of softer mould, A Rákshas matron wise and old, With pity for the captive moved, In words like these the fiends reproved: “Me, me,” she cried, “eat me, but spare The spouse of Daśaratha’s heir. Last night I dreamt a dream; and still The fear and awe my bosom chill; For in that dream I saw foreshown Our race by Ráma’s hand o’erthrown. I saw a chariot high in air, Of ivory exceeding fair. A hundred steeds that chariot drew As swiftly through the clouds it flew, And, clothed in white, with wreaths that shone, The sons of Raghu rode thereon. I looked and saw this lady here, Clad in the purest white, appear High on the snow white hill whose feet The angry waves of ocean beat. And she and Ráma met at last Like light and sun when night is past. Again I saw them side by side. On Rávaṇ’s car they seemed to ride, And with the princely Lakshmaṇ flee To northern realms beyond the sea. Then Rávaṇ, shaved and shorn, besmeared With oil from head to foot, appeared. He quaffed, he raved: his robes were red: Fierce was his eye, and bare his head. I saw him from his chariot thrust; I saw him rolling in the dust. A woman came and dragged away The stricken giant where he lay, And on a car which asses drew The monarch of our race she threw. He rose erect, he danced and laughed, With thirsty lips the oil he quaffed, Then with wild eyes and streaming mouth Sped on the chariot to the south.(844) Then, dropping oil from every limb, His sons the princes followed him, And Kumbhakarṇa,(845) shaved and shorn, Was southward on a camel borne. Then royal Lanká reeled and fell With gate and tower and citadel. This ancient city, far-renowned: All life within her walls was drowned; And the wild waves of ocean rolled O’er Lanká and her streets of gold. Warned by these signs I bid you fly; Or by the hand of Ráma die, Whose vengeance will not spare the life Of one who vexed his faithful wife. Your bitter taunts and threats forgo: Comfort the lady in her woe, And humbly pray her to forgive; For so you may be spared and live.”

[I omit the 28th and 29th Cantos as an unmistakeable interpolation. Instead of advancing the story it goes back to Canto XVII, containing a lamentation of Sítá after Rávaṇ has left her, and describes the the auspicious signs sent to cheer her, the throbbing of her left eye, arm, and side. The Canto is found in the Bengal recension. Gorresio translates it. and observes: “I think that Chapter XXVIII.—The Auspicious Signs—is an addition, a later interpolation by the Rhapsodists. It has no bond of connexion either with what precedes or follows it, and may be struck out not only without injury to, but positively to the advantage of the poem. The metre in which this chapter is written differs from that which is generally adopted in the course of the poem.”]

Canto XXX. Hanumán’s Deliberation.

The Vánar watched concealed: each word Of Sítá and the fiends he heard, And in a maze of anxious thought His quick-conceiving bosom wrought. “At length my watchful eyes have seen, Pursued so long, the Maithil queen, Sought by our Vánar hosts in vain From east to west, from main to main. A cautious spy have I explored The palace of the Rákhshas lord, And thoroughly learned, concealed from sight, The giant monarch’s power and might. And now my task must be to cheer The royal dame who sorrows here. For if I go, and soothe her not, A captive in this distant spot, She, when she finds no comfort nigh, Will sink beneath her woes and die. How shall my tale, if unconsoled I leave her, be to Ráma told? How shall I answer Raghu’s son, “No message from my darling, none?” The husband’s wrath, to fury fanned, Will scorch me lifeless where I stand, Or if I urge my lord the king To Lanká’s isle his hosts to bring, In vain will be his zeal, in vain The toil, the danger, and the pain. Yea, this occasion must I seize That from her guard the lady frees,(846) To win her ear with soft address And whisper hope in dire distress. Shall I, a puny Vánar, choose The Sanskrit men delight to use? If, as a man of Bráhman kind, I speak the tongue by rules refined, The lady, yielding to her fears, Will think ’tis Rávaṇ’s voice she hears. I must assume my only plan— The language of a common(847) man. Yet, if the lady sees me nigh, In terror she will start and cry; And all the demon band, alarmed, Will come with various weapons armed, With their wild shouts the grove will fill, And strive to take me, or to kill. And, at my death or capture, dies The hope of Ráma‘s enterprise. For none can leap, save only me, A hundred leagues across the sea. It is a sin in me, I own, To talk with Janak’s child alone. Yet greater is the sin if I Be silent, and the lady die. First I will utter Ráma’s name, And laud the hero’s gifts and fame. Perchance the name she holds so dear Will soothe the faithful lady’s fear.”

Canto XXXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

Then in sweet accents low and mild The Vánar spoke to Janak’s child: “A noble king, by sin unstained, The mighty Daśaratha reigned. Lord of the warrior’s car and steed, The pride of old Ikshváku’s seed. A faithful friend, a blameless king, Protector of each living thing. A glorious monarch, strong to save, Blest with the bliss he freely gave. His son, the best of all who know The science of the bended bow, Was moon-bright Ráma, brave and strong, Who loved the right and loathed the wrong, Who ne’er from kingly duty swerved, Loved by the lands his might preserved. His feet the path of law pursued; His arm rebellious foes subdued. His sire’s command the prince obeyed And, banished, sought the forest shade, Where with his wife and brother he Wandered a saintly devotee. There as he roamed the wilds he slew The bravest of the Rákshas crew. The giant king the prince beguiled, And stole his consort, Janak’s child. Then Ráma roamed the country round, And a firm friend, Sugríva, found, Lord of the Vánar race, expelled From his own realm which Báli held, He conquered Báli and restored The kingdom to the rightful lord. Then by Sugríva’s high decree The Vánar legions searched for thee, Sampáti’s counsel bade me leap A hundred leagues across the deep. And now my happy eyes have seen At last the long-sought Maithil queen. Such was the form, the eye, the grace Of her whom Ráma bade me trace.”

He ceased: her flowing locks she drew To shield her from a stranger’s view; Then, trembling in her wild surprise, Raised to the tree her anxious eyes.

Canto XXXII. Sítá’s Doubt.

Her eyes the Maithil lady raised And on the monkey speaker gazed. She looked, and trembling at the sight Wept bitter tears in wild affright. She shrank a while with fear distraught, Then, nerved again, the lady thought: “Is this a dream mine eyes have seen, This creature, by our laws unclean? O, may the Gods keep Ráma, still, And Lakshmaṇ, and my sire, from ill! It is no dream: I have not slept, But, trouble-worn, have watched and wept Afar from that dear lord of mine For whom in ceaseless woe I pine, No art may soothe my wild distress Or lull me to forgetfulness. I see but him: my lips can frame No syllable but Ráma’s name. Each sight I see, each sound I hear, Brings Ráma to mine eye or ear, The wish was in my heart, and hence The sweet illusion mocked my sense. ’Twas but a phantom of the mind, And yet the voice was soft and kind. Be glory to the Eternal Sire,(848) Be glory to the Lord of Fire, The mighty Teacher in the skies,(849) And Indra with his thousand eyes, And may they grant the truth to be E’en as the words that startled me.”

Canto XXXIII. The Colloquy.

Down from the tree Hanumán came And humbly stood before the dame. Then joining reverent palm to palm Addressed her thus with words of balm: “Why should the tears of sorrow rise, Sweet lady, to those lovely eyes, As when the wind-swept river floods Two half expanded lotus buds? Who art thou, O most fair of face? Of Asur,(850) or celestial race? Did Nága mother give thee birth? For sure thou art no child of earth. Do Rudras(851) claim that heavenly form? Or the swift Gods(852) who ride the storm? Or art thou Rohiṇí(853) the blest, That star more lovely than the rest,— Reft from the Moon thou lovest well And doomed a while on earth to dwell? Or canst thou, fairest wonder, be The starry queen Arundhatí,(854) Fled in thy wrath or jealous pride From her dear lord Vaśishṭha’s side? Who is the husband, father, son Or brother, O thou loveliest one, Gone from this world in heaven to dwell, For whom those eyes with weeping swell? Yet, by the tears those sweet eyes shed, Yet, by the earth that bears thy tread,(855) By calling on a monarch’s name, No Goddess but a royal dame. Art thou the queen, fair lady, say, Whom Rávaṇ stole and bore away? Yea, by that agony of woe, That form unrivalled here below, That votive garb, thou art, I ween, King Janak’s child and Ráma’s queen.”

Hope at the name of Ráma woke, And thus the gentle lady spoke: “I am that Sítá wooed and won By Daśaratha’s royal son, The noblest of Ikshváku’s line; And every earthly joy was mine. But Ráma left his royal home In Daṇḍak’s tangled wilds to roam. Where with Sumitrá’s son and me, He lived a saintly devotee. The giant Rávaṇ came with guile And bore me thence to Lanká’s isle. Some respite yet the fiend allows, Two months of life, to Ráma’s spouse. Two moons of hopeless woe remain, And then the captive will be slain.”

Canto XXXIV. Hanumán’s Speech.

Thus spoke the dame in mournful mood, And Hanumán his speech renewed: “O lady, by thy lord’s decree I come a messenger to thee. Thy lord is safe with steadfast friends, And greeting to his queen he sends, And Lakshmaṇ, ever faithful bows His reverent head to Ráma’s spouse.”

Through all her frame the rapture ran, As thus again the dame began: “Now verily the truth I know Of the wise saw of long ago: “Once only in a hundred years True joy to living man appears.”

He marked her rapture-beaming hue, And nearer to the lady drew, But at each onward step he took Suspicious fear her spirit shook. “Alas, Alas,” she cried in fear. “False is the tale I joyed to hear. ’Tis Rávaṇ, ’tis the fiend, who tries To mock me with a new disguise. If thou, to wring my woman’s heart, Hast changed thy shape by magic art, And wouldst a helpless dame beguile, The wicked deed is doubly vile. But no: that fiend thou canst not be: Such joy I had from seeing thee. But if my fancy does not err, And thou art Ráma’s messenger, The glories of my lord repeat: For to these ears such words are sweet.”

The Vánar knew the lady’s thought,(856) And gave the answer fondly sought: “Bright as the sun that lights the sky Dear as the Moon to every eye. He scatters blessings o’er the land Like bounties from Vaiśravaṇ’s(857) hand. Like Vishṇu strong and unsubdued, Unmatched in might and fortitude. Wise, truthful as the Lord of Speech, With gentle words he welcomes each. Of noblest mould and form is he, Like love’s incarnate deity. He quells the fury of the foe, And strikes when justice prompts the blow. Safe in the shadow of his arm The world is kept from scathe and harm. Now soon shall Rávaṇ rue his theft, And fall, of realm and life bereft. For Ráma’s wrathful hand shall wing His shafts against the giant king. The day, O Maithil Queen, is near When he and Lakshmaṇ will be here, And by their side Sugríva lead His countless hosts of Vánar breed. Sugríva’s servant, I, by name Hanumán, by his order came. With desperate leap I crossed the sea To Lanká’s isle in search of thee, No traitor, gentle dame, am I: Upon my word and faith rely.”

Canto XXXV. Hanumán’s Speech.

With joyous heart she heard him tell Of the great lord she loved so well, And in sweet accents, soft and low, Spoke, half forgetful of her woe: “How didst thou stand by Ráma’s side? How came my lord and thou allied? How met the people of the wood With men on terms of brotherhood? Declare each grace and regal sign That decks the lords of Raghu’s line. Each circumstance and look relate: Tell Ráma’s form and speech, and gait.”

“Thy fear and doubt,” he cried, “dispelled, Hear, lady, what mine eyes beheld. Hear the imperial signs that grace The glory of Ikshváku’s race. With moon-bright face and lotus eyes, Most beautiful and good and wise, With sun-like glory round his head, Long-suffering as the earth we tread, He from all foes his realm defends. Yea, o’er the world his care extends. He follows right in all his ways, And ne’er from royal duty strays. He knows the lore that strengthens kings; His heart to truth and honour clings. Each grace and gift of form and mind Adorns that prince of human kind; And virtues like his own endue His brother ever firm and true. O’er all the land they roamed distraught, And thee with vain endeavour sought, Until at length their wandering feet Trod wearily our wild retreat. Our banished king Sugríva spied The princes from the mountain side. By his command I sought the pair And led them to our monarch there. Thus Ráma and Sugríva met, And joined the bonds that knit them yet, When each besought the other’s aid, And friendship and alliance made. An arrow launched from Ráma’s bow Laid Báli dead, Sugríva’s foe. Then by commandment of our lord The Vánar hosts each land explored. We reached the coast: I crossed the sea And found my way at length to thee.”(858)

Canto XXXVI. Ráma’s Ring.

“Receive,” he cried, “this precious ring,(859) Sure token from thy lord the king: The golden ring he wont to wear: See, Ráma’s name engraven there.” Then, as she took the ring he showed, The tears that spring of rapture flowed. She seemed to touch the hand that sent The dearly valued ornament, And with her heart again at ease, Replied in gentle words like these: “O thou, whose soul no fears deter, Wise, brave, and faithful messenger! And hast thou dared, o’er wave and foam, To seek me in the giants’ home? In thee, true messenger, I find The noblest of thy woodland kind. Who couldst, unmoved by terror, brook On Rávaṇ, king of fiends, to look. Now may we commune here as friends, For he whom royal Ráma sends Must needs be one in danger tried, A valiant, wise, and faithful guide. Say, is it well with Ráma still? Lives Lakshmaṇ yet untouched by ill? Then why should Ráma’s hand be slow To free his consort from her woe? Why spare to burn, in search of me, The land encircled by the sea? Can Bharat send no army out With banners, cars and battle shout? Cannot thy king Sugríva lend His legions to assist his friend?”

His hands upon his head he laid And thus again his answer made: “Not yet has Ráma learnt where lies His lady of the lotus eyes, Or he like Indra from the sky To Śachí’s(860) aid, to thee would fly. Soon will he hear the tale, and then, Roused to revenge, the lord of men Will to the giants’ island lead Fierce myriads of the woodland breed, Bridging his conquering way, and make The town a ruin for thy sake. Believe my words, sweet dame; I swear By roots and fruit, my woodland fare, By Meru’s peak and Vindhva’s chain, And Mandar of the Milky Main, Soon shalt thou see thy lord, though now He waits upon Praśravaṇ’s(861) brow, Come glorious as the breaking morn, Like Indra on Airávat(862) borne. For thee he looks with longing eyes; The wood his scanty food supplies. For thee his brow is pale and worn, For thee are meat and wine forsworn. Thine image in his heart he keeps, For thee by night he wakes and weeps. Or if perchance his eyes he close And win brief respite from his woes, E’en then the name of Sítá slips In anguish from his murmuring lips. If lovely flowers or fruit he sees, Which women love, upon the trees, To thee, to thee his fancy flies. And ‘Sítá! O my love!’ he cries.”

Canto XXXVII. Sítá’s Speech.

“Thou bringest me,” she cried again, “A mingled draught of bliss and pain: Bliss, that he wears me in his heart, Pain, that he wakes and weeps apart, O, see how Fate is king of all, Now lifts us high, now bids us fall, And leads a captive bound with cord The meanest slave, the proudest lord, Thus even now Fate’s stern decree Has struck with grief my lord and me. Say, how shall Ráma reach the shore Of sorrow’s waves that rise and roar, A shipwrecked sailor, well nigh drowned In the wild sea that foams around? When will he smite the demon down, Lay low in dust the giants’ town, And, glorious from his foes’ defeat, His wife, his long-lost Sítá, meet? Go, bid him speed to smite his foes Before the year shall reach its close. Ten months are fled but two remain, Then Rávaṇ’s captive must be slain. Oft has Vibhishaṇ,(863) just and wise, Besought him to restore his prize. But deaf is Rávaṇ’s senseless ear: His brother’s rede he will not hear. Vibhishaṇ’s daughter(864) loves me well: From her I learnt the tale I tell. Avindhva(865) prudent, just, and old, The giant’s fall has oft foretold; But Fate impels him to despise His word on whom he most relies. In Ráma’s love I rest secure, For my fond heart is true and pure, And him, my noblest lord, I deem In valour, power, and might supreme.”

As from her eyes the waters ran, The Vánar chief again began: “Yea, Ráma, when he hears my tale, Will with our hosts these walls assail. Or I myself, O Queen, this day Will bear thee from the fiend away, Will lift thee up, and take thee hence To him thy refuge and defence; Will take thee in my arms, and flee To Ráma far beyond the sea; Will place thee on Praśravaṇ hill Where Raghu’s son is waiting still.” “How canst thou bear me hence?” she cried, “The way is long, the sea is wide. To bear my very weight would be A task too hard for one like thee.”(866)

Swift rose before her startled eyes The Vánar in his native size, Like Mandar’s hill or Meru’s height, Encircled with a blaze of light. “O come,” he cried, “thy fears dispel, Nor doubt that I will bear thee well. Come, in my strength and care confide, And sit in joy by Ráma’s side.”

Again she spake: “I know thee now, Brave, resolute, and strong art thou; In glory like the Lord of Fire With storm-swift feet which naught may tire But yet with thee I may not fly: For, borne so swiftly through the sky, Mine eyes would soon grow faint and dim, My dizzy brain would reel and swim, My yielding arms relax their hold, And I in terror uncontrolled Should fall into the raging sea Where hungry sharks would feed on me. Nor can I touch, of free accord, The limbs of any save my lord. If, by the giant forced away, In his enfolding arms I lay, Not mine, O Vánar, was the blame; What could I do, a helpless dame? Go, to my lord my message bear, And bid him end my long despair.”

Canto XXXVIII. Sítá’s Gem.

Again the Vánar chief replied, With her wise answer satisfied: “Well hast thou said: thou canst not brave The rushing wind, the roaring wave. Thy woman’s heart would sink with fear Before the ocean shore were near. And for thy dread lest limb of thine Should for a while be touched by mine, The modest fear is worthy one Whose cherished lord is Raghu’s son. Yet when I sought to bear thee hence I spoke the words of innocence, Impelled to set the captive free By friendship for thy lord and thee. But if with me thou wilt not try The passage of the windy sky, Give me a gem that I may show, Some token which thy lord may know.”

Again the Maithil lady spoke, While tears and sobs her utterance broke: “The surest of all signs is this, To tell the tale of vanished bliss. Thus in my name to Ráma speak: “Remember Chitrakúṭa’s peak And the green margin of the rill(867) That flows beside that pleasant hill, Where thou and I together strayed Delighting in the tangled shade. There on the grass I sat with thee And laid my head upon thy knee. There came a greedy crow and pecked The meat I waited to protect And, heedless of the clods I threw, About my head in circles flew, Until by darling hunger pressed He boldly pecked me on the breast. I ran to thee in rage and grief And prayed for vengeance on the thief. Then Ráma(868) from his slumber rose And smiled with pity at my woes. Upon my bleeding breast he saw The scratches made by beak and claw. He laid an arrow on his bow, And launched it at the shameless crow. That shaft, with magic power endued, The bird, where’er he flew, pursued, Till back to Raghu’s son he fled And bent at Ráma’s feet his head.(869) Couldst thou for me with anger stirred Launch that dire shaft upon a bird, And yet canst pardon him who stole The darling of thy heart and soul? Rise up, O bravest of the brave, And come in all thy might to save. Come with the thunders of thy bow, And smite to earth the Rákshas foe.”

She ceased; and from her glorious hair She took a gem that sparkled there A token which her husband’s eyes With eager love would recognize. His head the Vánar envoy bent In low obeisance reverent. And on his finger bound the gem She loosened from her diadem.

[I omit two Cantos of dialogue. Sítá tells Hanumán again to convey her message to Ráma and bid him hasten to rescue her. Hanumán replies as before that there is no one on earth equal to Ráma, who will soon come and destroy Rávaṇ. There is not a new idea in the two Cantos: all is reiteration.]

Canto XLI. The Ruin Of The Grove.

Dismissed with every honour due The Vánar from the spot withdrew. Then joyous thought the Wind-God’s son: “The mighty task is wellnigh done. The three expedients I must leave; The fourth alone can I achieve.(870) These dwellers in the giants’ isle No arts of mine can reconcile. I cannot bribe: I cannot sow Dissension mid the Rákshas foe. Arts, gifts, address, these fiends despise; But force shall yet their king chastise. Perchance he may relent when all The bravest of his chieftains fall. This lovely grove will I destroy, The cruel Rávaṇ’s pride and joy. The garden where he takes his ease Mid climbing plants and flowery trees That lift their proud tops to the skies, Dear to the tyrant as his eyes. Then will he rouse in wrath, and lead His legions with the car and steed And elephants in long array, And seek me thirsty for the fray. The Rákshas legions will I meet, And all his bravest host defeat; Then, glorious from the bloody plain, Turn to my lord the king again.”

Then every lovely tree that bore Fair blossoms, from the soil he tore, Till each green bough that lent its shade To singing birds on earth was laid. The wilderness he left a waste, The fountains shattered and defaced: O’erthrew and levelled with the ground Each shady seat and pleasure-mound. Each arbour clad with climbing bloom, Each grotto, cell, and picture room, Each lawn by beast and bird enjoyed, Each walk and terrace was destroyed. And all the place that was so fair Was left a ruin wild and bare, As if the fury of the blast Or raging fire had o’er it passed.

Canto XLII. The Giants Roused.

The cries of startled birds, the sound Of tall trees crashing to the ground, Struck with amaze each giant’s ear, And filled the isle with sudden fear. Then, wakened by the crash and cries, The fierce shefiends unclosed their eyes, And saw the Vánar where he stood Amid the devastated wood. The more to scare them with the view To size immense the Vánar grew; And straight the Rákshas warders cried Janak’s daughter terrified “Whose envoy, whence, and who is he, Why has he come to talk with thee? Speak, lady of the lovely eyes, And let not fear thy joy disguise.”

Then thus replied the Maithil dame Of noble soul and perfect frame. “Can I discern, with scanty skill, These fiends who change their forms at will? ’Tis yours to say: your kin you meet; A serpent knows a serpent’s feet.

I weet not who he is: the sight Has filled my spirit with affright.” Some pressed round Sítá in a ring; Some bore the story to their king: “A mighty creature of our race, In monkey form, has reached the place. He came within the grove,” they cried, “He stood and talked by Sítá’s side, He comes from Indra’s court to her, Or is Kuvera’s messenger; Or Ráma sent the spy to seek His consort, and her wrongs to wreak. His crushing arm, his trampling feet Have marred and spoiled that dear retreat, And all the pleasant place which thou So lovest is a ruin now. The tree where Sítá sat alone Is spared where all are overthrown. Perchance he saved the dame from harm: Perchance the toil had numbed his arm.”

Then flashed the giant’s eye with fire Like that which lights the funeral pyre. He bade his bravest Kinkars(871) speed And to his feet the spoiler lead. Forth from the palace, at his hest, Twice forty thousand warriors pressed. Burning for battle, strong and fierce, With clubs to crush and swords to pierce, They saw Hanúmán near a porch, And, thick as moths around a torch, Rushed on the foe with wild attacks Of mace and club and battle-axe. As round him pressed the Rákshas crowd, The wondrous monkey roared aloud, That birds fell headlong from the sky: Then spake he with a mighty cry: “Long life to Daśaratha’s heir, And Lakshmaṇ, ever-glorious pair! Long life to him who rules our race, Preserved by noblest Ráma’s grace! I am the slave of Kośal’s king,(872) Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing. Hanúmán I, the Wind-God’s seed: Beneath this arm the foemen bleed. I fear not, unapproached in might, A thousand Rávaṇ’s ranged for fight, Although in furious hands they rear The hill and tree for sword and spear, I will, before the giants’ eyes, Their city and their king chastise; And, having communed with the dame, Depart in triumph as I came.”

At that terrific roar and yell The heart of every giant fell. But still their king’s command they feared And pressed around with arms upreared. Beside the porch a club was laid: The Vánar caught it up, and swayed The weapon round his head, and slew The foremost of the Rákshas crew. Thus Indra vanquished, thousand-eyed, The Daityas who the Gods defied. Then on the porch Hanúmán sprang, And loud his shout of triumph rang. The giants looked upon the dead, And turning to their monarch fled. And Rávaṇ with his spirit wrought To frenzy by the tale they brought, Urged to the fight Prahasta’s son, Of all his chiefs the mightiest one.

Canto XLIII. The Ruin Of The Temple.

The Wind-God’s son a temple(873) scaled Which, by his fury unassailed, High as the hill of Meru, stood Amid the ruins of the wood; And in his fury thundered out Again his haughty battle-shout: “I am the slave of Kośal’s King Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.” Forth hurried, by that shout alarmed, The warders of the temple armed With every weapon haste supplied, And closed him in on every side, With bands that strove to pierce and strike With shaft and axe and club and pike. Then from its base the Vánar tore A pillar with the weight it bore. Against the wall the mass he dashed, And forth the flames in answer flashed, That wildly ran o’er roofs and wall In hungry rage consuming all. He whirled the pillar round his head And struck a hundred giants dead. Then high upheld on air he rose And called in thunder to his foes: “A thousand Vánar chiefs like me Roam at their will o’er land and sea, Terrific might we all possess: Our stormy speed is limitless. And all, unconquered in the fray, Our king Sugríva’s word obey. Backed by his bravest myriads, he Our warrior lord will cross the sea. Then Lanká’s lofty towers, and all Your hosts and Rávaṇ’s self shall fall. None shall be left unslaughtered; none Who braves the wrath of Raghu’s son.”

Canto XLIV. Jambumáli’s Death.

Then Jambumáli, pride and boast For valour of the Rákshas host, Prahasta’s son supremely brave, Obeyed the hest that Rávaṇ gave: Fierce warrior with terrific teeth, With saguine robes and brilliant wreath. A bow like Indra’s own(874), and store Of glittering shafts the chieftain bore. And ever as the string he tried The weapon with a roar replied, Loud as the crashing thunder sent By him who rules the firmament. Soon as the foeman came in view Borne on a car which asses drew, The Vánar chieftain mighty-voiced Shouted in triumph and rejoiced. Prahasta’s son his bow-string drew, And swift the winged arrows flew, One in the face the Vánar smote, Another quivered in his throat. Ten from the deadly weapon sent His brawny arms and shoulders rent. Then as he felt each galling shot The Vánar’s rage waxed fiercely hot. He looked, and saw a mass of stone That lay before his feet o’erthrown. The mighty block he raised and threw, And crashing through the air it flew. But Jambumáli shunned the blow, And rained fresh arrows from his bow. The Vánar’s limbs were red with gore: A Sál tree from the earth he tore, And, ere he hurled it undismayed, Above his head the missile swayed. But shafts from Jambumáli’s bow Cut through it ere his hand could throw. And thigh and arm and chest and side With streams of rushing blood were dyed. Still unsubdued though wounded oft The shattered trunk he raised aloft, And down with well-directed aim On Jambumáli’s chest it came. There crushed upon the trampled grass He lay an undistinguished mass, The foeman’s eye no more could see His head or chest or arm or knee. And bow and car and steeds(875) and store Of glittering shafts were seen no more.

When Jambumáli’s death he heard, King Rávaṇ’s heart with rage was stirred And forth his general’s sons he sent, For power and might preeminent.

Canto XLV. The Seven Defeated.

Forth went the seven in brave attire, In glory brilliant as the fire, Impetuous chiefs with massive bows, The quellers of a host of foes: Trained from their youth in martial lore, And masters of the arms they bore: Each emulous and fiercely bold, And banners wrought with glittering gold Waved o’er their chariots, drawn at speed By coursers of the noblest breed. On through the ruins of the grove At Hanumán they fiercely drove, And from the ponderous bows they strained A shower of deadly arrows rained. Then scarce was seen the Vánar’s form Enveloped in the arrowy storm. So stands half veiled the Mountains’ King When rainy clouds about him cling. By nimble turn, by rapid bound He shunned the shafts that rained around, Eluding, as in air he rose, The rushing chariots of his foes. The mighty Vánar undismayed Amid his archer foemen played, As plays the frolic wind on high Mid bow-armed(876) clouds that fill the sky. He raised a mighty roar and yell That fear on all the army fell, And then, his warrior soul aglow With fury, rushed upon the foe, Some with his open hand he beat To death and trampled with his feet; Some with fierce nails he rent and slew, And others with his fists o’erthrew; Some with his legs, as on he rushed, Some with his bulky chest he crushed; While some struck senseless by his roar Dropped on the ground and breathed no more, The remnant, seized with sudden dread, Turned from the grove and wildly fled. The trampled earth was thickly strown With steed and car and flag o’erthrown, And the red blood in rivers flowed From slaughtered fiends o’er path and road.

Canto XLVI. The Captains.

Mad with the rage of injured pride King Rávaṇ summoned to his side The valiant five who led his host, Supreme in war and honoured most. “Go forth,” he cried, “with car and steed, And to my feet this monkey lead, But watch each chance of time and place To seize this thing of silvan race. For from his wondrous exploits he No monkey of the woods can be, But some new kind of creature meant To work us woe, by Indra sent. Gandharvas, Nágas, and the best Of Yakshas have our might confessed. Have we not challenged and subdued The whole celestial multitude? Yet will you not, if you are wise, A chief of monkey race despise. For I myself have Báli known, And King Sugríva’s power I own. But none of all their woodland throng Was half so terrible and strong.”

Obedient to the words he spake They hastened forth the foe to take. Swift were the cars whereon they rode, And bright their weapons flashed and glowed. They saw: they charged in wild career With sword and mace and axe and spear. From Durdhar’s bow five arrows sped And quivered in the Vánar’s head. He rose and roared: the fearful sound Made all the region echo round. Then from above his weight he threw On Durdhar’s car that near him drew. The weight that came with lightning speed Crushed pole and axle, car and steed. It shattered Durdhar’s head and neck, And left him lifeless mid the wreck. Yúpáksha saw the warrior die, And Virúpáksha heard his cry, And, mad for vengeance for the slain, They charged their Vánar foe again. He rose in air: they onward pressed And fiercely smote him on the breast. In vain they struck his iron frame: With eagle swoop to earth he came, Tore from the ground a tree that grew Beside him, and the demons slew. Then Bhásakama raised his spear, And Praghas with a laugh drew near, And, maddened at the sight, the two Against the undaunted Vánar flew. As from his wounds the torrents flowed, Like a red sun the Vánar showed. He turned, a mountain peak to seize With all its beasts and snakes and trees. He hurled it on the pair: and they Crushed, overwhelmed, beneath it lay.

Canto XLVII. The Death Of Aksha.

But Rávaṇ, as his fury burned, His eyes on youthful Aksha(877) turned, Who rose impetuous at his glance And shouted for his bow and lance. He rode upon a glorious car That shot the light of gems afar. His pennon waved mid glittering gold And bright the wheels with jewels rolled, By long and fierce devotion won That car was splendid as the sun. With rows of various weapons stored; And thought-swift horses whirled their lord Racing along the earth, or rose High through the clouds whene’er he chose. Then fierce and fearful war between The Vánar and the fiend was seen. The Gods and Asurs stood amazed, And on the wondrous combat gazed. A cry from earth rose long and shrill, The wind was hushed, the sun grew chill. The thunder bellowed from the sky, And troubled ocean roared reply. Thrice Aksha strained his dreadful bow, Thrice smote his arrow on the foe, And with full streams of crimson bled Three gashes in the Vánar’s head. Then rose Hanúmán in the air To shun the shafts no life could bear. But Aksha in his car pursued, And from on high the fight renewed With storm of arrows, thick as hail When angry clouds some hill assail. Impatient of that arrowy shower The Vánar chief put forth his power, Again above his chariot rose And smote him with repeated blows. Terrific came each deadly stroke: Breast neck and arm and back he broke; And Aksha fell to earth, and lay With all his life-blood drained away.

Canto XLVIII. Hanumán Captured.

To Indrajít(878) the bold and brave The giant king his mandate gave: “O trained in warlike science, best In arms of all our mightiest, Whose valour in the conflict shown To Asurs and to Gods is known, The Kinkars whom I sent are slain, And Jambumálí and his train; The lords who led our giant bands Have fallen by the monkey’s hands; With shattered cars the ground is spread, And Aksha lies amid the dead. Thou art my best and bravest: go, Unmatched in power, and slay the foe.” He heard the hest: he bent his head; Athirst for battle forth he sped. Four tigers fierce, of tawny hue, With fearful teeth, his chariot drew.

Hanúmán heard his strong bow clang, And swiftly from the earth he sprang, While weak and ineffective fell The archer’s shafts though pointed well. The Rákshas saw that naught might kill The wondrous foe who mocked his skill, And launched a magic shaft to throw A binding spell about his foe. Forth flew the shaft: the mystic charm Stayed his swift feet and numbed his arm, Through all his frame he felt the spell, And motionless to earth he fell. Nor would the reverent Vánar loose The bonds that bound him as a noose. He knew that Brahmá’s self had charmed The weapon that his might disarmed.

They saw him helpless on the ground, And all the giants pressed around, And bonds of hemp and bark were cast About his limbs to hold him fast. They drew the ropes round feet and wrists; They beat him with their hands and fists, And dragged him as they strained the cord With shouts of triumph to their lord.(879)

Canto XLIX. Rávan.

On the fierce king Hanúmán turned His angry eyes that glowed and burned. He saw him decked with wealth untold Of diamond and pearl and gold, And priceless was each wondrous gem That sparkled in his diadem. About his neck rich chains were twined, The best that fancy e’er designed, And a fair robe with pearls bestrung Down from his mighty shoulders hung. Ten heads he reared,(880) as Mandar’s hill Lifts woody peaks which tigers fill, Bright were his eyes, and bright, beneath, The flashes of his awful teeth. His brawny arms of wondrous size Were decked with rings and scented dyes. His hands like snakes with five long heads Descending from their mountain beds. He sat upon a crystal throne Inlaid with wealth of precious stone, Whereon, of noblest work, was set A gold-embroidered coverlet. Behind the monarch stood the best Of beauteous women gaily dressed, And each her giant master fanned, Or waved a chourie in her hand. Four noble courtiers(881) wise and good In counsel, near the monarch stood, As the four oceans ever stand About the sea-encompassed land. Still, though his heart with rage was fired, The Vánar marvelled and admired: “O what a rare and wondrous sight! What beauty, majesty, and might! All regal pomp combines to grace This ruler of the Rákshas race. He, if he scorned not right and law, Might guide the world with tempered awe: Yea, Indra and the Gods on high Might on his saving power rely.”

Canto L. Prahasta’s Questions.

Then fierce the giant’s fury blazed As on Hanúmán’s form he gazed, And shaken by each wild surmise He spake aloud with flashing eyes: “Can this be Nandi(882) standing here, The mighty one whom all revere? Who once on high Kailása’s hill Pronounced the curse that haunts me still? Or is the woodland creature one Of Asur race, or Bali’s(883) son? The wretch with searching question try: Learn who he is, and whence; and why He marred the glory of the grove, And with my captains fiercely strove.” Prahasta heard his lord’s behest, And thus the Vánar chief addressed: “O monkey stranger be consoled: Fear not, and let thy heart be bold. If thou by Indra’s mandate sent Thy steps to Lanká’s isle hast bent, With fearless words the cause explain, And freedom thou shalt soon regain. Or if thou comest as a spy Despatched by Vishṇu in the sky, Or sent by Yáma, or the Lord Of Riches, hast our town explored; Proved by the prowess thou hast shown No monkey save in form alone; Speak boldly all the truth, and be Released from bonds, unharmed and free. But falsehood spoken to our king Swift punishment of death will bring.”

He ceased: the Vánar made reply; “Not Indra’s messenger am I, Nor came I hither to fulfil Kuvera’s hest or Vishṇu’s will. I stand before the giants here A Vánar e’en as I appear. I longed to see the king: ’twas hard To win my way through gate and guard. And so to gain my wish I laid In ruin that delightful shade. No fiend, no God of heavenly kind With bond or chain these limbs may bind. The Eternal Sire himself of old Vouchsafed the boon that makes me bold, From Brahmá’s magic shaft released(884) I knew the captor’s power had ceased, The fancied bonds I freely brooked, And thus upon the king have looked. My way to Lanká have I won, A messenger from Raghu’s son.”

Canto LI. Hanumán’s Reply.

“My king Sugríva greets thee fair, And bids me thus his rede declare. Son of the God of Wind, by name Hanumán, to this isle I came. To set the Maithil lady free I crossed the barrier of the sea. I roamed in search of her and found Her weeping in that lovely ground. Thou in the lore of duty trained, Who hast by stern devotion gained This wondrous wealth and power and fame Shouldst fear to wrong another’s dame. Hear thou my counsel, and be wise: No fiend, no dweller in the skies Can bear the shafts by Lakshmaṇ shot, Or Ráma when his wrath is hot. O Giant King, repent the crime And soothe him while there yet is time. Now be the Maithil queen restored Uninjured to her sorrowing lord. Soon wilt thou rue thy dire mistake: She is no woman but a snake, Whose very deadly bite will be The ruin of thy house and thee. Thy pride has led thy thoughts astray, That fancy not a hand may slay The monarch of the giants, screened From mortal blow of God and fiend. Sugríva still thy death may be: No Yaksha, fiend, or God is he, And Ráma from a woman springs, The mortal seed of mortal kings. O think how Báli fell subdued; Think on thy slaughtered multitude. Respect those brave and strong allies; Consult thy safety, and be wise. I, even I, no helper need To overthrow, with car and steed, Thy city Lanká half divine: The power but not the will is mine. For Raghu’s son, before his friend The Vánar monarch, swore to end With his own conquering arm the life Of him who stole his darling wife. Turn, and be wise, O Rávaṇ turn; Or thou wilt see thy Lanká burn, And with thy wives, friends, kith and kin Be ruined for thy senseless sin.”

Canto LII. Vibhishan’s Speech.

Then Rávaṇ spake with flashing eye: “Hence with the Vánar: let him die.” Vibhishaṇ heard the stern behest, And pondered in his troubled breast; Then, trained in arts that soothe and please Addressed the king in words like these:

“Revoke, my lord, thy fierce decree, And hear the words I speak to thee. Kings wise and noble ne’er condemn To death the envoys sent to them. Such deed the world’s contempt would draw On him who breaks the ancient law.(885) Observe the mean where justice lies, And spare his life but still chastise.” Then forth the tyrant’s fury broke, And thus in angry words he spoke: “O hero, when the wicked bleed No sin or shame attends the deed. The Vánar’s blood must needs be spilt, The penalty of heinous guilt.”

Again Vibhishaṇ made reply: “Nay, hear me, for he must not die. Hear the great law the wise declare: “Thy foeman’s envoy thou shalt spare.” ’Tis true he comes an open foe: ’Tis true his hands have wrought us woe, But law allows thee, if thou wilt, A punishment to suit the guilt. The mark of shame, the scourge, the brand, The shaven head, the wounded hand. Yea, were the Vánar envoy slain, Where, King of giants, were the gain? On them alone, on them who sent The message, be the punishment. For spake he well or spake he ill, He spake obedient to their will, And, if he perish, who can bear Thy challenge to the royal pair? Who, cross the ocean and incite Thy death-doomed enemies to fight?”

Canto LIII. The Punishment.

King Rávaṇ, by his pleading moved, The counsel of the chief approved: “Thy words are wise and true: to kill An envoy would beseem us ill. Yet must we for his crime invent Some fitting mode of punishment. The tail, I fancy, is the part Most cherished by a monkey’s heart. Make ready: set his tail aflame, And let him leave us as he came, And thus disfigured and disgraced Back to his king and people haste.”

The giants heard their monarch’s speech; And, filled with burning fury, each Brought strips of cotton cloth, and round The monkey’s tail the bandage wound. As round his tail the bands they drew His mighty form dilating grew Vast as the flame that bursts on high Where trees are old and grass is dry. Each band and strip they soaked in oil, And set on fire the twisted coil. Delighted as they viewed the blaze, The cruel demons stood at gaze: And mid loud drums and shells rang out The triumph of their joyful shout. They pressed about him thick and fast As through the crowded streets he passed, Observing with attentive care Each rich and wondrous structure there, Still heedless of the eager cry That rent the air, The spy! the spy!

Some to the captive lady ran, And thus in joyous words began: “That copper-visaged monkey, he Who in the garden talked with thee, Through Lanká’s town is led a show, And round his tail the red flames glow.” The mournful news the lady heard That with fresh grief her bosom stirred. Swift to the kindled fire she went And prayed before it reverent: “If I my husband have obeyed, And kept the ascetic vows I made, Free, ever free, from stain and blot, O spare the Vánar; harm him not.”

Then leapt on high the flickering flame And shone in answer to the dame. The pitying fire its rage forbore: The Vánar felt the heat no more. Then, to minutest size reduced, The bonds that bound his limbs he loosed, And, freed from every band and chain, Rose to his native size again. He seized a club of ponderous weight That lay before him by the gate, Rushed at the fiends that hemmed him round, And laid them lifeless on the ground. Through Lanká’s town again he strode, And viewed each street and square and road,— Still wreathed about with harmless blaze, A sun engarlanded with rays.

Canto LIV. The Burning Of Lanká.

“What further deed remains to do To vex the Rákshas king anew? The beauty of his grove is marred, Killed are the bravest of his guard. The captains of his host are slain; But forts and palaces remain, Swift is the work and light the toil Each fortress of the foe to spoil.”

Reflecting thus, his tail ablaze As through the cloud red lightning plays, He scaled the palaces and spread The conflagration where he sped. From house to house he hurried on, And the wild flames behind him shone. Each mansion of the foe he scaled, And furious fire its roof assailed Till all the common ruin shared: Vibhishaṇ’s house alone was spared. From blazing pile to pile he sprang, And loud his shout of triumph rang, As roars the doomsday cloud when all The worlds in dissolution fall. The friendly wind conspired to fan The hungry flames that leapt and ran, And spreading in their fury caught The gilded walls with pearls inwrought, Till each proud palace reeled and fell As falls a heavenly citadel.

Loud was the roar the demons raised Mid walls that split and beams that blazed, As each with vain endeavour strove To stay the flames in house or grove. The women, with dishevelled hair, Flocked to the roofs in wild despair, Shrieked out for succour, wept aloud, And fell, like lightning from a cloud. He saw the flames ascend and curl Round turkis, diamond, and pearl, While silver floods and molten gold From ruined wall and latice rolled. As fire grows fiercer as he feeds On wood and grass and crackling reeds, So Hanúmán the ruin eyed With fury still unsatisfied.

Canto LV. Fear For Sítá.

But other thoughts resumed their sway When Lanká’s town in ruin lay; And, as his bosom felt their weight He stood a while to meditate. “What have I done?”, he thought with shame, “Destroyed the town with hostile flame. O happy they whose firm control Checks the wild passion of the soul; Who on the fires of anger throw The cooling drops that check their glow. But woe is me, whom wrath could lead To do this senseless shameless deed. The town to fire and death I gave, Nor thought of her I came to save,— Doomed by my own rash folly, doomed To perish in the flames consumed. If I, when anger drove me wild, Have caused the death of Janak’s child, The kindled flame shall end my woe, Or the deep fires that burn below,(886) Or my forsaken corse shall be Food for the monsters of the sea. How can I meet Sugríva? how Before the royal brothers bow,— I whose rash deed has madly foiled, The noble work in which we toiled? Or has her own bright virtue shed Its guardian influence round her head? She lives untouched,—the peerless dame; Flame has no fury for the flame.(887) The very fire would ne’er consent To harm a queen so excellent,— The high-souled Ráma’s faithful wife, Protected by her holy life. She lives, she lives. Why should I fear For one whom Raghu’s sons hold dear? Has not the pitying fire that spared The Vánar for the lady cared?”

Such were his thoughts: he pondered long, And fear grew faint and hope grew strong. Then round him heavenly voices rang, And, sweetly tuned, his praises sang: “O glorious is the exploit done By Hanumán the Wind-God’s son. The flames o’er Lanká’s city rise: The giants’ home in ruin lies. O’er roof and wall the fires have spread, Nor harmed a hair of Sítá’s head.”

Canto LVI. Mount Arishta.

He looked upon the burning waste, Then sought the queen in joyous haste, With words of hope consoled her heart, And made him ready to depart. He scaled Arishṭa’s glorious steep Whose summits beetled o’er the deep. The woods in varied beauty dressed Hung like a garland round his crest, And clouds of ever changing hue A robe about his shoulders threw. On him the rays of morning fell To wake the hill they loved so well, And bid unclose those splendid eyes That glittered in his mineral dyes. He woke to hear the music made By thunders of the white cascade, While every laughing rill that sprang From crag to crag its carol sang. For arms, he lifted to the stars His towering stems of Deodárs, And morning heard his pealing call In tumbling brook and waterfall. He trembled when his woods were pale And bowed beneath the autumn gale, And when his vocal reeds were stirred His melancholy moan was heard.

Far down against the mountain’s feet The Vánar heard the wild waves beat; Then turned his glances to the north. Sprang from the peak and bounded forth, The mountain felt the fearful shock And trembled through his mass of rock. The tallest trees were crushed and rent And headlong to the valley sent, And as the rocking shook each cave Loud was the roar the lions gave. Forth from the shaken cavern came Fierce serpents with their tongues aflame; And every Yaksha, wild with dread, And Kinnar and Gandharva, fled.

Canto LVII. Hanumán’s Return.

Still, like a winged mountain, he Sprang forward through the airy sea,(888) And rushing through the ether drew The clouds to follow as he flew, Through the great host around him spread, Grey, golden, dark, and white, and red. Now in a sable cloud immersed, Now from its gloomy pall he burst, Like the bright Lord of Stars concealed A moment, and again revealed. Sunábha(889) passed, he neared the coast Where waited still the Vánar host. They heard a rushing in the skies, And lifted up their wondering eyes. His wild triumphant shout they knew That louder still and louder grew, And Jámbaván with eager voice Called on the Vánars to rejoice: “Look he returns, the Wind-God’s son, And full success his toils have won; Triumphant is the shout that comes Like music of a thousand drums.”

Up sprang the Vánars from the ground And listened to the wondrous sound Of hurtling arm and thigh as through The region of the air he flew, Loud as the wind, when tempests rave, Roars in the prison of the cave. From crag to crag, from height to height; They bounded in their mad delight, And when he touched the mountain’s crest, With reverent welcome round him pressed. They brought him of their woodland fruits, They brought him of the choicest roots, And laughed and shouted in their glee The noblest of their chiefs to see. Nor Hanumán delayed to greet Sage Jámbaván with reverence meet; To Angad and the chiefs he bent For age and rank preëminent, And briefly spoke: “These eyes have seen, These lips addressed, the Maithil queen.” They sat beneath the waving trees, And Angad spoke in words like these: “O noblest of the Vánar kind For valour power and might combined, To thee triumphant o’er the foe Our hopes, our lives and all we owe. O faithful heart in perils tried, Which toil nor fear could turn aside, Thy deed the lady will restore, And Ráma’s heart will ache no more.”(890)

Canto LVIII. The Feast Of Honey.

They rose in air: the region grew Dark with their shadow as they flew. Swift to a lovely grove(891) they came That rivalled heavenly Nandan’s(892) fame; Where countless bees their honey stored,— The pleasance of the Vánars’ lord, To every creature fenced and barred, Which Dadhimukh was set to guard, A noble Vánar, brave and bold, Sugríva’s uncle lofty-souled. To Angad came with one accord The Vánars, and besought their lord That they those honeyed stores might eat That made the grove so passing sweet.

He gave consent: they sought the trees Thronged with innumerable bees. They rifled all the treasured store, And ate the fruit the branches bore, And still as they prolonged the feast Their merriment and joy increased. Drunk with the sweets, they danced and bowed, They wildly sang, they laughed aloud, Some climbed and sprang from tree to tree, Some sat and chattered in their glee. Some scaled the trees which creepers crowned, And rained the branches to the ground. There with loud laugh a Vánar sprang Close to his friend who madly sang, In doleful mood another crept To mix his tears with one who wept.

Then Dadhimukh with fury viewed The intoxicated multitude. He looked upon the rifled shade, And all the ruin they had made; Then called with angry voice, and strove To save the remnant of the grove. But warning cries and words were spurned, And angry taunt and threat returned. Then fierce and wild contention rose: With furious words he mingled blows. They by no shame or fear withheld, By drunken mood and ire impelled, Used claws, and teeth, and hands, and beat The keeper under trampling feet.

[Three Cantos consisting of little but repetitions are omitted. Dadhimukh escapes from the infuriated monkeys and hastens to Sugríva to report their misconduct. Sugríva infers that Hanumán and his band have been successful in their search, and that the exuberance of spirits and the mischief complained of, are but the natural expression of their joy. Dadhimukh obtains little sympathy from Sugríva, and is told to return and send the monkeys on with all possible speed.]

Canto LXV. The Tidings.

On to Praśravaṇ’s hill they sped Where blooming trees their branches spread. To Raghu’s sons their heads they bent And did obeisance reverent. Then to their king, by Angad led, Each Vánar chieftain bowed his head; And Hanumán the brave and bold His tidings to the monarch told; But first in Ráma’s hand he placed The gem that Sítá’s brow had graced: “I crossed the sea: I searched a while For Sítá in the giants’ isle. I found her vext with taunt and threat By demon guards about her set. Her tresses twined in single braid, On the bare earth her limbs were laid. Sad were her eyes: her cheeks were pale As shuddering flowers in winter’s gale. I stood beside the weeping dame, And gently whispered Ráma’s name: With cheering words her grief consoled, And then the whole adventure told. She weeps afar beyond the sea, And her true heart is still with thee. She gave a sign that thou wouldst know, She bids thee think upon the crow, And bright mark pressed upon her brow When none was nigh but she and thou. She bids thee take this precious stone, The sea-born gem thou long hast known. “And I,” she said, “will dull the sting Of woe by gazing on the ring. One little month shall I sustain This life oppressed with woe and pain: And when the month is ended, I The giants’ prey must surely die.’ ”

Canto LXVI. Ráma’s Speech.

There ceased the Vánar: Ráma pressed The treasured jewel to his breast, And from his eyes the waters broke As to the Vánar king he spoke: “As o’er her babe the mother weeps, This flood of tears the jewel steeps. This gem that shone on Sítá’s head Was Janak’s gift when we were wed, And the pure brow that wore it lent New splendour to the ornament. This gem, bright offspring of the wave, The King of Heaven to Janak gave, Whose noble sacrificial rite Had filled the God with new delight. Now, as I gaze upon the prize, Methinks I see my father’s eyes. Methinks I see before me stand The ruler of Videha’s land.(893) Methinks mine arms are folded now Round her who wore it on her brow. Speak, Hanumán, O say, dear friend, What message did my darling send? O speak, and let thy words impart Their gentle dew to cool my heart. Ah, ’tis the crown of woe to see This gem and ask “Where, where is she?” If for one month her heart be strong, Her days of life will yet be long. But I, with naught to lend relief, This very day must die of grief. Come, Hanumán, and quickly guide The mourner to his darling’s side. O lead me—thou hast learnt the way— I cannot and I will not stay. How can my gentle love endure, So timid, delicate, and pure, The dreadful demons fierce and vile Who watch her in the guarded isle? No more the light of beauty shines From Sítá as she weeps and pines. But pain and sorrow, cloud on cloud Her moonlight glory dim and shroud. O speak, dear Hanumán, and tell Each word that from her sweet lips fell, Her words, her words alone can give The healing balm to make me live.”(894)

BOOK VI.(895)

Canto I. Ráma’s Speech.

The son of Raghu heard, consoled, The wondrous tale Hanumán told; And, as his joyous hope grew high, In friendly words he made reply:

“Behold a mighty task achieved, Which never heart but his conceived. Who else across the sea can spring, Save Váyu(896) and the Feathered King?(897) Who, pass the portals strong and high Which Nágas,(898) Gods, and fiends defy, Where Rávaṇ’s hosts their station keep,— And come uninjured o’er the deep? By such a deed the Wind-God’s son Good service to the king has done, And saved from ruin and disgrace Lakshmaṇ and me and Raghu’s race. Well has he planned and bravely fought, And with due care my lady sought. But of the sea I sadly think, And the sweet hopes that cheered me sink. How can we cross the leagues of foam That keep us from the giant’s home? What can the Vánar legions more Than muster on the ocean shore?”

Canto II. Sugríva’s Speech.

He ceased: and King Sugríva tried To calm his grief, and thus replied: “’Be to thy nobler nature true, Nor let despair thy soul subdue. This cloud of causeless woe dispel, For all as yet has prospered well, And we have traced thy queen, and know The dwelling of our Rákshas foe. Arise, consult: thy task must be To cast a bridge athwart the sea, The city of our foe to reach That crowns the mountain by the beach; And when our feet that isle shall tread, Rejoice and deem thy foeman dead. The sea unbridged, his walls defy Both fiends and children of the sky, Though at the fierce battalions’ head Lord Indra’s self the onset led. Yea, victory is thine before The long bridge touch the farther shore, So fleet and fierce and strong are these Who limb them as their fancies please. Away with grief and sad surmise That mar the noblest enterprise, And with their weak suspicion blight The sage’s plan, the hero’s might. Come, this degenerate weakness spurn, And bid thy dauntless heart return, For each fair hope by grief is crossed When those we love are dead or lost. Arise, O best of those who know, Arm for the giant’s overthrow. None in the triple world I see Who in the fight may equal thee; None who before thy face may stand And brave the bow that arms thy hand, Trust to these mighty Vánars: they With full success thy trust will pay, When thou shalt reach the robber’s hold, And loving arms round Sítá fold.”

Canto III. Lanká.

He ceased: and Raghu’s son gave heed, Attentive to his prudent rede: Then turned again, with hope inspired, To Hanumán, and thus inquired:

“Light were the task for thee, I ween, To bridge the sea that gleams between The mainland and the island shore. Or dry the deep and guide as o’er. Fain would I learn from thee whose feet Have trod the stones of every street, Of fenced Lanká’s towers and forts, And walls and moats and guarded ports, And castles where the giants dwell, And battlemented citadel. O Váyu’s son, describe it all, With palace, fort, and gate, and wall.”

He ceased: and, skilled in arts that guide The eloquent, the chief replied:

“Vast is the city, gay and strong, Where elephants unnumbered throng, And countless hosts of Rákshas breed Stand ready by the car and steed. Four massive gates, securely barred, All entrance to the city guard, With murderous engines fixt to throw Bolt, arrow, rock to check the foe, And many a mace with iron head That strikes at once a hundred dead. Her golden ramparts wide and high With massy strength the foe defy, Where inner walls their rich inlay Of coral, turkis, pearl display. Her circling moats are broad and deep, Where ravening monsters dart and leap. By four great piers each moat is spanned Where lines of deadly engines stand. In sleepless watch at every gate Unnumbered hosts of giants wait, And, masters of each weapon, rear The threatening pike and sword and spear. My fury hurled those ramparts down, Filled up the moats that gird the town, The piers and portals overturned, And stately Lanká spoiled and burned. Howe’er we Vánars force our way O’er the wide seat of Varuṇ’s(899) sway, Be sure that city of the foe Is doomed to sudden overthrow, Nay, why so vast an army lead? Brave Angad, Dwivid good at need, Fierce Mainda, Panas famed in fight, And Níla’s skill and Nala’s might, And Jámbaván the strong and wise, Will dare the easy enterprise. Assailed by these shall Lanká fall With gate and rampart, tower and wall. Command the gathering, chief: and they In happy hour will haste away.”

Canto IV. The March.

He ceased; and spurred by warlike pride The impetuous son of Raghu cried: “Soon shall mine arm with wrathful joy That city of the foe destroy. Now, chieftain, now collect the host, And onward to the southern coast! The sun in his meridian tower Gives glory to the Vánar power. The demon lord who stole my queen By timely flight his life may screen. She, when she knows her lord is near, Will cling to hope and banish fear, Saved like a dying wretch who sips The drink of Gods with fevered lips. Arise, thy troops to battle lead: All happy omens counsel speed. The Lord of Stars in favouring skies Bodes glory to our enterprise. This arm shall slay the fiend; and she, My consort, shall again be free. Mine upward-throbbing eye foreshows The longed-for triumph o’er my foes. Far in the van be Níla’s post, To scan the pathway for the host, And let thy bravest and thy best, A hundred thousand, wait his hest. Go forth, O warrior Níla, lead The legions on through wood and mead Where pleasant waters cool the ground, And honey, flowers, and fruit abound. Go, and with timely care prevent The Rákshas foeman’s dark intent. With watchful troops each valley guard Ere brooks and fruits and roots be marred And search each glen and leafy shade For hostile troops in ambuscade. But let the weaklings stay behind: For heroes is our task designed. Let thousands of the Vánar breed The vanguard of the armies lead: Fierce and terrific must it be As billows of the stormy sea. There be the hill-huge Gaja’s place, And Gavaya’s, strongest of his race, And, like the bull that leads the herd, Gaváksha’s, by no fears deterred Let Rishabh, matchless in the might Of warlike arms, protect our right, And Gandhamádan next in rank Defend and guide the other flank. I, like the God who rules the sky Borne on Airávat(900) mounted high On stout Hanúmán’s back will ride, The central host to cheer and guide. Fierce as the God who rules below, On Angad’s back let Lakshmaṇ show Like him who wealth to mortals shares,(901) The lord whom Sárvabhauma(902) bears. The bold Susheṇ’s impetuous might, And Vegadarśí’s piercing sight, And Jámbaván whom bears revere, Illustrious three, shall guard the rear.”

He ceased, the royal Vánar heard, And swift, obedient to his word, Sprang forth in numbers none might tell From mountain, cave, and bosky dell, From rocky ledge and breezy height, Fierce Vánars burning for the fight. And Ráma’s course was southward bent Amid the mighty armament. On, joyous, pressed in close array The hosts who owned Sugríva’s sway, With nimble feet, with rapid bound Exploring, ere they passed, the ground, While from ten myriad throats rang out The challenge and the battle shout. On roots and honeycomb they fed, And clusters from the boughs o’erhead, Or from the ground the tall trees tore Rich with the flowery load they bore. Some carried comrades, wild with mirth, Then cast their riders to the earth, Who swiftly to their feet arose And overthrew their laughing foes. While still rang out the general cry, “King Rávaṇ and his fiends shall die,” Still on, exulting in the pride Of conscious strength, the Vánars hied, And gazed where noble Sahya, best Of mountains, raised each towering crest. They looked on lake and streamlet, where The lotus bloom was bright and fair, Nor marched—for Ráma’s hest they feared Where town or haunt of men appeared. Still onward, fearful as the waves Of Ocean when he roars and raves, Led by their eager chieftains, went The Vánars’ countless armament. Each captain, like a noble steed Urged by the lash to double speed. Pressed onward, filled with zeal and pride, By Ráma’s and his brother’s side, Who high above the Vánar throng On mighty backs were borne along, Like the great Lords of Day and Night Seized by eclipsing planets might. Then Lakshmaṇ radiant as the morn, On Angad’s shoulders high upborne. With sweet consoling words that woke New ardour, to his brother spoke: “Soon shalt thou turn, thy queen regained And impious Rávaṇ’s life-blood drained, In happiness and high renown To dear Ayodhyá’s happy town. I see around exceeding fair All omens of the earth and air. Auspicious breezes sweet and low To greet the Vánar army blow, And softly to my listening ear Come the glad cries of bird and deer. Bright is the sky around us, bright Without a cloud the Lord of Light, And Śukra(903) with propitious love Looks on thee from his throne above. The pole-star and the Sainted Seven(904) Shine brightly in the northern heaven, And great Triśanku,(905) glorious king, Ikshváku’s son from whom we spring, Beams in unclouded glory near His holy priest(906) whom all revere. Undimmed the two Viśákhás(907) shine, The strength and glory of our line, And Nairrit’s(908) influence that aids Our Rákshas foemen faints and fades. The running brooks are fresh and fair, The boughs their ripening clusters bear, And scented breezes gently sway The leaflet of the tender spray. See, with a glory half divine The Vánars’ ordered legions shine, Bright as the Gods’ exultant train Who saw the demon Tárak slain. O let thine eyes these signs behold, And bid thy heart be glad and bold.”

The Vánar squadrons densely spread O’er all the country onward sped, While rising from the rapid beat Of bears’ and monkeys’ hastening feet. Dust hid the earth with thickest veil, And made the struggling sunbeams pale. Now where Mahendra’s peaks arise Came Ráma of the lotus eyes And the long arm’s resistless might, And clomb the mountain’s wood-crowned height. Thence Daśaratha’s son beheld Where billowy Ocean rose and swelled, Past Malaya’s peaks and Sahya’s chain The Vánar legions reached the main, And stood in many a marshalled band On loud-resounding Ocean’s strand. To the fair wood that fringed the tide Came Daśaratha’s son, and cried: “At length, my lord Sugríva, we Have reached King Varuṇ’s realm the sea, And one great thought, still-vexing, how To cross the flood, awaits us now. The broad deep ocean, that denies A passage, stretched before us lies. Then let us halt and plan the while How best to storm the giant’s isle.”

He ceased: Sugríva on the coast By trees o’ershadowed stayed the host, That seemed in glittering lines to be The bright waves of a second sea. Then from the shore the captains gazed On billows which the breezes raised To fury, as they dashed in foam O’er Varuṇ’s realm, the Asurs’ home:(909) The sea that laughed with foam, and danced With waves whereon the sunbeams glanced: Where, when the light began to fade, Huge crocodiles and monsters played; And, when the moon went up the sky, The troubled billows rose on high From the wild watery world whereon A thousand moons reflected shone: Where awful serpents swam and showed Their fiery crests which flashed and glowed, Illumining the depths of hell, The prison where the demons dwell. The eye, bewildered, sought in vain The bounding line of sky and main: Alike in shade, alike in glow Were sky above and sea below. There wave-like clouds by clouds were chased, Here cloud-like billows roared and raced: Then shone the stars, and many a gem That lit the waters answered them. They saw the great-souled Ocean stirred To frenzy by the winds, and heard, Loud as ten thousand drums, the roar Of wild waves dashing on the shore. They saw him mounting to defy With deafening voice the troubled sky. And the deep bed beneath him swell In fury as the billows fell.

Canto V. Ráma’s Lament.

There on the coast in long array The Vánars’ marshalled legions lay, Where Níla’s care had ordered well The watch of guard and sentinel, And Mainda moved from post to post With Dwivid to protect the host.

Then Ráma stood by Lakshmaṇ’s side, And mastered by his sorrow cried: “My brother dear, the heart’s distress, As days wear on, grows less and less. But my deep-seated grief, alas, Grows fiercer as the seasons pass. Though for my queen my spirit longs, And broods indignant o’er my wrongs, Still wilder is my grief to know That her young life is passed in woe. Breathe, gentle gale, O breathe where she Lies prisoned, and then breathe on me, And, though my love I may not meet, Thy kiss shall be divinely sweet. Ah, by the giant’s shape appalled, On her dear lord for help she called, Still in mine ears the sad cry rings And tears my heart with poison stings. Through the long daylight and the gloom Of night wild thoughts of her consume My spirit, and my love supplies The torturing flame which never dies. Leave me, my brother; I will sleep Couched on the bosom of the deep, For the cold wave may bring me peace And bid the fire of passion cease. One only thought my stay must be, That earth, one earth, holds her and me, To hear, to know my darling lives Some life-supporting comfort gives, As streams from distant fountains run O’er meadows parching in the sun. Ah when, my foeman at my feet, Shall I my queen, my glory, meet, The blossom of her dear face raise And on her eyes enraptured gaze, Press her soft lips to mine again, And drink a balm to banish pain! Alas, alas! where lies she now, My darling of the lovely brow? On the cold earth, no help at hand, Forlorn amid the Rákshas band, King Janak’s child still calls on me, Her lord and love, to set her free. But soon in glory will she rise A crescent moon in autumn skies, And those dark rovers of the night, Like scattered clouds shall turn in flight.”

Canto VI. Rávan’s Speech.

But when the giant king surveyed His glorious town in ruin laid, And each dire sign of victory won By Hanumán the Wind-God’s son, He vailed his angry eyes oppressed By shame, and thus his lords addressed: “The Vánar spy has passed the gate Of Lanká long inviolate, Eluded watch and ward, and seen With his bold eyes the captive queen. My royal roof with flames is red, The bravest of my lords are dead, And the fierce Vánar in his hate Has left our city desolate. Now ponder well the work that lies Before us, ponder and advise. With deep-observing judgment scan The peril, and mature a plan. From counsel, sages say, the root, Springs victory, most glorious fruit. First ranks the king, when woe impends Who seeks the counsel of his friends, Of kinsmen ever faithful found, Or those whose hopes with his are bound, Then with their aid his strength applies, And triumphs in his enterprise. Next ranks the prince who plans alone, No counsel seeks to aid his own, Weighs loss and gain and wrong and right, And seeks success with earnest might. Unwisest he who spurns delays, Who counts no cost, no peril weighs, Speeds to his aim, defying fate, And risks his all, precipitate. Thus too in counsel sages find A best, a worst, a middle kind. When gathered counsellors explore The way by light of holy lore, And all from first to last agree, Is the best counsel of the three. Next, if debate first waxes high, And each his chosen plan would try Till all agree at last, we deem This counsel second in esteem. Worst of the three is this, when each Assails with taunt his fellow’s speech; When all debate, and no consent Concludes the angry argument. Consult then, lords; my task shall be To crown with act your wise decree. With thousands of his wild allies The vengeful Ráma hither hies; With unresisted might and speed Across the flood his troops will lead, Or for the Vánar host will drain The channels of the conquered main.”

Canto VII. Rávan Encouraged.

He ceased: they scorned, with blinded eyes, The foeman and his bold allies, Raised reverent hands with one accord, And thus made answer to their lord: “Why yield thee, King, to causeless fear? A mighty host with sword and spear And mace and axe and pike and lance Waits but thy signal to advance. Art thou not he who slew of old The Serpent-Gods, and stormed their hold; Scaled Mount Kailása and o’erthrew Kuvera(910) and his Yaksha crew, Compelling Śiva’s haughty friend Beneath a mightier arm to bend? Didst thou not bring from realms afar The marvel of the magic car, When they who served Kuvera fell Crushed in their mountain citadel? Attracted by thy matchless fame To thee, a suppliant, Maya came, The lord of every Dánav band, And won thee with his daughter’s hand. Thy arm in hell itself was felt, Where Vásuki(911) and Śankha dwelt, And they and Takshak, overthrown, Were forced thy conquering might to own. The Gods in vain their blessing gave To heroes bravest of the brave, Who strove a year and, sorely pressed, Their victor’s peerless might confessed. In vain their magic arts they tried, In vain thy matchless arm defied King Varuṇ’s sons with fourfold force, Cars, elephants, and foot, and horse, But for a while thy power withstood, And, conquered, mourned their hardihood. Thou hast encountered, face to face, King Yáma(912) with his murdering mace. Fierce as the wild tempestuous sea, What terror had his wrath for thee, Though death in every threatening form, And woe and torment, urged the storm? Thine arm a glorious victory won O’er the dread king who pities none; And the three worlds, from terror freed, In joyful wonder praised thy deed. The tribe of Warriors, strong and dread As Indra’s self, o’er earth had spread; As giant trees that towering stand In mountain glens, they filled the land. Can Raghu’s son encounter foes Fierce, numerous, and strong as those? Yet, trained in war and practised well, O’ermatched by thee, they fought and fell, Stay in thy royal home, nor care The battle and the toil to share; But let the easy fight be won By Indrajít(913) thy matchless son. All, all shall die, if thou permit, Slain by the hand of Indrajít.”

Canto VIII. Prahasta’s Speech.

Dark as a cloud of autumn, dread Prahasta joined his palms and said:

“Gandharvas, Gods, the hosts who dwell In heaven, in air, in earth, in hell, Have yielded to thy might, and how Shall two weak men oppose thee now? Hanúmán came, a foe disguised, And mocked us heedless and surprised, Or never had he lived to flee And boast that he has fought with me. Command, O King, and this right hand Shall sweep the Vánars from the land, And hill and dale, to Ocean’s shore, Shall know the death-doomed race no more. But let my care the means devise To guard thy city from surprise.”

Then Durmukh cried, of Rákshas race: “Too long we brook the dire disgrace. He gave our city to the flames, He trod the chambers of thy dames. Ne’er shall so weak and vile a thing Unpunished brave the giants’ king. Now shall this single arm attack And drive the daring Vánars back, Till to the winds of heaven they flee, Or seek the depths of earth and sea.”

Then, brandishing the mace he bore, Whose horrid spikes were stained with gore, While fury made his eyeballs red, Impetuous Vajradanshṭra said:

“Why waste a thought on one so vile As Hanúmán the Vánar, while Sugríva, Lakshmaṇ, yet remain, And Ráma mightier still, unslain? This mace to-day shall crush the three, And all the host will turn and flee. Listen, and I will speak: incline, O King, to hear these words of mine, For the deep plan that I propose Will swiftly rid thee of thy foes. Let thousands of thy host assume The forms of men in youthful bloom, In war’s magnificent array Draw near to Raghu’s son, and say: “Thy younger brother Bharat sends This army, and thy cause befriends.” Then let our legions hasten near With bow and mace and sword and spear, And on the Vánar army rain Our steel and stone till all be slain. If Raghu’s sons will fain believe, Entangled in the net we weave, The penalty they both must pay, And lose their forfeit lives to-day.” Then with his warrior soul on fire, Nikumbha spoke in burning ire:

“I, only I, will take the field, And Raghu’s son his life shall yield. Within these walls, O Chiefs, abide, Nor part ye from our monarch’s side.”

Canto IX. Vibhishan’s Counsel.

A score of warriors(914) forward sprang, And loud the clashing iron rang Of mace and axe and spear and sword, As thus they spake unto their lord: “Their king Sugríva will we slay, And Raghu’s sons, ere close of day, And strike the wretch Hanúmán down, The spoiler of our golden town.”

But sage Vibhishaṇ strove to calm The chieftains’ fury; palm to palm He joined in lowly reverence, pressed(915) Before them, and the throng addressed:

“Dismiss the hope of conquering one So stern and strong as Raghu’s son. In due control each sense he keeps With constant care that never sleeps. Whose daring heart has e’er conceived The exploit Hanumán achieved, Across the fearful sea to spring, The tributary rivers’ king? O Rákshas lords, in time be wise, Nor Ráma’s matchless power despise. And say, what evil had the son Of Raghu to our monarch done, Who stole the dame he loved so well And keeps her in his citadel; If Khara in his foolish pride Encountered Ráma, fought, and died, May not the meanest love his life And guard it in the deadly strife? The Maithil dame, O Rákshas King, Sore peril to thy realm will bring. Restore her while there yet is time, Nor let us perish for thy crime. O, let the Maithil lady go Ere the avenger bend his bow To ruin with his arrowy showers Our Lanká with her gates and towers. Let Janak’s child again be free Ere the wild Vánars cross the sea, In their resistless might assail Our city and her ramparts scale. Ah, I conjure thee by the ties Of brotherhood, be just and wise. In all my thoughts thy good I seek, And thus my prudent counsel speak. Let captive Sítá be restored Ere, fierce as autumn’s sun, her lord Send his keen arrows from the string To drink the life-blood of our king. This fury from thy soul dismiss, The bane of duty, peace, and bliss. Seek duty’s path and walk therein, And joy and endless glory win. Restore the captive, ere we feel The piercing point of Ráma’s steel. O spare thy city, spare the lives Of us, our friends, our sons and wives.”

Thus spake Vibhishaṇ wise and brave: The Rákshas king no answer gave, But bade his lords the council close, And sought his chamber for repose.

Canto X. Vibhishan’s Counsel.

Soon as the light of morning broke, Vibhishaṇ from his slumber woke, And, duty guiding every thought, The palace of his brother sought. Vast as a towering hill that shows His peaks afar, that palace rose. Here stood within the monarch’s gate Sage nobles skilful in debate. There strayed in glittering raiment through The courts his royal retinue, Where in wild measure rose and fell The music of the drum and shell, And talk grew loud, and many a dame Of fairest feature went and came Through doors a marvel to behold, With pearl inlaid on burning gold: Therein Gandharvas or the fleet Lords of the storm might joy to meet. He passed within the wondrous pile, Chief glory of the giants’ isle: Thus, ere his fiery course be done, An autumn cloud admits the sun. He heard auspicious voices raise With loud accord the note of praise, And sages, deep in Scripture, sing Each glorious triumph of the king. He saw the priests in order stand, Curd, oil, in every sacred hand; And by them flowers were laid and grain, Due offerings to the holy train. Vibhishaṇ to the monarch bowed, Raised on a throne above the crowd: Then, skilled in arts of soft address, He raised his voice the king to bless, And sate him on a seat where he Full in his brother’s sight should be. The chieftain there, while none could hear, Spoke his true speech for Rávaṇ’s ear, And to his words of wisdom lent The force of weightiest argument:

“O brother, hear! since Ráma’s queen A captive in thy house has been, Disastrous omens day by day Have struck our souls with wild dismay. No longer still and strong and clear The flames of sacrifice appear, But, restless with the frequent spark, Neath clouds of smoke grow faint and dark. Our ministering priests turn pale To see their wonted offerings fail, And ants and serpents creep and crawl Within the consecrated hall.(916) Dried are the udders of our cows, Our elephants have juiceless brows,(917) Nor can the sweetest pasture stay The charger’s long unquiet neigh. Big tears from mules and camels flow Whose staring coats their trouble show, Nor can the leech’s art restore Their health and vigour as before. Rapacious birds are fierce and bold: Not single hunters as of old, In banded troops they chase the prey, Or gathering on our temples stay. Through twilight hours with shriek and howl Around the city jackals prowl, And wolves and foul hyænas wait Athirst for blood at every gate. One sole atonement still may cure These evils, and our weal assure. Restore the Maithil dame, and win An easy pardon for thy sin.”

The Rákshas monarch heard, and moved To sudden wrath his speech reproved:

“No danger, brother, can I see: The Maithil dame I will not free. Though all the Gods for Ráma fight, He yields to my superior might.” Thus the tremendous king who broke The ranks of heavenly warriors spoke, And, sternly purposed to resist, His brother from the hall dismissed.

Canto XI. The Summons.

Still Rávaṇ’s haughty heart rebelled, The counsel of the wise repelled, And, as his breast with passion burned, His thoughts again to Sítá turned. Thus, to each sign of danger blind, To love and war he still inclined. Then mounted he his car that glowed With gems and golden net, and rode Where, gathered at the monarch’s call, The nobles filled the council hall. A host of warriors bright and gay With coloured robes and rich array, With shield and mace and spear and sword, Followed the chariot of their lord. Mid the loud voice of shells and beat Of drums he raced along the street, And, ere he came, was heard afar The rolling thunder of his car. He reached the doors: the nobles bent Their heads before him reverent: And, welcomed with their loud acclaim, Within the glorious hall he came. He sat upon a royal seat With golden steps beneath his feet, And bade the heralds summon all His captains to the council hall. The heralds heard the words he spake, And sped from house to house to wake The giants where they slept or spent The careless hours in merriment. These heard the summons and obeyed: From chamber, grove, and colonnade, On elephants or cars they rode, Or through the streets impatient strode. As birds on rustling pinions fly Through regions of the darkened sky, Thus cars and mettled coursers through The crowded streets of Lanká flew. The council hall was reached, and then, As lions seek their mountain den, Through massy doors that opened wide, With martial stalk the captains hied. Welcomed with honour as was meet They stooped to press their monarch’s feet, And each a place in order found On stool, on cushion, or the ground. Nor did the sage Vibhishaṇ long Delay to join the noble throng. High on a car that shone like flame With gold and flashing gems he came, Drew near and spoke his name aloud, And reverent to his brother bowed.

Canto XII. Rávan’s Speech.

The king in counsel unsurpassed His eye around the synod cast, And fierce Prahasta, first and best Of all his captains, thus addressed:

“Brave master of each warlike art, Arouse thee and perform thy part. Array thy fourfold forces(918) well To guard our isle and citadel.”

The captain of the hosts obeyed, The troops with prudent skill arrayed; Then to the hall again he hied, And stood before the king and cried: “Each inlet to the town is closed Without, within, are troops disposed. With fearless heart thine aim pursue And do the deed thou hast in view.”

Thus spoke Prahasta in the zeal That moved him for the kingdom’s weal. And thus the monarch, who pursued His own delight, his speech renewed: “In ease and bliss, in toil and pain, In doubts of duty, pleasure, gain, Your proper path I need not tell, For of yourselves ye know it well. The Storm-Gods, Moon, and planets bring New glory to their heavenly king,(919) And, ranged about your monarch, ye Give joy and endless fame to me. My secret counsel have I kept, While senseless Kumbhakarṇa slept. Six months the warrior’s slumbers last And bind his torpid senses fast; But now his deep repose he breaks, The best of all our champions wakes. I captured, Ráma’s heart to wring, This daughter of Videha’s king. And brought her from that distant land(920) Where wandered many a Rákshas band. Disdainful still my love she spurns, Still from each prayer and offering turns, Yet in all lands beneath the sun No dame may rival Sítá, none, Her dainty waist is round and slight, Her cheek like autumn’s moon is bright, And she like fruit in graven gold Mocks her(921) whom Maya framed of old. Faultless in form, how firmly tread Her feet whose soles are rosy red! Ah, as I gaze her beauty takes My spirit, and my passion wakes. Looking for Ráma far away She sought with tears a year’s delay Nor gazing on her love-lit eye Could I that earnest prayer deny. But baffled hopes and vain desire At length my patient spirit tire. How shall the sons of Raghu sweep To vengeance o’er the pathless deep? How shall they lead the Vánar train Across the monster-teeming main? One Vánar yet could find a way To Lanká’s town, and burn and slay. Take counsel then, remembering still That we from men need fear no ill; And give your sentence in debate, For matchless is the power of fate. Assailed by you the Gods who dwell In heaven beneath our fury fell. And shall we fear these creatures bred In forests, by Sugríva led? E’en now on ocean’s farther strand, The sons of Daśaratha stand, And follow, burning to attack Their giant foes, on Sítá’s track. Consult then, lords for ye are wise: A seasonable plan devise. The captive lady to retain, And triumph when the foes are slain. No power can bring across the foam Those Vánars to our island home; Or if they madly will defy Our conquering might, they needs must die.”

Then Kumbhakarṇa’s anger woke, And wroth at Rávaṇ’s words he spoke: “O Monarch, when thy ravished eyes First looked upon thy lovely prize, Then was the time to bid us scan Each peril and mature a plan. Blest is the king who acts with heed, And ne’er repents one hasty deed; And hapless he whose troubled soul Mourns over days beyond control. Thou hast, in beauty’s toils ensnared, A desperate deed of boldness dared; By fortune saved ere Ráma’s steel One wound, thy mortal bane, could deal. But, Rávaṇ, as the deed is done, The toil of war I will not shun. This arm, O rover of the night, Thy foemen to the earth shall smite, Though Indra with the Lord of Flame, The Sun and Storms, against me came. E’en Indra, monarch of the skies, Would dread my club and mountain size, Shrink from these teeth and quake to hear The thunders of my voice of fear. No second dart shall Ráma cast: The first he aims shall be the last. He falls, and these dry lips shall drain The blood of him my hand has slain; And Sítá, when her champion dies, Shall be thine undisputed prize.”

Canto XIII. Rávan’s Speech.

But Mahápárśva saw the sting Of keen reproach had galled the king; And humbly, eager to appease His anger, spoke in words like these:

“And breathes there one so cold and weak The forest and the gloom to seek Where savage beasts abound, and spare To taste the luscious honey there? Art thou not lord? and who is he Shall venture to give laws to thee? Love thy Videhan still, and tread Upon thy prostrate foeman’s head. O’er Sítá’s will let thine prevail, And strength achieve if flattery fail. What though the lady yet be coy And turn her from the proffered joy? Soon shall her conquered heart relent And yield to love and blandishment. With us let Kumbhakarṇa fight, And Indrajít of matchless might: We need not other champions, they Shall lead us forth to rout and slay. Not ours to bribe or soothe or part The foeman’s force with gentle art, Doomed, conquered by our might, to feel The vengeance of the warrior’s steel.”

The Rákshas monarch heard, and moved By flattering hopes the speech approved:

“Hear me,” he cried, “great chieftain, tell What in the olden time befell,— A secret tale which, long suppressed, Lies prisoned only in my breast. One day—a day I never forget— Fair Punjikasthalá(922) I met, When, radiant as a flame of fire, She sought the palace of the Sire. In passion’s eager grasp I tore From her sweet limbs the robes she wore, And heedless of her prayers and cries Strained to my breast the vanquised prize. Like Naliní(923) with soil distained, The mansion of the Sire she gained, And weeping made the outrage known To Brahmá on his heavenly throne. He in his wrath pronounced a curse,— That lord who made the universe: “If, Rávaṇ, thou a second time Be guilty of so foul a crime, Thy head in shivers shall be rent: Be warned, and dread the punishment.” Awed by the threat of vengeance still I force not Sítá’s stubborn will. Terrific as the sea in might: My steps are like the Storm-Gods’ flight; But Ráma knows not this, or he Had never sought to war with me. Where is the man would idly brave The lion in his mountain cave, And wake him when with slumbering eyes Grim, terrible as Death, he lies? No, blinded Ráma knows me not: Ne’er has he seen mine arrows shot; Ne’er marked them speeding to their aim Like snakes with cloven tongues of flame. On him those arrows will I turn, Whose fiery points shall rend and burn. Quenched by my power when I assail The glory of his might shall fail, As stars before the sun grow dim And yield their feeble light to him.”

Canto XIV. Vibhishan’s Speech.

He ceased: Vibhishaṇ ill at ease Addressed the king in words like these:

“O Rávaṇ, O my lord, beware Of Sítá dangerous as fair, Nor on thy heedless bosom hang This serpent with a deadly fang. O King, the Maithil dame restore To Raghu’s matchless son before Those warriors of the woodlands, vast As mountain peaks, approaching fast, Armed with fierce teeth and claws, enclose Thy city with unsparing foes. O, be the Maithil dame restored Ere loosened from the clanging cord The vengeful shafts of Ráma fly, And low in death thy princes lie. In all thy legions hast thou one A match in war for Raghu’s son? Can Kumbhakarṇa’s self withstand, Or Indrajít, that mighty hand? In vain with Ráma wilt thou strive: Thou wilt not save thy soul alive Though guarded by the Lord of Day And Storm-Gods’ terrible array, In vain to Indra wilt thou fly, Or seek protection in the sky, In Yáma’s gloomy mansion dwell, Or hide thee in the depths of hell.”

He ceased; and when his lips were closed Prahasta thus his rede opposed:

“O timid heart, to counsel thus! What terrors have the Gods for us? Can snake, Gandharva, fiend appal The giants’ sons who scorn them all? And shall we now our birth disgrace, And dread a king of human race?” Thus fierce Prahasta counselled ill: But sage Vibhishaṇ’s constant will The safety of the realm ensued; Who thus in turn his speech renewed:

“Yes, when a soul defiled with sin Shall mount to heaven and enter in, Then, chieftain, will experience teach The truth of thy disdainful speech. Can I, or thou, or these or all Our bravest compass Ráma’s fall, The chief in whom all virtues shine, The pride of old Ikshváku’a line, With whom the Gods may scarce compare In skill to act, in heart to dare? Yea, idly mayst thou vaunt thee, till Sharp arrows winged with matchless skill From Ráma’s bowstring, fleet and fierce As lightning’s flame, thy body pierce. Nikumbha shall not save thee then, Nor Rávaṇ, from the lord of men. O Monarch, hear my last appeal, My counsel for thy kingdom’s weal. This sentence I again declare: O giant King, beware, beware! Save from the ruin that impends Thy town, thy people, and thy friends; O hear the warning urged once more: To Raghu’s son the dame restore.”

Canto XV. Indrajít’s Speech.

He ceased: and Indrajít the pride Of Rákshas warriors thus replied:

“Is this a speech our king should hear, This counsel of ignoble fear? A scion of our glorious race Should ne’er conceive a thought so base, But one mid all our kin we find, Vibhishaṇ, whose degenerate mind No spark of gallant pride retains, Whose coward soul his lineage stains. Against one giant what can two Unhappy sons of Raghu do? Away with idle fears, away! Matched with our meanest, what are they? Beneath my conquering prowess fell The Lord of earth and heaven and hell.(924) Through every startled region dread Of my resistless fury spread; And Gods in each remotest sphere Confessed the universal fear. Rending the air with roar and groan, Airávat(925) to the earth was thrown. From his huge head the tusks I drew, And smote the Gods with fear anew. Shall I who tame celestials’ pride, By whom the fiends are terrified, Now prove a weakling little worth, And fail to slay those sons of earth?”

He ceased: Vibhishaṇ trained and tried In war and counsel thus replied

“Thy speech is marked with scorn of truth, With rashness and the pride of youth. Yea, to thy ruin like a child Thou pratest, and thy words are wild. Most dear, O Indrajít, to thee Should Rávaṇ’s weal and safety be, For thou art called his son, but thou Art proved his direst foeman now, When warned by me thou hast not tried To turn the coming woe aside. Both thee and him ’twere meet to slay, Who brought thee to this hall to-day, And dared so rash a youth admit To council where the wisest sit. Presumptuous, wild, devoid of sense, Filled full of pride and insolence, Thy reckless tongue thou wilt not rule That speaks the counsel of a fool. Who in the fight may brook or shun The arrows shot by Raghu’s son With flame and fiery vengeance sped, Dire as his staff who rules the dead? O Rávaṇ, let thy people live, And to the son of Raghu give Fair robes and gems and precious ore, And Sítá to his arms restore.”

Canto XVI. Rávan’s Speech.

Then, while his breast with fury swelled, Thus Rávaṇ spoke, as fate impelled:

“Better with foes thy dwelling make, Or house thee with the venomed snake, Than live with false familiar friends Who further still thy foeman’s ends. I know their treacherous mood, I know Their secret triumph at thy woe. They in their inward hearts despise The brave, the noble, and the wise, Grieve at their bliss with rancorous hate, And for their sorrows watch and wait: Scan every fault with curious eye, And each slight error magnify. Ask elephants who roam the wild How were their captive friends beguiled. “For fire,” they cry, “we little care, For javelin and shaft and snare: Our foes are traitors, taught to bind The trusting creatures of their kind.” Still, still, shall blessings flow from cows,(926) And Bráhmans love their rigorous vows; Still woman change her restless will, And friends perfidious work us ill. What though with conquering feet I tread On every prostrate foeman’s head; What though the worlds in abject fear Their mighty lord in me revere? This thought my peace of mind destroys And robs me of expected joys. The lotus of the lake receives The glittering rain that gems its leaves, But each bright drop remains apart: So is it still with heart and heart. Deceitful as an autumn cloud Which, though its thunderous voice be loud, On the dry earth no torrent sends, Such is the race of faithless friends. No riches of the bloomy spray Will tempt the wandering bee to stay That loves from flower to flower to range; And friends like thee are swift to change. Thou blot upon thy glorious line, If any giant’s tongue but thine Had dared to give this base advice, He should not live to shame me twice.”

Then just Vibhishaṇ in the heat Of anger started from his seat, And with four captains of the band Sprang forward with his mace in hand; Then, fury flashing from his eye, Looked on the king and made reply:

“Thy rights, O Rávaṇ, I allow: My brother and mine elder thou. Such, though from duty’s path they stray, We love like fathers and obey, But still too bitter to be borne Is thy harsh speech of cruel scorn. The rash like thee, who spurn control, Nor check one longing of the soul, Urged by malignant fate repel The faithful friend who counsels well. A thousand courtiers wilt thou meet, With flattering lips of smooth deceit: But rare are they whose tongue or ear Will speak the bitter truth, or hear. Unclose thy blinded eyes and see That snares of death encompass thee. I dread, my brother, to behold The shafts of Ráma, bright with gold, Flash fury through the air, and red With fires of vengeance strike thee dead. Lord, brother, King, again reflect, Nor this mine earnest prayer reject, O, save thyself, thy royal town, Thy people and thine old renown.”

Canto XVII. Vibhishan’s Flight.

Soon as his bitter words were said, To Raghu’s sons Vibhishaṇ fled.(927) Their eyes the Vánar leaders raised And on the air-borne Rákhshas gazed, Bright as a thunderbolt, in size Like Meru’s peak that cleaves the skies. In gorgeous panoply arrayed Like Indra’s self he stood displayed, And four attendants brave and bold Shone by their chief in mail and gold. Sugríva then with dark surmise Bent on their forms his wondering eyes, And thus in hasty words confessed The anxious doubt that moved his breast:

“Look, look ye Vánars, and beware: That giant chief sublime in air With other four in bright array Comes armed to conquer and to slay.” Soon as his warning speech they heard, The Vánar chieftains undeterred Seized fragments of the rock and trees, And made reply in words like these: “We wait thy word: the order give, And these thy foes shall cease to live. Command us, mighty King, and all Lifeless upon the earth shall fall.”

Meanwhile Vibhishaṇ with the four Stood high above the ocean shore. Sugríva and the chiefs he spied, And raised his mighty voice and cried: “From Rávaṇ, lord of giants, I His brother, named Vibhishaṇ, fly. From Janasthán he stole the child Of Janak by his art beguiled, And in his palace locked and barred Surrounds her with a Rákshas guard. I bade him, plied with varied lore, His hapless prisoner restore. But he, by Fate to ruin sent, No credence to my counsel lent, Mad as the fevered wretch who sees And scorns the balm to bring him ease. He scorned the sage advice I gave, He spurned me like a base-born slave. I left my children and my wife, And fly to Raghu’s son for life. I pray thee, Vánar chieftain, speed To him who saves in hour of need, And tell him famed in distant lands That suppliant here Vibhishaṇ stands.”

The Rákshas ceased: Sugríva hied To Raghu’s noble son and cried:

“A stranger from the giant host, Borne o’er the sea, has reached the coast; A secret foe, he comes to slay, As owls attack their heedless prey. ’Tis thine, O King, in time of need To watch, to counsel, and to lead, Our Vánar legions to dispose, And guard us from our crafty foes. Vibhishaṇ from the giants’ isle, King Rávaṇ’s brother, comes with guile And, feigning from his king to flee, Seeks refuge, Raghu’s son, with thee. Arise, O Ráma, and prevent By bold attack his dark intent. Who comes in friendly guise prepared To slay thee by his arts ensnared.”

Thus urged Sugríva famed for lore Of moving words, and spoke no more. Then Ráma thus in turn addressed The bold Hanúmán and the rest: “Chiefs of the Vánar legions each Of you heard Sugríva’s speech. What think ye now in time of fear, When peril and distress are near, In every doubt the wise depend For counsel on a faithful friend.”

They heard his gracious words, and then Spake reverent to the lord of men: “O Raghu’s son, thou knowest well All things of heaven and earth and hell. ’Tis but thy friendship bids us speak The counsel Ráma need not seek. So duteous, brave, and true art thou, Heroic, faithful to thy vow. Deep in the scriptures, trained and tried, Still in thy friends wilt thou confide. Let each of us in turn impart The secret counsel of his heart, And strive to win his chief’s assent, By force of wisest argument.”

They ceased and Angad thus began: “With jealous eye the stranger scan: Not yet with trusting heart receive Vibhishaṇ, nor his tale believe. These giants wandering far and wide Their evil nature falsely hide, And watching with malignant skill Assail us when we fear no ill. Well ponder every hope and fear Until thy doubtful course be clear; Then own his merit or detect His guile, and welcome or reject.”

Then Śarabha the bold and brave In turn his prudent sentence gave: “Yea, Ráma, send a skilful spy With keenest tact to test and try. Then let the stranger, as is just, Obtain or be refused thy trust.”

Then he whose heart was rich in store Of scripture’s life-directing lore, King Jámbaván, stood forth and cried: “Suspect, suspect a foe allied With Rávaṇ lord of Lanká’s isle, And Rákshas sin and Rákshas guile.”

Then Mainda, wisest chief, who knew The wrong, the right, the false, the true, Pondered a while, then silence broke, And thus his sober counsel spoke:

“Let one with gracious speech draw near And gently charm Vibhishaṇ’s ear, Till he the soothing witchery feel And all his secret heart reveal. So thou his aims and hopes shalt know, And hail the friend or shun the foe.”

“Not he,” Hanúmán cried, “not he Who taught the Gods(928) may rival thee, Supreme in power of quickest sense, First in the art of eloquence. But hear me soothly speak, O King, And learn the hope to which I cling. Vibhishaṇ comes no crafty spy: Urged by his brother’s fault to fly. With righteous soul that loathes the sin, He fled from Lanká and his kin. If strangers question, doubt will rise And chill the heart of one so wise. Marred by distrust the parle will end, And thou wilt lose a faithful friend. Nor let it seem so light a thing To sound a stranger’s heart, O King. And he, I ween, whate’er he say, Will ne’er an evil thought betray. He comes a friend in happy time, Loathing his brother for his crime. His ear has heard thine old renown, The might that struck King Báli down, And set Sugríva on the throne. And looking now to thee alone He comes thy matchless aid to win And punish Rávaṇ for his sin. Thus have I tried thy heart to move, And thus Vibhishaṇ’s truth to prove. Still in his friendship I confide; But ponder, wisest, and decide.”

Canto XVIII. Ráma’s Speech.

Then Ráma’s rising doubt was stilled, And friendly thoughts his bosom filled. Thus, deep in Scripture’s lore, he spake: “The suppliant will I ne’er forsake, Nor my protecting aid refuse When one in name of friendship sues. Though faults and folly blot his fame, Pity and help he still may claim.”

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.”

He ceased: and Ráma knew his foe, And laid an arrow on his bow: “Woe to the wretch,” he cried, “whom fate Abandons to my deadly hate.” He spoke, and, firm by Lakshmaṇ’s side, The giant to the fray defied. The lord of Lanká bade his train Of warriors by the gates remain, To guard the city from surprise By Ráma’s forest born allies. Then as some monster of the sea Cleaves swift-advancing billows, he Charged with impetuous onset through The foe, and cleft the host in two. Sugríva ran, the king to meet: A hill uprooted from its seat He hurled, with trees that graced the height Against the rover of the night: But cleft with shafts that checked its way Harmless upon the earth it lay. Then fiercer Rávaṇ’s fury grew, An arrow from his side he drew, Swift as a thunderbolt, aglow With fire, and launched it at the foe. Through flesh and bone a way it found, And stretched Sugríva on the ground. Susheṇ and Nala saw him fall, Gaváksha, Gavaya heard their call, And, poising hills, in act to fling They charged amain the giant king. They charged, they hurled the hills in vain, He checked them with his arrowy rain, And every brave assailant felt The piercing wounds his missiles dealt, Then smitten by the shafts that came Keen, fleet, and thick, with certain aim, They fled to Ráma, sure defence Against the oppressor’s violence, Then, reverent palm to palm applied, Thus Lakshmaṇ to his brother cried: “To me, my lord, the task entrust To lay this giant in the dust.” “Go, then,” said Ráma, “bravely fight; Beat down this rover of the night. But he, unmatched in bold emprise, Fears not the Lord of earth and skies, Keep on thy guard: with keenest eye Thy moments of attack espy. Let hand and eye in due accord Protect thee with the bow and sword.”

Then Lakshmaṇ round his brother threw His mighty arms in honour due, Bent lowly down his reverent head, And onward to the battle sped. Hanúmán from afar beheld How Rávaṇ’s shafts the Vánars quelled: To meet the giant’s car he ran, Raised his right arm and thus began: “If Brahmá’s boon thy life has screened From Yaksha, God, Gandharva, fiend, With these contending fear no ill, But tremble at a Vánar still.” With fury flashing from his eye The lord of Lanká made reply: “Strike, Vánar, strike: the fray begin, And hope eternal fame to win. This arm shall prove thee in the strife And end thy glory and thy life.” “Remember,” cried the Wind-God’s son, “Remember all that I have done, My prowess, King, thou knowest well, Shown in the fight when Aksha(963) fell.”

With heavy hand the giant smote Hanúmán on the chest and throat, Who reeled and staggered to and fro, Stunned for a moment by the blow. Till, mustering strength, his hand he reared And struck the foe whom Indra feared. His huge limbs bent beneath the shock, As mountains, in an earthquake, rock, And from the Gods and sages pealed Shouts of loud triumph as he reeled. But strength returning nerved his frame: His eyeballs flashed with fiercer flame. No living creature might resist That blow of his tremendous fist Which fell upon Hanúmán’s flank: And to the ground the Vánar sank, No sign of life his body showed: And Rávaṇ in his chariot rode At Níla; and his arrowy rain Fell on the captain and his train. Fierce Níla stayed his Vánar band, And, heaving with his single hand A mountain peak, with vigorous swing Hurled the huge missile at the king.

Hanúmán life and strength regained, Burned for the fight and thus complained: “Why, coward giant, didst thou flee And leave the doubtful fight with me?” Seven mighty arrows keen and fleet The giant launched, the hill to meet; And, all its force and fury stayed, The harmless mass on earth was laid. Enraged the Vánar chief beheld The mountain peak by force repelled, And rained upon the foe a shower Of trees uptorn with branch and flower. Still his keen shafts which pierced and rent Each flying tree the giant sent: Still was the Vánar doomed to feel The tempest of the winged steel. Then, smarting from that arrowy storm, The Vánar chief condensed his form,(964) And lightly leaping from the ground On Rávaṇ’s standard footing found; Then springing unimpeded down Stood on his bow and golden crown. The Vánar’s nimble leaps amazed Ikshváku’s son who stood and gazed. The giant, raging in his heart, Laid on his bow a fiery dart; The Vánar on his flagstaff eyed, And thus in tones of fury cried: “Well skilled in magic lore art thou: But will thine art avail thee now? See if thy magic will defend Thy life against the dart I send.”

Thus Rávaṇ spake, the giant king, And loosed the arrow from the string. It pierced, with direst fury sped, The Vánar with its flaming head. His father’s might, his power innate Preserved him from the threatened fate. Upon his knees he fell, distained With streams of blood, but life remained.

Still Rávaṇ for the battle burned: At Lakshmaṇ next his car he turned, And charged amain with furious show, Straining in mighty hands his bow. “Come,” Lakshmaṇ cried, “assay the fight: Leave foes unworthy of thy might.” Thus Lakshmaṇ spoke: and Lanká’s lord Heard the dread thunder of the cord. And mad with burning rage and pride In hasty words like these replied: “Joy, joy is mine, O Raghu’s son: Thy fate to-day thou canst not shun. Slain by mine arrows thou shalt tread The gloomy pathway of the dead.”

Thus as he spoke his bow he drew, And seven keen shafts at Lakshmaṇ flew, But Raghu’s son with surest aim Cleft every arrow as it came. Thus with fleet shafts each warrior shot Against his foe, and rested not. Then one choice weapon from his store, By Brahmá’s self bestowed of yore, Fierce as the flames that end the world, The giant king at Lakshmaṇ hurled. The hero fell, and racked with pain, Scarce could his hand his bow retain. But sense and strength resumed their seat And, lightly springing to his feet, He struck with one tremendous stroke And Rávaṇ’s bow in splinters broke. From Lakshmaṇ’s cord three arrows flew And pierced the giant monarch through. Sore wounded Rávaṇ closed, and round Ikshváku’s son his strong arms wound. With strength unrivalled, Brahmá’s gift, He strove from earth his foe to lift. “Shall I,” he cried, “who overthrow Mount Meru and the Lord of Snow, And heaven and all who dwell therein, Be foiled by one of Ráma’s kin?” But though he heaved, and toiled, and strained, Unmoved Ikshváku’s son remained. His frame by those huge arms compressed The giant’s God-given force confessed, But conscious that himself was part Of Vishṇu, he was firm in heart.

The Wind-God’s son the fight beheld, And rushed at Rávaṇ, rage-impelled. Down crashed his mighty hand; the foe Full in the chest received the blow. His eyes grew dim, his knees gave way, And senseless on the earth he lay.

The Wind-God’s son to Ráma bore Deep-wounded Lakshmaṇ stained with gore. He whom no foe might lift or bend Was light as air to such a friend. The dart that Lakshmaṇ’s side had cleft, Untouched, the hero’s body left, And flashing through the air afar Resumed its place in Rávaṇ’s car; And, waxing well though wounded sore, He felt the deadly pain no more. And Rávaṇ, though with deep wounds pained, Slowly his sense and strength regained, And furious still and undismayed On bow and shaft his hand he laid.

Then Hanumán to Ráma cried: “Ascend my back, great chief, and ride Like Vishṇu borne on Garuḍ’s wing, To battle with the giant king.” So, burning for the dire attack, Rode Ráma on the Vánar’s back, And with fierce accents loud and slow Thus gave defiance to the foe, While his strained bowstring made a sound Like thunder when it shakes the ground: “Stay, Monarch of the giants, stay, The penalty of sin to pay. Stay! whither wilt thou fly, and how Escape the death that waits thee now?”

No word the giant king returned: His eyes with flames of fury burned. His arm was stretched, his bow was bent, And swift his fiery shafts were sent. Red torrents from the Vánar flowed: Then Ráma near to Rávaṇ strode, And with keen darts that never failed, The chariot of the king assailed. With surest aim his arrows flew: The driver and the steeds he slew. And shattered with the pointed steel Car, flag, and pole and yoke and wheel. As Indra hurls his bolt to smite Mount Meru’s heaven-ascending height, So Ráma with a flaming dart Struck Lanká’s monarch near the heart, Who reeled and fell beneath the blow And from loose fingers dropped his bow. Bright as the sun, with crescent head, From Ráma’s bow an arrow sped, And from his forehead, proud no more, Cleft the bright coronet he wore. Then Ráma stood by Rávaṇ’s side And to the conquered giant cried: “Well hast thou fought: thine arm has slain Strong heroes of the Vánar train. I will not strike or slay thee now, For weary, faint with fight art thou. To Lanká’s town thy footsteps bend, And there the night securely spend. To-morrow come with car and bow, And then my prowess shalt thou know.”

He ceased: the king in humbled pride Rose from the earth and naught replied. With wounded limbs and shattered crown He sought again his royal town.

Canto LX. Kumbhakarna Roused.

With humbled heart and broken pride Through Lanká’s gate the giant hied, Crushed, like an elephant beneath A lion’s spring and murderous teeth, Or like a serpent ’neath the wing And talons of the Feathered King. Such was the giant’s wild alarm At arrows shot by Ráma’s arm; Shafts with red lightning round them curled, Like Brahmá’s bolts that end the world.

Supported on his golden throne, With failing eye and humbled tone, “Giants,” he cried, “the toil is vain, Fruitless the penance and the pain, If I whom Indra owned his peer, Secure from Gods, a mortal fear. My soul remembers, now too late, Lord Brahmá’s words who spoke my fate: “Tremble, proud Giant,” thus they ran, “And dread thy death from slighted man. Secure from Gods and demons live, And serpents, by the boon I give. Against their power thy life is charmed, But against man is still unarmed.” This Ráma is the man foretold By Anaraṇya’s(965) lips of old:

“Fear, Rávaṇ, basest of the base: For of mine own imperial race A prince in after time shall spring And thee and thine to ruin bring. And Vedavatí,(966) ere she died Slain by my ruthless insult, cried: “A scion of my royal line Shall slay, vile wretch, both thee and thine.” She in a later birth became King Janak’s child, now Ráma’s dame. Nandíśvara(967) foretold this fate, And Umá(968) when I moved her hate, And Rambhá,(969) and the lovely child Of Varuṇ(970) by my touch defiled. I know the fated hour is nigh: Hence, captains, to your stations fly. Let warders on the rampart stand: Place at each gate a watchful band; And, terror of immortal eyes, Let mightiest Kumbhakarṇa rise. He, slumbering, free from care and pain, By Brahmá’s curse, for months has lain. But when Prahasta’s death he hears, Mine own defeat and doubts and fears, The chief will rise to smite the foe And his unrivalled valour show. Then Raghu’s royal sons and all The Vánars neath his might will fall.”

The giant lords his hest obeyed, They left him, trembling and afraid, And from the royal palace strode To Kumbhakarṇa’s vast abode. They carried garlands sweet and fresh, And reeking loads of blood and flesh. They reached the dwelling where he lay, A cave that reached a league each way, Sweet with fair blooms of lovely scent And bright with golden ornament. His breathings came so fierce and fast, Scarce could the giants brook the blast. They found him on a golden bed With his huge limbs at length outspread. They piled their heaps of venison near, Fat buffaloes and boars and deer. With wreaths of flowers they fanned his face, And incense sweetened all the place. Each raised his mighty voice as loud As thunders of an angry cloud, And conchs their stirring summons gave That echoed through the giant’s cave. Then on his breast they rained their blows, And high the wild commotion rose When cymbal vied with drum and horn. And war cries on the gale upborne. Through all the air loud discord spread, And, struck with fear, the birds fell dead. But still he slept and took his rest. Then dashed they on his shaggy chest Clubs, maces, fragments of the rock: He moved not once, nor felt the shock. The giants made one effort more With shell and drum and shout and roar. Club, mallet, mace, in fury plied, Rained blows upon his breast and side. And elephants were urged to aid, And camels groaned and horses neighed. They drenched him with a hundred pails, They tore his ears with teeth and nails. They bound together many a mace And beat him on the head and face; And elephants with ponderous tread Stamped on his limbs and chest and head. The unusual weight his slumber broke: He started, shook his sides, and woke; And, heedless of the wounds and blows, Yawning with thirst and hunger rose, His jaws like hell gaped fierce and wide, Dire as the flame neath ocean’s tide. Red as the sun on Meru’s crest The giant’s face his wrath expressed, And every burning breath he drew Was like the blast that rushes through The mountain cedars. Up he raised His awful head with eyes that blazed Like comets, dire as Death in form Who threats the worlds with fire and storm. The giants pointed to their stores Of buffaloes and deer and boars, And straight he gorged him with a flood Of wine, with marrow, flesh, and blood. He ceased: the giants ventured near And bent their lowly heads in fear. Then Kumbhakar[n.]a glared with eyes Still heavy in their first surprise, Still drowsy from his troubled rest, And thus the giant band addressed. “How have ye dared my sleep to break? No trifling cause should bid me wake. Say, is all well? or tell the need That drives you with unruly speed To wake me. Mark the words I say, The king shall tremble in dismay, The fire be quenched and Indra slain Ere ye shall break my rest in vain.”

Yúpáksha answered: “Chieftain, hear; No God or fiend excites our fear. But men in arms our walls assail: We tremble lest their might prevail. For vengeful Ráma vows to slay The foe who stole his queen away, And, matchless for his warlike deeds, A host of mighty Vánars leads. Ere now a monstrous Vánar came, Laid Lanká waste with ruthless flame, And Aksha, Rávaṇ’s offspring, slew With all his warrior retinue. Our king who never trembled yet For heavenly hosts in battle met, At length the general dread has shared, O’erthrown by Ráma’s arm and spared.”

He ceased: and Kumbhakarṇa spake: “I will go forth and vengeance take; Will tread their hosts beneath my feet, Then triumph-flushed our king will meet. Our giant bands shall eat their fill Of Vánars whom this arm shall kill. The princes’ blood shall be my draught, The chieftains’ shall by you be quaffed.” He spake, and, with an eager stride That shook the earth, to Rávaṇ hied.

Canto LXI. The Vánars’ Alarm.

The son of Raghu near the wall Saw, proudly towering over all, The mighty giant stride along Attended by the warrior throng; Heard Kumbhakarṇa’s heavy feet Awake the echoes of the street; And, with the lust of battle fired, Turned to Vibhishaṇ and inquired: “Vibhishaṇ, tell that chieftain’s name Who rears so high his mountain frame; With glittering helm and lion eyes, Preëminent in might and size Above the rest of giant birth, He towers the standard of the earth; And all the Vánars when they see The mighty warrior turn and flee.”

“In him,” Vibhishaṇ answered, “know Viśravas’ son, the Immortals’ foe, Fierce Kumbhakarṇa, mightier far Than Gods and fiends and giants are. He conquered Yáma in the fight, And Indra trembling owned his might. His arm the Gods and fiends subdued, Gandharvas and the serpent brood. The rest of his gigantic race Are wondrous strong by God-giving grace; But nature at his birth to him Gave matchless power and strength of limb. Scarce was he born, fierce monster, when He killed and ate a thousand men. The trembling race of men, appalled, On Indra for protection called; And he, to save the suffering world, His bolt at Kumbhakarṇa hurled. So awful was the monster’s yell That fear on all the nations fell, He, rushing on with furious roar, A tusk from huge Airávat tore, And dealt the God so dire a blow That Indra reeling left his foe, And with the Gods and mortals fled To Brahmá’s throne dispirited. “O Brahmá,” thus the suppliants cried, “Some refuge for this woe provide. If thus his maw the giant sate Soon will the world be desolate.” The Self-existent calmed their woe, And spake in anger to their foe: “As thou wast born, Pulastya’s son, That worlds might weep by thee undone, Thou like the dead henceforth shalt be: Such is the curse I lay on thee.” Senseless he lay, nor spoke nor stirred; Such was the power of Brahmá’s word. But Rávaṇ, troubled for his sake, Thus to the Self-existent spake: “Who lops the tree his care has reared When golden fruit has first appeared? Not thus, O Brahmá, deal with one Descended from thine own dear son.(971) Still thou, O Lord, thy word must keep, He may not die, but let him sleep. Yet fix a time for him to break The chains of slumber and awake.” He ceased: and Brahmá made reply; “Six months in slumber shall he lie And then arising for a day Shall cast the numbing bonds away.” Now Rávaṇ in his doubt and dread Has roused the monster from his bed, Who comes in this the hour of need On slaughtered Vánars flesh to feed. Each Vánar, when his awe-struck eyes Behold the monstrous chieftain, flies. With hopeful words their minds deceive, And let our trembling hosts believe They see no giant, but, displayed, A lifeless engine deftly made.”

Then Ráma called to Níla: “Haste, Let troops near every gate be placed, And, armed with fragments of the rock And trees, each lane and alley block.” Thus Ráma spoke: the chief obeyed, And swift the Vánars stood arrayed, As when the black clouds their battle form, The summit of a hill to storm.

Canto LXII. Rávan’s Request.

Along bright Lanká’s royal road The giant, roused from slumber, strode, While from the houses on his head A rain of fragrant flowers was shed. He reached the monarch’s gate whereon Rich gems and golden fretwork shone. Through court and corridor that shook Beneath his tread his way he took, And stood within the chamber where His brother sat in dark despair. But sudden, at the grateful sight The monarch’s eye again grew bright. He started up, forgot his fear, And drew his giant brother near. The younger pressed the elder’s feet And paid the King observance meet, Then cried: “O Monarch, speak thy will, And let my care thy word fulfil. What sudden terror and dismay Have burst the bonds in which I lay?”

Fierce flashed the flame from Rávaṇ’s eye, As thus in wrath he made reply: “Fair time, I ween, for sleep is this, To lull thy soul in tranquil bliss, Unheeding, in oblivion drowned, The dangers that our lives surround. Brave Ráma, Daśaratha’s son, A passage o’er the sea has won, And, with the Vánar monarch’s aid, Round Lanká’s walls his hosts arrayed. Though never in the deadly field My Rákshas troops were known to yield, The bravest of the giant train Have fallen by the Vánars slain. Hence comes my fear. O fierce and brave, Go forth, our threatened Lanká save. Go forth, a dreadful vengeance take: For this, O chief, I bade thee wake. The Gods and trembling fiends have felt The furious blows thine arm has dealt. Earth has no warrior, heaven has none To match thy might, Paulastya’s son.”

Canto LXIII. Kumbhakarna’s Boast.

Then Kumbhakarṇa laughed aloud And cried; “O Monarch, once so proud, We warned thee, but thou wouldst not hear; And now the fruits of sin appear. We warned thee, I, thy nobles, all Who loved thee, in thy council hall. Those sovereigns who with blinded eyes Neglect the foe their hearts despise, Soon, falling from their high estate Bring on themselves the stroke of fate. Accept at length, thy life to save, The counsel sage Vibhishaṇ gave, The prudent counsel spurned before, And Sítá to her lord restore.”(972)

The monarch frowned, by passion moved And thus in angry words reproved: “Wilt thou thine elder brother school, Forgetful of the ancient rule That bids thee treat him as the sage Who guides thee with the lore of age? Think on the dangers of the day, Nor idly throw thy words away: If, led astray, by passion stirred, I in the pride of power have erred; If deeds of old were done amiss, No time for vain reproach is this. Up, brother; let thy loving care The errors of thy king repair.”

To calm his wrath, his soul to ease, The younger spake in words like these: “Yea, from our bosoms let us cast All idle sorrow for the past. Let grief and anger be repressed: Again be firm and self-possessed. This day, O Monarch, shalt thou see The Vánar legions turn and flee, And Ráma and his brother slain With their hearts’ blood shall dye the plain. Yea, if the God who rules the dead, And Varuṇ their battalions led; If Indra with the Storm-Gods came Against me, and the Lord of Flame, Still would I fight with all and slay Thy banded foes, my King, to-day. If Raghu’s son this day withstand The blow of mine uplifted hand, Deep in his breast my darts shall sink, And torrents of his life-blood drink. O fear not, in my promise trust: This arm shall lay him in the dust, Shall leave the fierce Sugríva dyed With gore, and Lakshmaṇ by his side, And strike the great Hanúmán down, The spoiler of our glorious town.”(973)

Canto LXIV. Mahodar’s Speech.

He ceased: and when his lips were closed Mahodar thus his rede opposed: “Why wilt thou shame thy noble birth And speak like one of little worth? Why boast thee thus in youthful pride Rejecting wisdom for thy guide? How will thy single arm oppose The victor of a thousand foes, Who proved in Janasthán his might And slew the rovers of the night? The remnant of those legions, they Who saw his power that fatal day, Now in this leaguered city dread The mighty chief from whom they fled. And wouldst thou meet the lord of men, Beard the great lion in his den, And, when thine eyes are open, break The slumber of a deadly snake? Who may an equal battle wage With him, so awful in his rage, Fierce as the God of Death whom none May vanquish, Daśaratha’s son? But, Rávaṇ, shall the lady still Refuse compliance with thy will? No, listen, King, to this design Which soon shall make the captive thine. This day through Lanká’s streets proclaim That four of us(974) of highest fame With Kumbhakarṇa at our head Will strike the son of Raghu dead. Forth to the battle will we go And prove our prowess on the foe. Then, if our bold attempt succeed, No further plans thy hopes will need. But if in vain our warriors strive, And Raghu’s son be left alive, We will return, and, wounded sore, Our armour stained with gouts of gore, Will show the shafts that rent each frame, Keen arrows marked with Ráma’s name, And say we giants have devoured The princes whom our might o’erpowered. Then let the joyful tidings spread That Raghu’s royal sons are dead. To all around thy pleasure show, Gold, pearls, and precious robes, bestow. Gay garlands round the portals twine, Enjoy the banquet and the wine. Then go, the scornful lady seek, And woo her when her heart is weak. Rich robes and gold and gems display, And gently wile her grief away. Then will she feel her hopeless state, Widowed, forlorn, and desolate; Know that on thee her bliss depends, Far from her country and her friends; Then, her proud spirit overthrown, The lady will be all thine own.”

Canto LXV. Kumbhakarna’s Speech.

But haughty Kumbhakarṇa spurned His counsel, and to Rávaṇ turned: “Thy life from peril will I free And slay the foe who threatens thee. A hero never vaunts in vain, Like bellowing clouds devoid of rain, Nor, Monarch, be thine ear inclined To counsellors of slavish kind, Who with mean arts their king mislead And mar each gallant plan and deed. O, let not words like his beguile The glorious king of Lanká’s isle.”

Thus scornful Kumbhakarṇa cried, And Rávaṇ with a laugh replied: “Mahodar fears and fain would shun The battle with Ikshváku’s son. Of all my giant warriors, who Is strong as thou, and brave and true? Ride, conqueror, to the battle ride, And tame the foeman’s senseless pride. Go forth like Yáma to the field, And let thine arm thy trident wield. Scared by the lightning of thine eye The Vánar hosts will turn and fly; And Ráma, when he sees thee near, With trembling heart will own his fear.”

The champion heard, and, well content, Forth from the hall his footsteps bent. He grasped his spear, the foeman’s dread, Black iron all, both shaft and head, Which, dyed in many a battle, bore Great spots of slaughtered victims’ gore. The king upon his neck had thrown The jewelled chain which graced his own. And garlands of delicious scent About his limbs for ornament. Around his arms gay bracelets clung, And pendants in his ears were hung. Adorned with gold, about his waist His coat of mail was firmly braced, And like Náráyaṇ(975) or the God Who rules the sky he proudly trod. Behind him went a mighty throng Of giant warriors tall and strong, On elephants of noblest breeds. With cars, with camels, and with steeds: And, armed with spear and axe and sword Were fain to battle for their lord.(976)

Canto LXVI. Kumbhakarna’s Sally.

In pomp and pride of warlike state The giant passed the city gate. He raised his voice: the hills, the shore Of Lanká’s sea returned the roar. The Vánars saw the chief draw nigh Whom not the ruler of the sky, Nor Yáma, monarch of the dead, Might vanquish, and affrighted fled. When royal Angad, Báli’s son, Saw the scared Vánars turn and run, Undaunted still he kept his ground, And shouted as he gazed around: “O Nala, Níla, stay nor let Your souls your generous worth forget, O Kumud and Gaváksha, why Like base-born Vánars will ye fly? Turn, turn, nor shame your order thus: This giant is no match for us”

They heard his voice: the flight was stayed; Again for war they stood arrayed, And hurled upon the foe a shower Of mountain peaks and trees in flower. Still on his limbs their missiles rained: Unmoved, their blows he still sustained, And seemed unconscious of the stroke When rocks against his body broke. Fierce as the flame when woods are dry He charged with fury in his eye. Like trees consumed with fervent heat They fell beneath the giant’s feet. Some o’er the ground, dyed red with gore, Fled wild with terror to the shore, And, deeming that all hope was lost, Ran to the bridge they erst had crossed. Some clomb the trees their lives to save, Some sought the mountain and the cave; Some hid them in the bosky dell, And there in deathlike slumber fell.

When Angad saw the chieftains fly He called them with a mighty cry: “Once more, O Vánars, charge once more, On to the battle as before. In all her compass earth has not, To hide you safe, one secret spot. What! leave your arms? each nobler dame Will scorn her consort for the shame. This blot upon your names efface, And keep your valour from disgrace. Stay, chieftains; wherefore will ye run, A band of warriors scared by one?”

Scarce would they hear: they would not stay, And basely spoke in wild dismay: “Have we not fought, and fought in vain Have we not seen our mightiest slain? The giant’s matchless force we fear, And fly because our lives are dear.” But Báli’s son with gentle art Dispelled their dread and cheered each heart. They turned and formed and waited still Obedient to the prince’s will.

Canto LXVII. Kumbhakarna’s Death.

Thus from their flight the Vánars turned, And every heart for battle burned, Determined on the spot to die Or gain a warrior’s meed on high. Again the Vánars stooped to seize Their weapons, rocks and fallen trees; Again the deadly fight began, And fiercely at the giant ran. Unmoved the monster kept his place: He raised on high his awful mace, Whirled the huge weapon round his head And laid the foremost Vánars dead. Eight thousand fell bedewed with gore, Then sank and died seven hundred more. Then thirty, twenty, ten, or eight At each fierce onset met their fate, And fast the fallen were devoured Like snakes by Garuḍ’s beak o’erpowered. Then Dwivid from the Vánar van, Armed with an uptorn mountain, ran, Like a huge cloud when fierce winds blow, And charged amain the mountain foe. With wondrous force the hill he threw: O’er Kumbhakarṇa’s head it flew, And falling on his host afar Crushed many a giant, steed, and car. Rocks, trees, by fierce Hanúmán sped, Rained fast on Kumbhakarṇa’s head. Whose spear each deadlier missile stopped, And harmless on the plain it dropped. Then with his furious eyes aglow The giant rushed upon the foe, Where, with a woody hill upheaved, Hanúmán’s might his charge received. Through his vast frame the giant felt The angry blow Hanúmán dealt. He reeled a moment, sore distressed, Then smote the Vánar on the breast, As when the War-God’s furious stroke Through Krauncha’s hill a passage broke.(977) Fierce was the blow, and deep and wide The rent: with crimson torrents dyed, Hanúmán, maddened by the pain, Roared like a cloud that brings the rain, And from each Rákshas throat rang out Loud clamour and exultant shout. Then Níla hurled with mustered might The fragment of a mountain height; Nor would the rock the foe have missed, But Kumbhakarṇa raised his fist And smote so fiercely that the mass Fell crushed to powder on the grass. Five chieftains of the Vánar race(978) Charged Kumbhakarṇa face to face, And his huge frame they wildly beat With rocks and trees and hands and feet. Round Rishabh first the giant wound His arms and hurled him to the ground, Where speechless, senseless, wounded sore, He lay his face besmeared with gore. Then Níla with his fist he slew, And Śarabh with his knee o’erthrew, Nor could Gaváksha’s strength withstand The force of his terrific hand. At Gandhamádan’s eager call Rushed thousands to avenge their fall, Nor ceased those Vánars to assail With knee and fist and tooth and nail. Around his foes the giant threw His mighty arms, and nearer drew The captives subject to his will: Then snatched them up and ate his fill. There was no respite then, no pause: Fast gaped and closed his hell-like jaws: Yet, prisoned in that gloomy cave, Some Vánars still their lives could save: Some through his nostrils found a way, Some through his ears resought the day. Like Indra with his thunder, like The God of Death in act to strike, The giant seized his ponderous spear, And charged the foe in swift career. Before his might the Vánars fell, Nor could their hosts his charge repel. Then trembling, nor ashamed to run, They turned and fled to Raghu’s son.

When Báli’s warrior son(979) beheld Their flight, his heart with fury swelled. He rushed, with his terrific shout, To meet the foe and stay the rout. He came, he hurled a mountain peak, And smote the giant on the cheek. His ponderous spear the giant threw: Fierce was the cast, the aim was true; But Angad, trained in war and tried, Saw ere it came, and leapt aside. Then with his open hand he smote The giant on the chest and throat. That blow the giant scarce sustained; But sense and strength were soon regained. With force which nothing might resist He caught the Vánar by the wrist, Whirled him, as if in pastime, round, And dashed him senseless on the ground. There low on earth his foe lay crushed: At King Sugríva next he rushed, Who, waiting for the charge, stood still, And heaved on high a shattered hill, He looked on Kumbhakarṇa dyed With streams of blood, and fiercely cried: “Great glory has thine arm achieved, And thousands of their lives bereaved. Now leave a while thy meaner foes, And brook the hill Sugríva throws.”

He spoke, and hurled the mass he held: The giant’s chest the stroke repelled, Then on the Vánars fell despair, And Rákshas clamour filled the air. The giant raised his arm, and fast Came the tremendous(980) spear he cast. Hanúmán caught it as it flew, And knapped it on his knee in two. The giant saw the broken spear: His clouded eye confessed his fear; Yet at Sugríva’s head he sent A peak from Lanká’s mountain rent. The rushing mass no might could stay: Sugríva fell and senseless lay. The giant stooped his foe to seize, And bore him thence, as bears the breeze A cloud in autumn through the sky. He heard the sad Immortals sigh, And shouts of triumph long and loud Went up from all the Rákshas crowd. Through Lanká’s gate the giant passed Holding his struggling captive fast, While from each terrace, house, and tower Fell on his haughty head a shower Of fragrant scent and flowery rain, Blossoms and leaves and scattered grain.(981)

By slow degrees the Vánars’ lord Felt life and sense and strength restored. He heard the giants’ joyful boast: He thought upon his Vánar host. His teeth and feet he fiercely plied, And bit and rent the giant’s side, Who, mad with pain and smeared with gore, Hurled to the ground the load he bore. Regardless of a storm of blows Swift to the sky the Vánar rose, Then lightly like a flying ball High overleapt the city wall, And joyous for deliverance won Regained the side of Raghu’s son. And Kumbhakarṇa, mad with hate And fury, sallied from the gate, The carnage of the foe renewed And filled his maw with gory food. Slaying, with headlong frenzy blind, Both Vánar foes and giant kind.

Nor would Sumitrá’s valiant son(982) The might of Kumbhakarṇa shun, Who through his harness felt the sting Of keen shafts loosened from the string. His heart confessed the warrior’s power, And, bleeding from the ceaseless shower That smote him on the chest and side, With words like these the giant cried: “Well fought, well fought, Sumitrá’s son; Eternal glory hast thou won, For thou in desperate fight hast met The victor never conquered yet, Whom, borne on huge Airávat’s back, E’en Indra trembles to attack. Go, son of Queen Sumitrá, go: Thy valour and thy strength I know. Now all my hope and earnest will Is Ráma in the fight to kill. Let him beneath my weapons fall, And I will meet and conquer all.”

The chieftain, of Sumitrá born, Made answer as he laughed in scorn: “Yea, thou hast won a victor’s fame From trembling Gods and Indra’s shame. There waits thee now a mightier foe Whose prowess thou hast yet to know. There, famous in a hundred lands, Ráma the son of Raghu stands.”

Straight at the king the giant sped, And earth was shaken at his tread. His bow the hero grasped and strained, And deadly shafts in torrents rained. As Kumbhakarṇa felt each stroke From his huge mouth burst fire and smoke; His hands were loosed in mortal pain And dropped his weapons on the plain. Though reft of spear and sword and mace No terror changed his haughty face. With heavy hands he rained his blows And smote to death a thousand foes. Where’er the furious monster strode While down his limbs the red blood flowed Like torrents down a mountain’s side, Vánars and bears and giants died. High o’er his head a rock he swung, And the huge mass at Ráma flung. But Ráma’s arrows bright as flame Shattered the mountain as it came. Then Raghu’s son, his eyes aglow With burning anger, charged the foe, And as his bow he strained and tried With fearful clang the cord replied. Wroth at the bowstring’s threatening clang To meet his foe the giant sprang. High towering with enormous frame Huge as a wood-crowned hill he came. But Ráma firm and self-possessed In words like these the foe addressed: “Draw near, O Rákshas lord, draw near, Nor turn thee from the fight in fear. Thou meetest Ráma face to face, Destroyer of the giant race. Come, fight, and thou shalt feel this hour, Laid low in death, thy conqueror’s power.”

He ceased: and mad with wrath and pride The giant champion thus replied: “Come thou to me and thou shalt find A foeman of a different kind. No Khara, no Virádha,—thou Hast met a mightier warrior now. The strength of Kumbhakarṇa fear, And dread the iron mace I rear This mace in days of yore subdued The Gods and Dánav multitude. Prove, lion of Ikshváku’s line, Thy power upon these limbs of mine. Then, after trial, shalt thou bleed, And with thy flesh my hunger feed.”

He ceased: and Ráma, undismayed, Upon his cord those arrows laid Which pierced the stately Sál trees through, And Báli king of Vánars slew. They flew, they smote, but smote in vain Those mighty limbs that felt no pain. Then Ráma sent with surest aim The dart that bore the Wind-God’s name. The missile from the giant tore His huge arm and the mace it bore, Which crushed the Vánars where it fell: And dire was Kumbhakarṇa’s yell. The giant seized a tree, and then Rushed madly at the lord of men. Another dart, Lord Indra’s own, To meet his furious onset thrown, His left arm from the shoulder lopped, And like a mountain peak it dropped. Then from the bow of Ráma sped Two arrows, each with crescent head; And, winged with might which naught could stay, They cut the giant’s legs away. They fell, and awful was the sound As those vast columns shook the ground; And sky and sea and hill and cave In echoing roars their answer gave. Then from his side the hero drew A dart that like the tempest flew— No deadlier shaft has ever flown Than that which Indra called his own— Nor could the giant’s mail-armed neck The fury of the missile check. Through skin and flesh and bone it smote And rent asunder head and throat. Down with the sound of thunder rolled The head adorned with rings of gold, And crushed to pieces in its fall A gate, a tower, a massive wall. Hurled to the sea the body fell: Terrific was the ocean’s swell, Nor could swift fin and nimble leap Save the crushed creatures of the deep.

Thus he who plagued in impious pride The Gods and Bráhmans fought and died. Glad were the hosts of heaven, and long The air re-echoed with their song.(983)

Canto LXVIII. Rávan’s Lament.

They ran to Rávaṇ in his hall And told him of his brother’s fall: “Fierce as the God who rules the dead, Upon the routed foe he fed; And, victor for a while, at length Fell slain by Ráma’s matchless strength. Now like a mighty hill in size His mangled trunk extended lies, And where he fell, a bleeding mass, Blocks Lanká’s gate that none may pass.” The monarch heard: his strength gave way; And fainting on the ground he lay. Grieved at the giants’ mournful tale, Long, shrill was Atikáya’s wail; And Triśirás in sorrow bowed His triple head, and wept aloud. Mahodar, Mahápárśva shed Hot tears and mourned their brother dead. At length, his wandering sense restored, In loud lament cried Lanká’s lord: “Ah chief, for might and valour famed, Whose arm the haughty foeman tamed, Forsaking me, thy friends and all, Why hast thou fled to Yáma’s hall? Why hast thou fled to taste no more The slaughtered foeman’s flesh and gore? Ah me, my life is done to-day: My better arm is lopped away. Whereon in danger I relied, And, fearless, Gods and fiends defied. How could a shaft from Ráma’s bow The matchless giant overthrow, Whose iron frame so strong of yore The crushing bolt of Indra bore? This day the Gods and sages meet And triumph at their foe’s defeat. This day the Vánar chiefs will boast And, with new ardour fired, their host In fiercer onset will assail Our city, and the ramparts scale. What care I for a monarch’s name, For empire, or the Maithil dame? What joy can power and riches give, Or life that I should care to live, Unless this arm in mortal fray The slayer of my brother slay? For me, of Kumbhakarṇa reft, Death is the only solace left; And I will seek, o’erwhelmed with woes, The realm to which my brother goes. Ah me ill-minded, not to take His counsel when Vibhishaṇ spake When he this evil day foretold My foolish heart was overbold: I drove my sage adviser hence, And reap the fruits of mine offence.”

Canto LXIX. Narántak’s Death.

Pierced to the soul by sorrow’s sting Thus wailed the evil-hearted king. Then Triśirás stood forth and cried: “Yea, father, he has fought and died, Our bravest: and the loss is sore: But rouse thee, and lament no more. Hast thou not still thy coat of mail, Thy bow and shafts which never fail? A thousand asses draw thy car Which roars like thunder heard afar. Thy valour and thy warrior skill, Thy God-given strength, are left thee still. Unarmed, thy matchless might subdued The Gods and Dánav multitude. Armed with thy glorious weapons, how Shall Raghu’s son oppose thee now? Or, sire, within thy palace stay; And I myself will sweep away Thy foes, like Garuḍ when he makes A banquet of the writhing snakes. Soon Raghu’s son shall press the plain, As Narak(984) fell by Vishṇu slain, Or Śambar(985) in rebellious pride Who met the King of Gods(986) and died.”

The monarch heard: his courage grew, And life and spirit came anew. Devántak and Narántak heard, And their fierce souls with joy were stirred; And Atikáya(987) burned to fight, And heard the summons with delight; While from the rest loud rang the cry, “I too will fight,” “and I,” “and I.”

The joyous king his sons embraced, With gold and chains and jewels graced, And sent them forth with stirring speech Of benison and praise to each. Forth from the gate the princes sped And ranged for war the troops they led. The Vánar legions charged anew, And trees and rocks for missiles flew. They saw Narántak’s mighty form Borne on a steed that mocked the storm. To check his charge in vain they strove: Straight through their host his way he clove, As springs a dolphin through the tide: And countless Vánars fell and died, And mangled limbs and corpses lay To mark the chief’s ensanguined way, Sugríva saw them fall or fly When fierce Narántak’s steed was nigh, And marked the giant where he sped O’er heaps of dying or of dead. He bade the royal Angad face That bravest chief of giant race. As springs the sun from clouds dispersed, So Angad from the Vánars burst. No weapon for the fight he bore Save nails and teeth, and sought no more. “Leave, giant chieftain,” thus he spoke, “Leave foes unworthy of thy stroke, And bend against a nobler heart The terrors of thy deadly dart.”

Narántak heard the words he spake: Fast breathing, like an angry snake, With bloody teeth his lips he pressed And hurled his dart at Angad’s breast. True was the aim and fierce the stroke, Yet on his breast the missile broke. Then Angad at the giant flew, And with a blow his courser slew: The fierce hand crushed through flesh and bone, And steed and rider fell o’erthrown. Narántak’s eyes with fury blazed: His heavy hand on high he raised And struck in savage wrath the head Of Báli’s son, who reeled and bled, Fainted a moment and no more: Then stronger, fiercer than before Smote with that fist which naught could stay, And crushed to death the giant lay.

Canto LXX. The Death Of Trisirás.

Then raged the Rákshas chiefs, and all Burned to avenge Narántak’s fall. Devántak raised his club on high And rushed at Angad with a cry. Behind came Triśirás, and near Mahodar charged with levelled spear. There Angad stood to fight with three: High o’er his head he waved a tree, And at Devántak, swift and true As Indra’s flaming bolt, it flew. But, cut by giant shafts in twain, With minished force it flew in vain. A shower of trees and blocks of stone From Angad’s hand was fiercely thrown; But well his club Devántak plied And turned each rock and tree aside. Nor yet, by three such foes assailed, The heart of Angad sank or quailed. He slew the mighty beast that bore Mahodar: from his head he tore A bleeding tusk, and blow on blow Fell fiercely on his Rákshas foe. The giant reeled, but strength regained, And furious strokes on Angad rained, Who, wounded by the storm of blows, Sank on his knees, but swiftly rose. Then Triśirás, as up he sprang, Drew his great bow with awful clang, And fixed three arrows from his sheaf Full in the forehead of the chief. Hanúmán saw, nor long delayed To speed with Níla to his aid, Who at the three-faced giant sent A peak from Lanká’s mountain rent. But Triśirás with certain aim Shot rapid arrows as it came: And shivered by their force it broke And fell to earth with flash and smoke. Then as the Wind-God’s son came nigh, Devántak reared his mace on high. Hanúmán smote him on the head And stretched the monstrous giant dead. Fierce Triśirás with fury strained His bow, and showers of arrows rained That smote on Níla’s side and chest: He sank a moment, sore distressed; But quickly gathered strength to seize A mountain with its crown of trees. Crushed by the hill, distained with gore, Mahodar fell to rise no more.

Then Triśirás raised high his spear Which chilled the trembling foe with fear And, like a flashing meteor through The air at Hanúmán it flew. The Vánar shunned the threatened stroke, And with strong hands the weapon broke. The giant drew his glittering blade: Dire was the wound the weapon made Deep in the Vánar’s ample chest, Who, for a moment sore oppressed, Raised his broad hand, regaining might, And struck the rover of the night. Fierce was the blow: with one wild yell Low on the earth the monster fell. Hanúmán seized his fallen sword Which served no more its senseless lord, And from the monster triple-necked Smote his huge heads with crowns bedecked. Then Mahápárśva burned with ire; Fierce flashed his eyes with vengeful fire. A moment on the dead he gazed, Then his black mace aloft was raised, And down the mass of iron came That struck and shook the Vánar’s frame. Hanúmán’s chest was wellnigh crushed, And from his mouth red torrents gushed: Yet served one instant to restore His spirit: from the foe he tore His awful mace, and smote, and laid The giant in the dust dismayed. Crushed were his jaws and teeth and eyes: Breathless and still he lay as lies A summit from a mountain rent By him who rules the firmament.

Canto LXXI. Atikáya’s Death.

But Atikáya’s wrath grew high To see his noblest kinsmen die. He, fiercest of the giant race, Presuming still on Brahmá’s grace; Proud tamer of the Immortals’ pride, Whose power and might with Indra’s vied, For blood and vengeful carnage burned, And on the foe his fury turned. High on a car that flashed and glowed Bright as a thousand suns he rode. Around his princely brows was set A rich bejewelled coronet. Gold pendants in his ears he wore; He strained and tried the bow he bore, And ever, as a shaft he aimed, His name and royal race proclaimed. Scarce might the Vánars brook to hear His clanging bow and voice of fear: To Raghu’s elder son they fled, Their sure defence in woe and dread. Then Ráma bent his eyes afar And saw the giant in his car Fast following the flying crowd And roaring like a rainy cloud. He, with the lust of battle fired, Turned to Vibhishaṇ and inquired: “Say, who is this, of mountain size, This archer with the lion eyes? His car, which strikes our host with awe, A thousand eager coursers draw. Surrounded by the flashing spears Which line his car, the chief appears Like some huge cloud when lightnings play About it on a stormy day; And the great bow he joys to hold Whose bended back is bright with gold, As Indra’s bow makes glad the skies, That best of chariots glorifies. O see the sunlike splendour flung From the great flag above him hung, Where, blazoned with refulgent lines, Ráhu(988) the dreadful Dragon shines. Full thirty quivers near his side, His car with shafts is well supplied: And flashing like the light of stars Gleam his two mighty scimitars. Say, best of giants, who is he Before whose face the Vánars flee?”

Thus Ráma spake. Vibhishaṇ eyed The giants’ chief, and thus replied: “This Ráma, this is Rávaṇ’s son: High fame his youthful might has won. He, best of warriors, bows his ear The wisdom of the wise to hear. Supreme is he mid those who know The mastery of sword and bow. Unrivalled in the bold attack On elephant’s or courser’s back, He knows, beside, each subtler art, To win the foe, to bribe, or part. On him the giant hosts rely, And fear no ill when he is nigh. This peerless chieftain bears the name Of Atikáya huge of frame, Whom Dhanyamáliní of yore To Rávaṇ lord of Lanká bore.”

Roused by his bow-string’s awful clang, To meet their foes the Vánars sprang. Armed with tall trees from Lanká’s wood, And rocks and mountain peaks, they stood. The giant’s arrows, gold-bedecked, The storm of hurtling missiles checked; And ever on his foemen poured Fierce tempest from his clanging cord; Nor could the Vánar chiefs sustain His shafts’ intolerable rain. They fled: the victor gained the place Where stood the lord of Raghu’s race, And cried with voice of thunder: “Lo, Borne on my car, with shaft and bow, I, champion of the giants, scorn To fight with weaklings humbly born. Come forth your bravest, if he dare, And fight with one who will not spare.”

Forth sprang Sumitrá’s noble child,(989) And strained his ready bow, and smiled; And giants trembled as the clang Through heaven and earth reëchoing rang. The giant to his string applied A pointed shaft, and proudly cried; “Turn, turn, Sumitrá’s son and fly, For terrible as Death am I. Fly, nor that youthful form oppose, Untrained in war, to warriors’ blows. What! wilt thou waste thy childish breath And wake the dormant fire of death? Cast down, rash boy, that useless bow: Preserve thy life, uninjured go.”

He ceased: and stirred by wrath & pride Sumitrá’s noble son replied: “By warlike deed, not words alone, The valour of the brave is shown. Cease with vain boasts my scorn to move, And with thine arm thy prowess prove. Borne on thy car, with sword and bow, With all thine arms, thy valour show. Fight, and my deadly shafts this day Low in the dust thy head shall lay, And, rushing fast in ceaseless flood, Shall rend thy flesh and drink thy blood.”

His giant foe no answer made, But on his string an arrow laid. He raised his arm, the cord he drew, At Lakshmaṇ’s breast the arrow flew. Sumitrá’s son, his foemen’s dread, Shot a fleet shaft with crescent head, Which cleft that arrow pointed well, And harmless to the earth it fell. A shower of shafts from Lakshmaṇ’s bow Fell fast and furious on the foe Who quailed not as the missiles smote With idle force his iron coat. Then came the friendly Wind-God near, And whispered thus in Lakshmaṇ’s ear: “Such shafts as these in vain assail Thy foe’s impenetrable mail. A more tremendous missile try, Or never may the giant die. Employ the mighty spell, and aim The weapon known by Brahmá’s name.” He ceased; Sumitrá’s son obeyed: On his great bow the shaft was laid, And with a roar like thunder, true As Indra’s flashing bolt, it flew. The giant poured his shafts like rain To check its course, but all in vain. With spear and mace and sword he tried To turn the fiery dart aside. Winged with a force which naught could check, It smote the monster in the neck, And, sundered from his shoulders, rolled To earth his head and helm of gold.

Canto LXXII. Rávan’s Speech.

The giants bent, in rage and grief, Their eyes upon the fallen chief: Then flying wild with fear and pale To Rávaṇ bore the mournful tale. He heard how Atikáya died, Then turned him to his lords, and cried: “Where are they now—my bravest—where, Wise to consult and prompt to dare? Where is Dhúmráksha, skilled to wield All weapons in the battle field? Akampan, and Prahasta’s might, And Kumbhakarṇa bold in fight? These, these and many a Rákshas more, Each master of the arms he bore, Who every foe in fight o’erthrew, The victors none could e’er subdue, Have perished by the might of one, The vengeful arm of Raghu’s son. In vain I cast mine eyes around, No match for Ráma here is found, No chief to stand before that bow Whose deadly shafts have caused our woe. Now, warriors, to your stations hence; Provide ye for the wall’s defence, And be the Aśoka garden, where The lady lies, your special care. Be every lane and passage barred, Set at each gate a chosen guard. And with your troops, where danger calls, Be ready to defend the walls. Each movement of the Vánars mark; Observe them when the skies grow dark; Be ready in the dead of night, And ere the morning bring the light. Taught by our loss we may not scorn These legions of the forest-born.”

He ceased: the Rákshas lords obeyed; Each at his post his troops arrayed: And, torn with pangs that pierced him through The monarch from the hall withdrew.

Canto LXXIII. Indrajít’s Victory.

But Indrajít the fierce and bold With words like these his sire consoled: “Dismiss, O King, thy grief and dread, And be not thus disquieted. Against this numbing sorrow strive, For Indrajít is yet alive; And none in battle may withstand The fury of his strong right hand. This day, O sire, thine eyes shall see The sons of Raghu slain by me.”

He ceased: he bade the king farewell: Clear, mid the roar of drum and shell, The clash of sword and harness rang As to his car the warrior sprang. Close followed by his Rákshas train Through Lanká’s gate he reached the plain. Then down he leapt, and bade a band Of giants by the chariot stand: Then with due rites, as rules require, Did worship to the Lord of Fire. The sacred oil, as texts ordain, With wreaths of scented flowers and grain, Within the flame in order due, That mightiest of the giants threw. There on the ground were spear and blade, And arrowy leaves and fuel laid; An iron ladle deep and wide, And robes with sanguine colours dyed. Beside him stood a sable goat: The giant seized it by the throat, And straight from the consuming flame Auspicious signs of victory came. For swiftly, curling to the right, The fire leapt up with willing light Undimmed by smoky cloud, and, red Like gold, upon the offering fed. They brought him, while the flame yet glowed, The dart by Brahmá’s grace bestowed, And all the arms he wielded well Were charmed with text and holy spell.

Then fiercer for the fight he burned, And at the foe his chariot turned, While all his followers lifting high Their maces charged with furious cry. Dire, yet more dire the battle grew, As rocks and trees and arrows flew. The giant shot his shafts like rain, And Vánars fell in myriads slain, Sugríva, Angad, Níla felt The wounds his hurtling arrows dealt. His shafts the blood of Gaya drank; Hanúmán reeled and Mainda sank. Bright as the glances of the sun Came the swift darts they could not shun. Caught in the arrowy nets he wove, In vain the sons of Raghu strove; And Ráma, by the darts oppressed, His brother chieftain thus addressed: “See, first this giant warrior sends Destruction, mid our Vánar friends, And now his arrows thick and fast Their binding net around us cast. To Brahmá’s grace the chieftain owes The matchless power and might he shows; And mortal strength in vain contends With him whom Brahmá’s self befriends. Then let us still with dauntless hearts Endure this storm of pelting darts. Soon must we sink bereaved of sense; And then the victor, hurrying hence, Will seek his father in his hall And tell him of his foemen’s fall.” He ceased: o’erpowered by shaft and spell The sons of Raghu reeled and fell. The Rákshas on their bodies gazed; And, mid the shouts his followers raised, Sped back to Lanká to relate In Rávaṇ’s hall the princes’ fate.

Canto LXXIV. The Medicinal Herbs.

The shades of falling night concealed The carnage of the battle field, Which, bearing each a blazing brand, Hanúmán and Vibhishaṇ scanned, Moving with slow and anxious tread Among the dying and the dead. Sad was the scene of slaughter shown Where’er the torches’ light was thrown. Here mountain forms of Vánars lay Whose heads and limbs were lopped away, Arms, legs and fingers strewed the ground, And severed heads lay thick around. The earth was moist with sanguine streams, And sighs were heard and groans and screams. There lay Sugríva still and cold, There Angad, once so brave and bold. There Jámbaván his might reposed, There Vegadarśí’s eyes were closed; There in the dust was Nala’s pride, And Dwivid lay by Mainda’s side. Where’er they looked the ensanguined plain Was strewn with myriads of the slain;(990) They sought with keenly searching eyes King Jámbaván supremely wise. His strength had failed by slow decay, And pierced with countless shafts he lay. They saw, and hastened to his side, And thus the sage Vibhishaṇ cried: “Thee, monarch of the bears, we seek: Speak if thou yet art living, speak.”

Slow came the aged chief’s reply; Scarce could he say with many a sigh: “Torn with keen shafts which pierce each limb, My strength is gone, my sight is dim; Yet though I scarce can raise mine eyes, Thy voice, O chief, I recognize. O, while these ears can hear thee, say, Has Hanúmán survived this day?”

“Why ask,” Vibhishaṇ cried, “for one Of lower rank, the Wind-God’s son? Hast thou forgotten, first in place, The princely chief of Raghu’s race? Can King Sugríva claim no care, And Angad, his imperial heir?”

“Yea, dearer than my noblest friends Is he on whom our hope depends. For if the Wind-God’s son survive, All we though dead are yet alive. But if his precious life be fled Though living still we are but dead: He is our hope and sure relief.” Thus slowly spoke the aged chief: Then to his side Hanúmán came, And with low reverence named his name. Cheered by the face he longed to view The wounded chieftain lived anew. “Go forth,” he cried, “O strong and brave, And in their woe the Vánars save. No might but thine, supremely great, May help us in our lost estate. The trembling bears and Vánars cheer, Calm their sad hearts, dispel their fear. Save Raghu’s noble sons, and heal The deep wounds of the winged steel. High o’er the waters of the sea To far Himálaya’s summits flee. Kailása there wilt thou behold, And Rishabh, with his peaks of gold. Between them see a mountain rise Whose splendour will enchant thine eyes; His sides are clothed above, below, With all the rarest herbs that grow. Upon that mountain’s lofty crest Four plants, of sovereign powers possessed, Spring from the soil, and flashing there Shed radiance through the neighbouring air. One draws the shaft: one brings again The breath of life to warm the slain; One heals each wound; one gives anew To faded cheeks their wonted hue. Fly, chieftain, to that mountain’s brow And bring those herbs to save us now.”

Hanúmán heard, and springing through The air like Vishṇu’s discus(991) flew. The sea was passed: beneath him, gay With bright-winged birds, the mountains lay, And brook and lake and lonely glen, And fertile lands with toiling men. On, on he sped: before him rose The mansion of perennial snows. There soared the glorious peaks as fair As white clouds in the summer air. Here, bursting from the leafy shade, In thunder leapt the wild cascade. He looked on many a pure retreat Dear to the Gods’ and sages’ feet: The spot where Brahmá dwells apart, The place whence Rudra launched his dart;(992) Vishṇu’s high seat and Indra’s home, And slopes where Yáma’s servants roam. There was Kuvera’s bright abode; There Brahmá’s mystic weapon glowed. There was the noble hill whereon Those herbs with wondrous lustre shone, And, ravished by the glorious sight, Hanúmán rested on the height. He, moving down the glittering peak, The healing herbs began to seek: But, when he thought to seize the prize, They hid them from his eager eyes. Then to the hill in wrath he spake: “Mine arm this day shall vengeance take, If thou wilt feel no pity, none, In this great need of Raghu’s son.” He ceased: his mighty arms he bent And from the trembling mountain rent His huge head with the life it bore, Snakes, elephants, and golden ore. O’er hill and plain and watery waste His rapid way again he traced. And mid the wondering Vánars laid His burthen through the air conveyed, The wondrous herbs’ delightful scent To all the host new vigour lent. Free from all darts and wounds and pain The sons of Raghu lived again, And dead and dying Vánars healed Rose vigorous from the battle field.

Canto LXXV. The Night Attack.

Sugríva spake in words like these: “Now, Vánar lords, the occasion seize. For now, of sons and brothers reft, To Rávaṇ little hope is left: And if our host his gates assail His weak defence will surely fail.”

At dead of night the Vánar bands Rushed on with torches in their hands. Scared by the coming of the host Each giant warder left his post. Where’er the Vánar legions came Their way was marked with hostile flame That spread in fury to devour Palace and temple, gate and tower. Down came the walls and porches, down Came stately piles that graced the town. In many a house the fire was red, On sandal wood and aloe fed. And scorching flames in billows rolled O’er diamonds and pearls and gold. On cloth of wool, on silk brocade, On linen robes their fury preyed. Wheels, poles and yokes were burned, and all The coursers’ harness in the stall; And elephants’ and chariots’ gear, The sword, the buckler, and the spear. Scared by the crash of falling beams, Mid lamentations, groans and screams, Forth rushed the giants through the flames And with them dragged bewildered dames, Each, with o’erwhelming terror wild, Still clasping to her breast a child. The swift fire from a cloud of smoke Through many a gilded lattice broke, And, melting pearl and coral, rose O’er balconies and porticoes. The startled crane and peacock screamed As with strange light the courtyard gleamed, And fierce unusual glare was thrown On shrinking wood and heated stone. From burning stall and stable freed Rushed frantic elephant and steed, And goaded by the driving blaze Fled wildly through the crowded ways. As earth with fervent heat will glow When comes her final overthrow; From gate to gate, from court to spire Proud Lanká was one blaze of fire, And every headland, rock and bay Shone bright a hundred leagues away. Forth, blinded by the heat and flame Ran countless giants huge of frame; And, mustering for fierce attack, The Vánars charged to drive them back, While shout and scream and roar and cry Reëchoed through the earth and sky. There Ráma stood with strength renewed, And ever, as the foe he viewed, Shaking the distant regions rang His mighty bow’s tremendous clang. Then through the gates Nikumbha hied, And Kumbha by his brother’s side, Sent forth—the bravest and the best— To battle by the king’s behest. There fought the chiefs in open field, And Angad fell and Dwivid reeled. Sugríva saw: by rage impelled He crushed the bow which Kumbha held. About his foe Sugríva wound His arms, and, heaving from the ground The giant hurled him o’er the bank; And deep beneath the sea he sank. Like mandar hill with furious swell Up leapt the waters where he fell. Again he rose: he sprang to land And raised on high his threatening hand: Full on Sugríva’s chest it came And shook the Vánar’s massy frame, But on the wounded bone he broke His wrist—so furious was the stroke. With force that naught could stay or check, Sugríva smote him neath the neck. The fierce blow crashed through flesh and bone And Kumbha lay in death o’erthrown. Nikumbha saw his brother die, And red with fury flashed his eye. He dashed with mighty sway and swing His axe against the Vánar king; But shattered on that living rock It split in fragments at the shock. Sugríva, rising to the blow, Raised his huge hand and smote his foe. And in the dust the giant lay Gasping in blood his soul away.

[I have briefly despatched Kumbha and Nikumbha, each of whom has in the text a long Canto to himself. When they fall Rávaṇ sends forth Makaráksha or Crocodile-Eye, the son of Khara who was slain by Ráma in the forest before the abduction of Sítá. The account of his sallying forth, of his battle with Ráma and of his death by the fiery dart of that hero occupies two Cantos which I entirely pass over. Indrajít again comes forth and, rendered invisible by his magic art slays countless Vánars with his unerring arrows. He retires to the city and returns bearing in his chariot an effigy of Sítá, the work of magic, weeping and wailing by his side. He grasps the lovely image by the hair and cuts it down with his scimitar in the sight of the enraged Hanúmán and all the Vánar host. At last after much fighting of the usual kind Indrajít’s chariot is broken in pieces, his charioteer is slain, and he himself falls by Lakshmaṇ’s hand, to the inexpressible delight of the high-souled saints, the nymphs of heaven and other celestial beings.]

Canto XCIII. Rávan’s Lament.

They sought the king, a mournful train, And cried, “My lord, thy son is slain. By Lakshmaṇ’s hand, before these eyes, The warrior fell no more to rise. No time is this for vain regret: Thy hero son a hero met; And he whose might in battle pressed Lord Indra and the Gods confessed, Whose power was stranger to defeat, Has gained in heaven a blissful seat.”

The monarch heard the mournful tale: His heart was faint, his cheek was pale; His fleeting sense at length regained, In trembling tones he thus complained: “Ah me, my son, my pride: the boast And glory of the giant host. Could Lakshmaṇ’s puny might defeat The foe whom Indra feared to meet? Could not thy deadly arrows split Proud Mandar’s peaks, O Indrajít, And the Destroyer’s self destroy? And wast thou conquered by a boy? I will not weep: thy noble deed Has blessed thee with immortal meed Gained by each hero in the skies Who fighting for his sovereign dies. Now, fearless of all meaner foes, The guardian Gods(993) will taste repose: But earth to me, with hill and plain, Is desolate, for thou art slain. Ah, whither hast thou fled, and left Thy mother, Lanká, me bereft; Left pride and state and wives behind, And lordship over all thy kind? I fondly hoped thy hand should pay Due honours on my dying day: And couldst thou, O beloved, flee And leave thy funeral rites to me? Life has no comfort left me, none, O Indrajít my son, my son.”

Thus wailed he broken by his woes: But swift the thought of vengeance rose. In awful wrath his teeth he gnashed, And from his eyes red lightning flashed. Hot from his mouth came fire and smoke, As thus the king in fury spoke:

“Through many a thousand years of yore The penance and the pain I bore, And by fierce torment well sustained The highest grace of Brahmá gained, His plighted word my life assured, From Gods of heaven and fiends secured. He armed my limbs with burnished mail Whose lustre turns the sunbeams pale, In battle proof gainst heavenly bands With thunder in their threatening hands. Armed in this mail myself will go With Brahmá’s gift my deadly bow, And, cleaving through the foes my way, The slayers of my son will slay.”

Then, by his grief to frenzy wrought, The captive in the grove he sought. Swift through the shady path he sped: Earth trembled at his furious tread. Fierce were his eyes: his monstrous hand Held drawn for death his glittering brand. There weeping stood the Maithil dame: She shuddered as the giant came. Near drew the rover of the night And raised his sword in act to smite; But, by his nobler heart impelled, One Rákshas lord his arm withheld: “Wilt thou, great Monarch,” thus he cried, “Wilt thou, to heavenly Gods allied, Blot for all time thy glorious fame, The slayer of a gentle dame? What! shall a woman’s blood be spilt To stain thee with eternal guilt, Thee deep in all the Veda’s lore? Far be the thought for evermore. Ah look, and let her lovely face This fury from thy bosom chase.”

He ceased: the prudent counsel pleased The monarch, and his wrath appeased; Then to his council hall in haste The giant lord his steps retraced.

[I omit two Cantos in the first of which Ráma with an enchanted Gandharva weapon deals destruction among the Rákshases sent out by Rávaṇ, and in the second the Rákshas dames lament the slain and mourn over the madness of Rávaṇ.]

Canto XCVI. Rávan’s Sally.

The groans and cries of dames who wailed The ears of Lanká’s lord assailed, For from each house and home was sent The voice of weeping and lament. In troubled thought his head he bowed, Then fiercely loosing on the crowd Of nobles near his throne he broke The silence, and in fury spoke: “This day my deadly shafts shall fly, And Raghu’s sons shall surely die. This day shall countless Vánars bleed And dogs and kites and vultures feed. Go, bid them swift my car prepare, Bring the great bow I long to bear: And let my host with sword and shield And spear be ready for the field.”

From street to street the captains passed And Rákshas warriors gathered fast. With spear and sword to pierce and strike, And axe and club and mace and pike.

[I omit several weapons for which I cannot find distinctive names, and among them the Sataghní or Centicide, supposed by some to be a kind of fire-arms or rocket, but described by a commentator on the Mahábhárata as a stone or cylindrical piece of wood studded with iron spikes.]

Then Rávaṇ’s warrior chariot(994) wrought With gold and rich inlay was brought. Mid tinkling bells and weapons’ clang The monarch on the chariot sprang, Which, decked with gems of every hue, Eight steeds of noble lineage drew. Mid roars of drum and shell rang out From countless throats a joyful shout. As, girt with hosts in warlike pride, Through Lanká’s streets the tyrant hied. Still, louder than the roar of drums, Went up the cry “He comes, he comes, Our ever conquering lord who trod Beneath his feet both fiend and God.” On to the gate the warriors swept Where Raghu’s sons their station kept. When Rávaṇ’s car the portal passed The sun in heaven was overcast. Earth rocked and reeled from side to side And birds with boding voices cried. Against the standard of the king A vulture flapped his horrid wing. Big gouts of blood before him dropped, His trembling steeds in terror stopped. The hue of death was on his cheek, And scarce his flattering tongue could speak, When, terrible with flash and flame, Through murky air a meteor came. Still by the hand of Death impelled His onward way the giant held. The Vánars in the field afar Heard the loud thunder of his car. And turned with warriors’ fierce delight To meet the giant in the fight. He came: his clanging bow he drew And myriads of the Vánars slew. Some through the side and heart he cleft, Some headless on the plain were left. Some struggling groaned with mangled thighs, Or broken arms or blinded eyes.

[I omit Cantos XCVII, XCVIII, and XCIX, which describe in the usual way three single combats between Sugríva and Angad on the Vánar side and Virúpáksha, Mahodar, and Mahápárśva on the side of the giants. The weapons of the Vánars are trees and rocks; the giants fight with swords, axes, and bows and arrows. The details are generally the same as those of preceding duels. The giants fall, one in each Canto.]

Canto C. Rávan In The Field.

The plain with bleeding limbs was spread, And heaps of dying and of dead. His mighty bow still Ráma strained, And shafts upon the giants rained. Still Angad and Sugríva, wrought To fury, for the Vánars fought. Crushed with huge rocks through chest and side Mahodar, Mahápárśva died, And Virúpáksha stained with gore Dropped on the plain to rise no more. When Rávaṇ saw the three o’erthrown He cried aloud in furious tone: “Urge, urge the car, my charioteer, The haughty Vánars’ death is near. This very day shall end our griefs For leaguered town and slaughtered chiefs. Ráma the tree whose lovely fruit Is Sítá, shall this arm uproot,— Whose branches with protecting shade Are Vánar lords who lend him aid.”

Thus cried the king: the welkin rang As forth the eager coursers sprang, And earth beneath the chariot shook With flowery grove and hill and brook. Fast rained his shafts: where’er he sped The conquered Vánars fell or fled, On rolled the car in swift career Till Raghu’s noble sons were near. Then Ráma looked upon the foe And strained and tried his sounding bow, Till earth and all the region rang Re-echoing to the awful clang. His bow the younger chieftain bent, And shaft on shaft at Rávaṇ sent. He shot: but Rávaṇ little recked; Each arrow with his own he checked, And headless, baffled of its aim, To earth the harmless missile came; And Lakshmaṇ stayed his arm o’erpowered By the thick darts the giant showered. Fierce waxed the fight and fiercer yet, For Rávaṇ now and Ráma met, And each on other poured amain The tempest of his arrowy rain. While all the sky above was dark With missiles speeding to their mark Like clouds, with flashing lightning twined About them, hurried by the wind. Not fiercer was the wondrous fight When Vritra fell by Indra’s might. All arts of war each foeman knew, And trained alike, his bowstring drew. Red-eyed with fury Lanká’s king Pressed his huge fingers on the string, And fixed in Ráma’s brows a flight Of arrows winged with matchless flight. Still Raghu’s son endured, and bore That crown of shafts though wounded sore. O’er a dire dart a spell he spoke With mystic power to aid the stroke. In vain upon the foe it smote Rebounding from the steelproof coat. The giant armed his bow anew, And wondrous weapons hissed and flew, Terrific, deadly, swift of flight, Beaked like the vulture and the kite, Or bearing heads of fearful make, Of lion, tiger, wolf and snake.(995) Then Ráma, troubled by the storm Of flying darts in every form Shot by an arm that naught could tire, Launched at the foe his dart of fire, Which, sacred to the Lord of Flame, Burnt and consumed where’er it came. And many a blazing shaft beside The hero to his string applied. With fiery course of dazzling hue Swift to the mark each missile flew, Some flashing like a shooting star, Some as the tongues of lightning are; One like a brilliant plant, one In splendour like the morning sun. Where’er the shafts of Ráma burned The giant’s darts were foiled and turned. Far into space his weapons fled, But as they flew struck thousands dead.

Canto CI. Lakshman’s Fall.

When Rávaṇ saw his darts repelled, With double rage his bosom swelled. He summoned, wroth but undismayed, A mightier charm to lend its aid. And, fierce as fire before the blast, A storm of missiles thick and fast, Spear, pike and javelin, mace and brand, Came hurtling from the giant’s hand. But, mightier still, the arms employed By Raghu’s son their force destroyed, And every dart fell dulled and spent By powers the bards of heaven had lent. With his huge mace Vibhishaṇ slew The steeds that Rávaṇ’s chariot drew. Then Rávaṇ hurled in deadly ire A ponderous spear that flashed like fire: But Ráma’s arrows checked its way, And harmless on the earth it lay, The giant seized a mightier spear, Which Death himself would shun with fear. Vibhishaṇ with the stroke had died, But Lakshmaṇ’s hand his bowstring plied, And flying arrows thick as hail Smote fiercely on the giant’s mail. Then Rávaṇ turned his aim aside, On Lakshmaṇ looked and fiercely cried: “Thou, thou again my wrath hast braved, And from his death Vibhishaṇ saved. Now in his stead this spear receive Whose deadly point thy heart shall cleave.”

He ceased: he hurled the mortal dart By Maya forged with magic art. The spear, with all his fury flung, Swift, flickering like a serpent’s tongue, Adorned with many a tinkling bell, Smote Lakshmaṇ, and the hero fell. When Ráma saw, he heaved a sigh, A tear one moment dimmed his eye. But tender grief was soon repressed And thoughts of vengeance filled his breast. The air around him flashed and gleamed As from his bow the arrows streamed; And Lanká’s lord, the foeman’s dread, O’erwhelmed with terror turned and fled.

Canto CII. Lakshman Healed.

But Ráma, pride of Raghu’s race, Gazed tenderly on Lakshmaṇ’s face, And, as the sight his spirit broke, Turned to Susheṇ and sadly spoke: “Where is my power and valour? how Shall I have heart for battle now, When dead before my weeping eyes My brother, noblest Lakshmaṇ, lies? My tears in blinding torrents flow, My hand unnerved has dropped my bow. The pangs of woe have blanched my cheek, My heart is sick, my strength is weak. Ah me, my brother! Ah, that I By Lakshmaṇ’s side might sink and die: Life, war and conquest, all are vain If Lakshmaṇ lies in battle slain. Why will those eyes my glances shun? Hast thou no word of answer, none? Ah, is thy noble spirit flown And gone to other worlds alone? Couldst thou not let thy brother seek Those worlds with thee? O speak, O speak! Rise up once more, my brother, rise, Look on me with thy loving eyes. Were not thy steps beside me still In gloomy wood, on breezy hill? Did not thy gentle care assuage Thy brother’s grief and fitful rage? Didst thou not all his troubles share, His guide and comfort in despair?”

As Ráma, vanquished, wept and sighed The Vánar chieftain thus replied: “Great Prince, unmanly thoughts dismiss, Nor yield thy soul to grief like this. In vain those burning tears are shed: Our glory Lakshmaṇ is not dead. Death on his brow no mark has set, Where beauty’s lustre lingers yet. Clear is the skin, and tender hues Of lotus flowers his palms suffuse. O Ráma, cheer thy trembling heart; Not thus do life and body part. Now, Hanumán, to thee I speak: Hie hence to tall Mahodaya’s(996) peak Where herbs of sovereign virtue grow Which life and health and strength bestow Bring thou the leaves to balm his pain, And Lakshmaṇ shall be well again.”

He ceased: the Wind-God’s son obeyed Swift through the clouds his way he made. He reached the hill, nor stayed to find The wondrous herbs of healing kind, From its broad base the mount he tore With all the shrubs and trees it bore, Sped through the clouds again and showed To wise Susheṇ his woody load.(997) Susheṇ in wonder viewed the hill, And culled the sovereign salve of ill. Soon as the healing herb he found, The fragrant leaves he crushed and ground. Then over Lakshmaṇ’s face he bent, Who, healed and strengthened by the scent Of that blest herb divinely sweet, Rose fresh and lusty on his feet.

Canto CIII. Indra’s Car.

Then Raghu’s son forgot his woe: Again he grasped his fallen bow And hurled at Lanká’s lord amain The tempest of his arrowy rain. Drawn by the steeds his lords had brought, Again the giant turned and fought. And drove his glittering chariot nigh As springs the Day-God through the sky. Then, as his sounding bow he bent, Like thunderbolts his shafts were sent, As when dark clouds in rain time shed Fierce torrents on a mountain’s head. High on his car the giant rode, On foot the son of Raghu strode. The Gods from their celestial height Indignant saw the unequal fight. Then he whom heavenly hosts revere, Lord Indra, called his charioteer:

“Haste, Mátali,” he cried, “descend; To Raghu’s son my chariot lend. With cheering words the chief address; And all the Gods thy deed will bless.”

He bowed; he brought the glorious car Whose tinkling bells were heard afar; Fair as the sun of morning, bright With gold and pearl and lazulite. He yoked the steeds of tawny hue That swifter than the tempest flew. Then down the slope of heaven he hied And stayed the car by Ráma’s side. “Ascend, O Chief,” he humbly cried, “The chariot which the Gods provide. The mighty bow of Indra see, Sent by the Gods who favour thee; Behold this coat of glittering mail, And spear and shafts which never fail.”

Cheered by the grace the Immortals showed The chieftain on the chariot rode. Then as the car-borne warriors met The awful fight raged fiercer yet. Each shaft that Rávaṇ shot became A serpent red with kindled flame, And round the limbs of Ráma hung With fiery jaws and quivering tongue. But every serpent fled dismayed When Raghu’s valiant son displayed The weapon of the Feathered King,(998) And loosed his arrows from the string. But Rávaṇ armed his bow anew, And showers of shafts at Ráma flew, While the fierce king in swift career Smote with a dart the charioteer. An arrow shot by Rávaṇ’s hand Laid the proud banner on the sand, And Indra’s steeds of heavenly strain Fell by the iron tempest slain. On Gods and spirits of the air Fell terror, trembling, and despair. The sea’s white billows mounted high With froth and foam to drench the sky. The sun by lurid clouds was veiled, The friendly lights of heaven were paled; And, fiercely gleaming, fiery Mars Opposed the beams of gentler stars.

Then Ráma’s eyes with fury blazed As Indra’s heavenly spear he raised. Loud rang the bells: the glistering head Bright flashes through the region shed. Down came the spear in swift descent: The giant’s lance was crushed and bent. Then Rávaṇ’s horses brave and fleet Fell dead beneath his arrowy sleet. Fierce on his foeman Ráma pressed, And gored with shafts his mighty breast. And spouting streams of crimson dyed The weary giant’s limbs and side.

[I omit Cantos CIV and CV in which the fight is renewed and Rávaṇ severely reprimands his charioteer for timidity and want of confidence in his master’s prowess, and orders him to charge straight at Ráma on the next occasion.]

Canto CVI. Glory To The Sun.

There faint and bleeding fast, apart Stood Rávaṇ raging in his heart. Then, moved with ruth for Ráma’s sake, Agastya(999) came and gently spake: “Bend, Ráma, bend thy heart and ear The everlasting truth to hear Which all thy hopes through life will bless And crown thine arms with full success. The rising sun with golden rays, Light of the worlds, adore and praise: The universal king, the lord By hosts of heaven and fiends adored. He tempers all with soft control, He is the Gods’ diviner soul; And Gods above and fiends below And men to him their safety owe. He Brahmá, Vishṇu, Śiva, he Each person of the glorious Three, Is every God whose praise we tell, The King of Heaven,(1000) the Lord of Hell:(1001) Each God revered from times of old, The Lord of War,(1002) the King of Gold:(1003) Mahendra, Time and Death is he, The Moon, the Ruler of the Sea.(1004) He hears our praise in every form,— The manes,(1005) Gods who ride the storm,(1006) The Aśvins,(1007) Manu,(1008) they who stand Round Indra,(1009) and the Sádhyas’(1010) band He is the air, and life and fire, The universal source and sire: He brings the seasons at his call, Creator, light, and nurse of all. His heavenly course he joys to run, Maker of Day, the golden sun. The steeds that whirl his car are seven,(1011) The flaming steeds that flash through heaven. Lord of the sky, the conqueror parts The clouds of night with glistering darts. He, master of the Vedas’ lore, Commands the clouds’ collected store: He is the rivers’ surest friend; He bids the rains, and they descend. Stars, planets, constellations own Their monarch of the golden throne. Lord of twelve forms,(1012) to thee I bow, Most glorious King of heaven art thou. O Ráma, he who pays aright Due worship to the Lord of Light Shall never fall oppressed by ill, But find a stay and comfort still. Adore with all thy heart and mind This God of Gods, to him resigned; And thou his saving power shalt know Victorious o’er thy giant foe.”

[This Canto does not appear in the Bengal recension. It comes in awkwardly and may I think be considered as an interpolation, but I paraphrase a portion of it as a relief after so much fighting and carnage, and as an interesting glimpse of the monotheistic ideas which underlie the Hindu religion. The hymn does not readily lend itself to metrical translation, and I have not attempted here to give a faithful rendering of the whole. A literal version of the text and the commentary given in the Calcutta edition will be found in the Additional Notes.

A canto is here omitted. It contains fighting of the ordinary kind between Ráma and Rávaṇ, and a description of sights and sounds of evil omen foreboding the destruction of the giant.]

Canto CVIII. The Battle.

He spoke, and vanished: Ráma raised His eyes with reverence meet, and praised The glorious Day-God full in view: Then armed him for the fight anew. Urged onward by his charioteer The giant’s foaming steeds came near, And furious was the battle’s din Where each resolved to die or win. The Rákshas host and Vánar bands Stood with their weapons in their hands, And watched in terror and dismay The fortune of the awful fray. The giant chief with rage inflamed His darts at Ráma’s pennon aimed; But when they touched the chariot made By heavenly hands their force was stayed. Then Ráma’s breast with fury swelled; He strained the mighty bow he held, And straight at Rávaṇ’s banner flew An arrow as the string he drew— A deadly arrow swift of flight, Like some huge snake ablaze with light, Whose fury none might e’er repel,— And, split in twain, the standard fell. At Ráma’s steeds sharp arrows, hot With flames of fire, the giant shot. Unmoved the heavenly steeds sustained The furious shower the warrior rained, As though soft lotus tendrils smote Each haughty crest and glossy coat. Then volleyed swift by magic art, Tree, mountain peak and spear and dart, Trident and pike and club and mace Flew hurtling straight at Ráma’s face. But Ráma with his steeds and car Escaped the storm which fell afar Where the strange missiles, as they rushed To earth, a thousand Vánars crushed.

Canto CIX. The Battle.

With wondrous power and might and skill The giant fought with Ráma still. Each at his foe his chariot drove, And still for death or victory strove. The warriors’ steeds together dashed, And pole with pole reëchoing clashed. Then Ráma launching dart on dart Made Rávaṇ’s coursers swerve and start. Nor was the lord of Lanká slow To rain his arrows on the foe, Who showed, by fiery points assailed, No trace of pain, nor shook nor quailed. Dense clouds of arrows Ráma shot With that strong arm which rested not, And spear and mace and club and brand Fell in dire rain from Rávaṇ’s hand. The storm of missiles fiercely cast Stirred up the oceans with its blast, And Serpent-Gods and fiends who dwell Below were troubled by the swell. The earth with hill and plain and brook And grove and garden reeled and shook: The very sun grew cold and pale, And horror stilled the rising gale. God and Gandharva, sage and saint Cried out, with grief and terror faint: “O may the prince of Raghu’s line Give peace to Bráhmans and to kine, And, rescuing the worlds, o’erthrow The giant king our awful foe.”

Then to his deadly string the pride Of Raghu’s race a shaft applied. Sharp as a serpent’s venomed fang Straight to its mark the arrow sprang, And from the giant’s body shred With trenchant steel the monstrous head. There might the triple world behold That severed head adorned with gold. But when all eyes were bent to view, Swift in its stead another grew. Again the shaft was pointed well: Again the head divided fell; But still as each to earth was cast Another head succeeded fast. A hundred, bright with fiery flame, Fell low before the victor’s aim, Yet Rávaṇ by no sign betrayed That death was near or strength decayed. The doubtful fight he still maintained, And on the foe his missiles rained. In air, on earth, on plain, on hill, With awful might he battled still; And through the hours of night and day The conflict knew no pause or stay.

Canto CX. Rávan’s Death.

Then Mátali to Ráma cried: “Let other arms the day decide. Why wilt thou strive with useless toil And see his might thy efforts foil? Launch at the foe thy dart whose fire Was kindled by the Almighty Sire.” He ceased: and Raghu’s son obeyed: Upon his string the hero laid An arrow, like a snake that hissed. Whose fiery flight had never missed: The arrow Saint Agastya gave And blessed the chieftain’s life to save That dart the Eternal Father made The Monarch of the Gods to aid; By Brahmá’s self on him bestowed When forth to fight Lord Indra rode. ’Twas feathered with the rushing wind; The glowing sun and fire combined To the keen point their splendour lent; The shaft, ethereal element, By Meru’s hill and Mandar, pride Of mountains, had its weight supplied. He laid it on the twisted cord, He turned the point at Lanká’s lord, And swift the limb-dividing dart Pierced the huge chest and cleft the heart, And dead he fell upon the plain Like Vritra by the Thunderer slain. The Rákahas host when Rávaṇ fell Sent forth a wild terrific yell, Then turned and fled, all hope resigned, Through Lanká’s gates, nor looked behind. His voice each joyous Vánar raised, And Ráma, conquering Ráma, praised. Soft from celestial minstrels came The sound of music and acclaim. Soft, fresh, and cool, a rising breeze Brought odours from the heavenly trees, And ravishing the sight and smell A wondrous rain of blossoms fell: And voices breathed round Raghu’s son: “Champion of Gods, well done, well done.”

Canto CXI. Vibhishan’s Lament.

Vibhishaṇ saw his brother slain, Nor could his heart its woe contain. O’er the dead king he sadly bent And mourned him with a loud lament: “O hero, bold and brave,” he cried, “Skilled in all arms, in battle tried. Spoiled of thy crown, with limbs outspread, Why wilt thou press thy gory bed? Why slumber on the earth’s cold breast, When sumptuous couches woo to rest? Ah me, my brother over bold, Thine is the fate my heart foretold: But love and pride forbade to hear The friend who blamed thy wild career. Fallen is the sun who gave us light, Our lordly moon is veiled in night. Our beacon fire is dead and cold A hundred waves have o’er it rolled. What could his light and fire avail Against Lord Ráma’s arrowy hail? Woe for the giants’ royal tree, Whose stately height was fair to see. His buds were deeds of kingly grace, His bloom the sons who decked his race. With rifled bloom and mangled bough The royal tree lies prostrate now.” “Nay, idly mourn not,” Ráma cried, “The warrior king has nobly died, Intrepid hero, firm through all, So fell he as the brave should fall; And ill beseems it chiefs like us To weep for those who perish thus. Be firm: thy causeless grief restrain, And pay the dues that yet remain.”

Again Vibhishaṇ sadly spoke: “His was the hero arm that broke Embattled Gods’ and Indra’s might, Unconquered ere to-day in fight. He rushed against thee, fought and fell, As Ocean, when his waters swell, Hurling his might against a rock, Falls spent and shattered by the shock. Woe for our king’s untimely end, The generous lord the trusty friend: Our sure defence when fear arose, A dreaded scourge to stubborn foes. O, let the king thy hand has slain The honours of the dead obtain.”

Then Ráma answered. “Hatred dies When low in dust the foeman lies. Now triumph bids the conflict cease, And knits us in the bonds of peace. Let funeral rites be duly paid. And be it mine thy toil to aid.”

Canto CXII. The Rákshas Dames.

High rose the universal wail That mourned the monarch’s death, and, pale With crushing woe, her hair unbound, Her eyes in floods of sorrow drowned, Forth from the inner chambers came With trembling feet each royal dame, Heedless of those who bade them stay They reached the field where Rávaṇ lay; There falling by their husband’s side, “Ah, King! ah dearest lord!” they cried. Like creepers shattered by the storm They threw them on his mangled form. One to his bleeding bosom crept And lifted up her voice and wept. About his feet one mourner clung, Around his neck another hung, One on the giant’s severed head, Her pearly tears in torrents shed Fast as the drops the summer shower Pours down upon the lotus flower. “Ah, he whose arm in anger reared The King of Gods and Yáma feared, While panic struck their heavenly train, Lies prostrate in the battle slain. Thy haughty heart thou wouldst not bend, Nor listen to each wiser friend. Ah, had the dame, as they implored, Been yielded to her injured lord, We had not mourned this day thy fall, And happy had it been for all. Then Ráma and thy friends content In blissful peace their days had spent. Thine injured brother had not fled, Nor giant chiefs and Vánars bled. Yet for these woes we will not blame. Thy fancy for the Maithil dame, Fate, ruthless Fate, whom none may bend Has urged thee to thy hapless end.”

Canto CXIII. Mandodarí’s Lament.

While thus they wept, supreme in place, The loveliest for form and face, Mandodarí drew near alone, Looked on her lord and made her moan: “Ah Monarch, Indra feared to stand In fight before thy conquering hand. From thy dread spear the Immortals ran; And art thou murdered by a man? Ah, ’twas no child of earth, I know, That smote thee with that mortal blow. ’Twas Death himself in Ráma’s shape, That slew thee: Death whom none escape. Or was it he who rules the skies Who met thee, clothed in man’s disguise? Ah no, my lord, not Indra: he In battle ne’er could look on thee. One only God thy match I deem: ’Twas Vishṇu’s self, the Lord Supreme, Whose days through ceaseless time extend And ne’er began and ne’er shall end: He with the discus, shell, and mace, Brought ruin on the giant race. Girt by the Gods of heaven arrayed Like Vánar hosts his strength to aid, He Ráma’s shape and arms assumed And slew the king whom Fate had doomed. In Janasthán when Khara died With giant legions by his side, No mortal was the unconquered foe In Ráma’s form who struck the blow. When Hanumán the Vanár came And burnt thy town with hostile flame, I counselled peace in anxious fear: I counselled, but thou wouldst not hear. Thy fancy for the foreign dame Has brought thee death and endless shame. Why should thy foolish fancy roam? Hadst thou not wives as fair at home? In beauty, form and grace could she, Dear lord, surpass or rival me? Now will the days of Sítá glide In tranquil joy by Ráma’s side: And I—ah me, around me raves A sea of woe with whelming waves. With thee in days of old I trod Each spot beloved by nymph and God; I stood with thee in proud delight On Mandar’s side and Meru’s height; With thee, my lord, enchanted strayed In Chaitraratha’s(1013) lovely shade, And viewed each fairest scene afar Transported in thy radiant car. But source of every joy wast thou, And all my bliss is ended now.”

Then Ráma to Vibhishaṇ cried: “Whate’er the ritual bids, provide. Obsequial honours duly pay, And these sad mourners’ grief allay.” Vibhishaṇ answered, wise and true, For duty’s changeless law he knew: “Nay one who scorned all sacred vows And dared to touch another’s spouse, Fell tyrant of the human race, With funeral rites I may not grace.”

Him Raghu’s royal son, the best Of those who love the law, addressed: “False was the rover of the night, He loved the wrong and scorned the right. Yet for the fallen warrior plead The dauntless heart, the valorous deed. Let him who ne’er had brooked defeat, The chief whom Indra feared to meet, The ever-conquering lord, obtain The honours that should grace the slain.” Vibhishaṇ bade his friends prepare The funeral rites with thoughtful care. Himself the royal palace sought Whence sacred fire was quickly brought, With sandal wood and precious scents And pearl and coral ornaments. Wise Bráhmans, while the tears that flowed Down their wan cheeks their sorrow sowed, Upon a golden litter laid The corpse in finest ropes arrayed. Thereon were flowers and pennons hung, And loud the monarch’s praise was sung. Then was the golden litter raised, While holy fire in order blazed. And first in place Vibhishaṇ led The slow procession of the dead, Behind, their cheeks with tears bedewed, Came sad the widowed multitude. Where, raised as Bráhmans ordered, stood Piled sandal logs, and scented wood, The body of the king was set High on a deerskin coverlet. Then duly to the monarch’s shade The offerings for the dead they paid, And southward on the eastern side An altar formed and fire supplied. Then on the shoulder of the dead The oil and clotted milk were shed. All rites were done as rules ordain: The sacrificial goat was slain. Next on the corpse were perfumes thrown And many a flowery wreath was strown; And with Vibhishaṇ’s ready aid Rich vesture o’er the king was laid. Then while the tears their cheeks bedewed Parched grain upon the dead they strewed; Last, to the wood, as rules require, Vibhishaṇ set the kindling fire.

Then having bathed, as texts ordain, To Lanká went the mourning train. Vibhishaṇ, when his task was done, Stood by the side of Raghu’s son. And Ráma, freed from every foe, Unstrung at last his deadly bow, And laid the glittering shafts aside, And mail by Indra’s love supplied.

Canto CXIV. Vibhishan Consecrated.

Joy reigned in heaven where every eye Had seen the Lord of Lanká die. In cars whose sheen surpassed the sun’s Triumphant rode the radiant ones: And Rávaṇ’s death, by every tongue, And Ráma’s glorious deeds were sung. They praised the Vánars true and brave, The counsel wise Sugríva gave. The deeds of Hanúmán they told, The valiant chief supremely bold, The strong ally, the faithful friend, And Sítá’s truth which naught could bend.

To Mátali, whom Indra sent, His head the son of Raghu bent: And he with fiery steeds who clove The clouds again to Swarga drove. Round King Sugríva brave and true His arms in rapture Ráma threw, Looked on the host with joy and pride, And thus to noble Lakshmaṇ cried:

“Now let king-making drops be shed, Dear brother, on Vibhishaṇ’s head For truth and friendship nobly shown, And make him lord of Rávaṇ’s throne.” This longing of his heart he told: And Lakshmaṇ took an urn of gold And bade the wind-fleet Vánars bring Sea water for the giants’ king. The brimming urn was swiftly brought: Then on a throne superbly wrought Vibhishaṇ sat, the giants’ lord, And o’er his brows the drops were poured. As Raghu’s son the rite beheld His loving heart with rapture swelled: But tenderer thoughts within him woke, And thus to Hanúmán he spoke:

“Go to my queen: this message give: Say Lakshmaṇ and Sugríva live. The death of Lanká’s monarch tell, And bid her joy, for all is well.”

Canto CXV. Sítá’s Joy.

The Vánar chieftain bowed his head, Within the walls of Lanká sped, Leave from the new-made king obtained, And Sítá’s lovely garden gained. Beneath a tree the queen he found, Where Rákshas warders watched around. Her pallid cheek, her tangled hair, Her raiment showed her deep despair, Near and more near the envoy came And gently hailed the weeping dame. She started up in sweet surprise, And sudden joy illumed her eyes. For well the Vánar’s voice she knew, And hope reviving sprang and grew.

“Fair Queen,” he said, “our task is done: The foe is slain and Lanká won. Triumphant mid triumphant friends Kind words of greeting Ráma sends. “Blest for thy sake, O spouse most true, My deadly foe I met and slew. Mine eyes are strangers yet to sleep: I built a bridge athwart the deep And crossed the sea to Lanká’s shore To keep the mighty oath I swore. Now, gentle love, thy cares dispel, And weep no more, for all is well. Fear not in Rávaṇ’s house to stay For good Vibhishaṇ now bears sway, For constant truth and friendship known Regard his palace as thine own.” He greets thee thus thy heart to cheer, And urged by love will soon be here.”

Then flushed with joy the lady’s cheek. Her eyes o’erflowed, her voice was weak; But struggling with her sobs she broke Her silence thus, and faintly spoke: “So fast the flood of rapture came, My trembling tongue no words could frame. Ne’er have I heard in days of bliss A tale that gave such joy as this. More precious far than gems and gold The message which thy lips have told.”

His reverent hands the Vánar raised And thus the lady’s answer praised: “Sweet are the words, O Queen, which thou True to thy lord, hast spoken now, Better than gems and pearls of price, Yea, or the throne of Paradise. But, lady, ere I leave this place, Grant me, I pray, a single grace. Permit me, and this vengeful hand Shall slay thy guards, this Rákshas band, Whose cruel insult threat and scorn Thy gentle soul too long has borne.”

Thus, stern of mood, Hanúmán cried: The Maithil lady thus replied: “Nay, be not wroth with servants: they, When monarchs bid must needs obey. And, vassals of their lords, fulfil Each fancy of their sovereign will. To mine own sins the blame impute, For as we sow we reap the fruit. The tyrant’s will these dames obeyed When their fierce threats my soul dismayed.”

She ceased: with admiration moved The Vánar chief her words approved: “Thy speech,” he cried, “is worthy one Whom love has linked to Raghu’s son. Now speak, O Queen, that I may know Thy pleasure, for to him I go.” The Vánar ceased: then Janak’s child Made answer as she sweetly smiled: “’My first, my only wish can be, O chief, my loving lord to see.” Again the Vánar envoy spoke, And with his words new rapture woke: “Queen, ere this sun shall cease to shine Thy Ráma’s eyes shall look in thine. Again the lord of Raghu’s race Shall turn to thee his moon-bright face. His faithful brother shall thou see And every friend who fought for thee, And greet once more thy king restored Like Śachí(1014) to her heavenly lord.” To Raghu’s son his steps he bent And told the message that she sent.

Canto CXVI. The Meeting.

He looked upon that archer chief Whose full eye mocked the lotus leaf, And thus the noble Vánar spake: “Now meet the queen for whose dear sake Thy mighty task was first begun, And now the glorious fruit is won. O’erwhelmed with woe thy lady lies, The hot tears streaming from her eyes. And still the queen must long and pine Until those eyes be turned to thine.”

But Ráma stood in pensive mood, And gathering tears his eyes bedewed. His sad looks sought the ground: he sighed And thus to King Vibhishaṇ cried: “Let Sítá bathe and tire her head And hither to my sight be led In raiment sweet with precious scent, And gay with golden ornament.”

The Rákshas king his palace sought, And Sítá from her bower was brought. Then Rákshas bearers tall and strong, Selected from the menial throng, Through Lanká’s gate the queen, arrayed In glorious robes and gems, conveyed. Concealed behind the silken screen, Swift to the plain they bore the queen, While Vánars, close on every side, With eager looks the litter eyed. The warders at Vibhishaṇ’s hest The onward rushing throng repressed, While like the roar of ocean loud Rose the wild murmur of the crowd. The son of Raghu saw and moved With anger thus the king reproved: “Why vex with hasty blow and threat The Vánars, and my rights forget? Repress this zeal, untimely shown: I count this people as mine own. A woman’s guard is not her bower, The lofty wall, the fenced tower: Her conduct is her best defence, And not a king’s magnificence. At holy rites, in war and woe, Her face unveiled a dame may show; When at the Maiden’s Choice(1015) they meet, When marriage troops parade the street. And she, my queen, who long has lain In prison racked with care and pain, May cease a while her face to hide, For is not Ráma by her side? Lay down the litter: on her feet Let Sítá come her lord to meet. And let the hosts of woodland race Look near upon the lady’s face.”

Then Lakshmaṇ and each Vánar chief Who heard his words were filled with grief. The lady’s gentle spirit sank, And from each eye in fear she shrank, As, her sweet eyelids veiled for shame, Slowly before her lord she came. While rapture battled with surprise She raised to his her wistful eyes. Then with her doubt and fear she strove, And from her breast all sorrow drove. Regardless of the gathering crowd, Bright as the moon without a cloud, She bent her eyes, no longer dim, In joy and trusting love on him.

Canto CXVII. Sítá’s Disgrace.

He saw her trembling by his side, And looked upon her face and cried: “Lady, at length my task is done, And thou, the prize of war, art won, This arm my glory has retrieved, And all that man might do achieved; The insulting foe in battle slain And cleared mine honour from its stain. This day has made my name renowned And with success my labour crowned. Lord of myself, the oath I swore Is binding on my soul no more. If from my home my queen was reft, This arm has well avenged the theft, And in the field has wiped away The blot that on mine honour lay. The bridge that spans the foaming flood, The city red with giants’ blood; The hosts by King Sugríva led Who wisely counselled, fought and bled; Vibhishaṇ’s love, our guide and stay— All these are crowned with fruit to-day. But, lady, ’twas not love for thee That led mine army o’er the sea. ’Twas not for thee our blood was shed, Or Lanká filled with giant dead. No fond affection for my wife Inspired me in the hour of strife. I battled to avenge the cause Of honour and insulted laws. My love is fled, for on thy fame Lies the dark blot of sin and shame; And thou art hateful as the light That flashes on the injured sight. The world is all before thee: flee: Go where thou wilt, but not with me. How should my home receive again A mistress soiled with deathless stain? How should I brook the foul disgrace, Scorned by my friends and all my race? For Rávaṇ bore thee through the sky, And fixed on thine his evil eye. About thy waist his arms he threw, Close to his breast his captive drew, And kept thee, vassal of his power, An inmate of his ladies’ bower.”

Canto CXVIII. Sítá’s Reply.

Struck down with overwhelming shame She shrank within her trembling frame. Each word of Ráma’s like a dart Had pierced the lady to the heart; And from her sweet eyes unrestrained The torrent of her sorrows, rained. Her weeping eyes at length she dried, And thus mid choking sobs replied: “Canst thou, a high-born prince, dismiss A high-born dame with speech like this? Such words befit the meanest hind, Not princely birth and generous mind, By all my virtuous life I swear I am not what thy words declare. If some are faithless, wilt thou find No love and truth in womankind? Doubt others if thou wilt, but own The truth which all my life has shown. If, when the giant seized his prey, Within his hated arms I lay, And felt the grasp I dreaded, blame Fate and the robber, not thy dame. What could a helpless woman do? My heart was mine and still was true, Why when Hanúmán sent by thee Sought Lanká’s town across the sea, Couldst thou not give, O lord of men, Thy sentence of rejection then? Then in the presence of the chief Death, ready death, had brought relief, Nor had I nursed in woe and pain This lingering life, alas in vain. Then hadst thou shunned the fruitless strife Nor jeopardied thy noble life, But spared thy friends and bold allies Their vain and weary enterprise. Is all forgotten, all? my birth, Named Janak’s child, from fostering earth? That day of triumph when a maid My trembling hand in thine I laid? My meek obedience to thy will, My faithful love through joy and ill, That never failed at duty’s call— O King, is all forgotten, all?”

To Lakshmaṇ then she turned and spoke While sobs and sighs her utterance broke: “Sumitrá’s son, a pile prepare, My refuge in my dark despair. I will not live to bear this weight Of shame, forlorn and desolate. The kindled fire my woes shall end And be my best and surest friend.”

His mournful eyes the hero raised And wistfully on Ráma gazed, In whose stern look no ruth was seen, No mercy for the weeping queen. No chieftain dared to meet those eyes, To pray, to question or advise.

The word was passed, the wood was piled And fain to die stood Janak’s child. She slowly paced around her lord, The Gods with reverent act adored, Then raising suppliant hands the dame Prayed humbly to the Lord of Flame: “As this fond heart by virtue swayed From Raghu’s son has never strayed, So, universal witness, Fire Protect my body on the pyre, As Raghu’s son has idly laid This charge on Sítá, hear and aid.”

She ceased: and fearless to the last Within the flame’s wild fury passed. Then rose a piercing cry from all Dames, children, men, who saw her fall Adorned with gems and gay attire Beneath the fury of the fire.

Canto CXIX. Glory To Vishnu.

The shrill cry pierced through Ráma’s ears And his sad eyes o’erflowed with tears, When lo, transported through the sky A glorious band of Gods was nigh. Ancestral shades,(1016) by men revered, In venerable state appeared, And he from whom all riches flow,(1017) And Yáma Lord who reigns below: King Indra, thousand-eyed, and he Who wields the sceptre of the sea.(1018) The God who shows the blazoned bull,(1019) And Brahmá Lord most bountiful By whose command the worlds were made All these on radiant cars conveyed, Brighter than sun-beams, sought the place Where stood the prince of Raghu’s race, And from their glittering seats the best Of blessed Gods the chief addressed:

“Couldst thou, the Lord of all, couldst thou, Creator of the worlds, allow Thy queen, thy spouse to brave the fire And give her body to the pyre? Dost thou not yet, supremely wise, Thy heavenly nature recognize?” They ceased: and Ráma thus began: “I deem myself a mortal man. Of old Ikshváku’s line, I spring From Daśaratha Kośal’s king.” He ceased: and Brahmá’s self replied: “O cast the idle thought aside. Thou art the Lord Náráyaṇ, thou The God to whom all creatures bow. Thou art the saviour God who wore Of old the semblance of a boar; Thou he whose discus overthrows All present, past and future foes; Thou Brahmá, That whose days extend Without beginning, growth or end; The God, who, bears the bow of horn, Whom four majestic arms adorn; Thou art the God who rules the sense And sways with gentle influence; Thou all-pervading Vishṇu Lord Who wears the ever-conquering sword; Thou art the Guide who leads aright, Thou Krishṇa of unequalled might. Thy hand, O Lord, the hills and plains, And earth with all her life sustains; Thou wilt appear in serpent form When sinks the earth in fire and storm. Queen Sítá of the lovely brows Is Lakshmí thy celestial spouse. To free the worlds from Rávaṇ thou Wouldst take the form thou wearest now. Rejoice: the mighty task is done: Rejoice, thou great and glorious one. The tyrant, slain, thy labours end: Triumphant now to heaven ascend. High bliss awaits the devotee Who clings in loving faith to thee, Who celebrates with solemn praise The Lord of ne’er beginning days. On earth below, in heaven above Great joy shall crown his faith and love. And he who loves the tale divine Which tells each glorious deed of thine Through life’s fair course shall never know The fierce assault of pain and woe.”(1020)

Canto CXX. Sítá Restored.

Thus spoke the Self-existent Sire: Then swiftly from the blazing pyre The circling flames were backward rolled, And, raising in his gentle hold Alive unharmed the Maithil dame, The Lord of Fire embodied came. Fair as the morning was her sheen, And gold and gems adorned the queen. Her form in crimson robes arrayed, Her hair was bound in glossy braid. Her wreath was fresh and sweet of scent, Undimmed was every ornament. Then, standing close to Ráma’a side, The universal witness cried: “From every blot and blemish free Thy faithful queen returns to thee. In word or deed, in look or mind Her heart from thee has ne’er declined. By force the giant bore away From thy lone cot his helpless prey; And in his bowers securely kept She still has longed for thee and wept. With soft temptation, bribe and threat, He bade the dame her love forget: But, nobly faithful to her lord, Her soul the giant’s suit abhorred. Receive, O King, thy queen again, Pure, ever pure from spot and stain.”

Still stood the king in thoughtful mood And tears of joy his eyes bedewed. Then to the best of Gods the best Of warrior chiefs his mind expressed:

“’Twas meet that mid the thousands here The searching fire my queen should clear; For long within the giant’s bower She dwelt the vassal of his power. For else had many a slanderous tongue Reproaches on mine honour flung, And scorned the king who, love-impelled, His consort from the proof withheld. No doubt had I, but surely knew That Janak’s child was pure and true, That, come what might, in good and ill Her faithful heart was with me still. I knew that Rávaṇ could not wrong My queen whom virtue made so strong. I knew his heart would sink and fail, Nor dare her honour to assail, As Ocean, when he raves and roars, Fears to o’erleap his bounding shores. Now to the worlds her truth is shown, And Sítá is again mine own. Thus proved before unnumbered eyes, On her pure fame no shadow lies. As heroes to their glory cleave, Mine own dear spouse I ne’er will leave.” He ceased: and clasped in fond embrace On his dear breast she hid her face.

Canto CXXI. Dasaratha.

To him Maheśvar thus replied: “O strong-armed hero, lotus-eyed, Thou, best of those who love the right, Hast nobly fought the wondrous fight. Dispelled by thee the doom that spread Through trembling earth and heaven is fled. The worlds exult in light and bliss, And praise thy name, O chief, for this. Now peace to Bharat’s heart restore, And bid Kausalyá weep no more. Thy face let Queen Kaikeyí see, Let fond Sumitrá gaze on thee. The longing of thy friends relieve, The kingdom of thy sires receive. Let sons of gentle Sítá born Ikshváku’s ancient line adorn. Then from all care and foemen freed Perform the offering of the steed. In pious gifts thy wealth expend, Then to the home of Gods ascend, Thy sire, this glorious king, behold, Among the blest in heaven enrolled. He comes from where the Immortals dwell: Salute him, for he loves thee well.”

His mandate Raghu’s sons obeyed, And to their sire obeisance made, Where high he stood above the car In wondrous light that shone afar, His limbs in radiant garments dressed Whereon no spot of dust might rest. When on the son he loved so well The eyes of Daśaratha fell, He strained the hero to his breast And thus with gentle words addressed: “No joy to me is heavenly bliss, For there these eyes my Ráma miss. Enrolled on high with saint and sage, Thy woes, dear son, my thoughts engage. Kaikeyí’s guile I ne’er forget: Her cruel words will haunt me yet, Which sent thee forth, my son, to roam The forest far from me and home. Now when I look on each dear face, And hold you both in fond embrace, My heart is full of joy to see The sons I love from danger free. Now know I what the Gods designed, And how in Ráma’s form enshrined The might of Purushottam lay, The tyrant of the worlds to slay. Ah, how Kausalyá will rejoice To hear again her darling’s voice, And, all thy weary wanderings o’er, To gaze upon thy face once more. Ah blest, for ever blest are they Whose eyes shall see the glorious day Of thy return in joy at last, Thy term of toil and exile past. Ayodhyá’s lord, begin thy reign, And day by day new glory gain.”

He ceased: and Ráma thus replied: “Be not this grace, O sire, denied. Those hasty words, that curse revoke Which from thy lips in anger broke: “Kaikeyí, be no longer mine: I cast thee off, both thee and thine.” O father, let no sorrow fall On her or hers: thy curse recall.” “Yea, she shall live, if so thou wilt,” The sire replied, “absolved from guilt.” Round Lakshmaṇ then his arms he threw, And moved by love began anew: “Great store of merit shall be thine, And brightly shall thy glory shine; Secure on earth thy brother’s grace. And high in heaven shall be thy place. Thy glorious king obey and fear: To him the triple world is dear. God, saint, and sage, by Indra led, To Ráma bow the reverent head, Nor from the Lord, the lofty-souled, Their worship or their praise withhold. Heart of the Gods, supreme is he, The One who ne’er shall cease to be.”

On Sítá then he looked and smiled; “List to my words” he said, “dear child, Let not thy gentle breast retain One lingering trace of wrath or pain. When by the fire thy truth be proved, By love for thee his will was moved. The furious flame thy faith confessed Which shrank not from the awful test: And thou, in every heart enshrined, Shalt live the best of womankind.”

He ceased: he bade the three adieu, And home to heaven exulting flew.

Canto CXXII. Indra’s Boon.

Then Indra, he whose fiery stroke Slew furious Páka, turned and spoke: “A glorious day, O chief, is this, Rich with the fruit of lasting bliss. Well pleased are we: we love thee well Now speak, thy secret wishes tell.”

Thus spake the sovereign of the sky, And this was Ráma’s glad reply: “If I have won your grace, incline To grant this one request of mine. Restore, O King: the Vánar dead Whose blood for me was nobly shed. To life and strength my friends recall, And bring them back from Yáma’s hall. When, fresh in might the warriors rise, Prepare a feast to glad their eyes. Let fruits of every season glow, And streams of purest water flow.”

Thus Raghu’s son, great-hearted, prayed, And Indra thus his answer made: “High is the boon thou seekest: none Should win this grace but Raghu’s son. Yet, faithful to the word I spake, I grant the prayer for thy dear sake. The Vánars whom the giants slew Their life and vigour shall renew. Their strength repaired, their gashes healed Whose torrents dyed the battle field, The warrior hosts from death shall rise Like sleepers when their slumber flies.”

Restored from Yáma’s dark domain The Vánar legions filled the plain, And, round the royal chief arrayed, With wondering hearts obeisance paid. Each God the son of Raghu praised, And cried as loud his voice he raised: “Turn, King, to fair Ayodhyá speed, And leave thy friends of Vánar breed. Thy true devoted consort cheer After long days of woe and fear. Bharat, thy loyal brother, see, A hermit now for love of thee. The tears of Queen Kauśalyá dry, And light with joy each stepdame’s eye; Then consecrated king of men Make glad each faithful citizen.”

They ceased: and borne on radiant cars Sought their bright home amid the stars.

Canto CXXIII. The Magic Car.

Then slept the tamer of his foes And spent the night in calm repose. Vibhishaṇ came when morning broke, And hailed the royal chief, and spoke: “Here wait thee precious oil and scents, And rich attire and ornaments. The brimming urns are newly filled, And women in their duty skilled, With lotus-eyes, thy call attend, Assistance at thy bath to lend.” “Let others,” Ráma cried, “desire These precious scents, this rich attire, I heed not such delights as these, For faithful Bharat, ill at ease, Watching for me is keeping now Far far away his rigorous vow. By Bharat’s side I long to stand, I long to see my fatherland. Far is Ayodhyá: long, alas, The dreary road and hard to pass.”

“One day,” Vibhishaṇ cried, “one day Shall bear thee o’er that length of way. Is not the wondrous chariot mine, Named Pushpak, wrought by hands divine. The prize which Rávaṇ seized of old Victorious o’er the God of Gold? This chariot, kept with utmost care, Will waft thee through the fields of air, And thou shalt light unwearied down In fair Ayodhyá’s royal town. But yet if aught that I have done Has pleased thee well, O Raghu’s son; If still thou carest for thy friend, Some little time in Lanká spend; There after toil of battle rest Within my halls an honoured guest.” Again the son of Raghu spake: “Thy life was perilled for my sake. Thy counsel gave me priceless aid: All honours have been richly paid. Scarce can my love refuse, O best Of giant kind, thy last request. But still I yearn once more to see My home and all most dear to me; Nor can I brook one hour’s delay: Forgive me, speed me on my way.”

He ceased: the magic car was brought. Of yore by Viśvakarmá wrought. In sunlike sheen it flashed and blazed; And Raghu’s sons in wonder gazed.

Canto CXXIV. The Departure.

The giant lord the chariot viewed, And humbly thus his speech renewed: “Behold, O King, the car prepared: Now be thy further will declared.” He ceased: and Ráma spake once more: “These hosts who thronged to Lanká’s shore Their faith and might have nobly shown, And set thee on the giants’ throne. Let pearls and gems and gold repay The feats of many a desperate day, That all may go triumphant hence Proud of their noble recompense.” Vibhishaṇ, ready at his call, With gold and gems enriched them all. Then Ráma clomb the glorious car That shone like day’s resplendent star. There in his lap he held his dame Vailing her eyes in modest shame. Beside him Lakshmaṇ took his stand, Whose mighty bow still armed his hand, “O King Vibhishaṇ,” Ráma cried, “O Vánar chiefs, so long allied, My comrades till the foemen fell, List, for I speak a long farewell. The task, in doubt and fear begun, With your good aid is nobly done. Leave Lanká’s shore, your steps retrace, Brave warriors of the Vánar race. Thou, King Sugríva, true, through all, To friendship’s bond and duty’s call, Seek far Kishkindhá with thy train And o’er thy realm in glory reign. Farewell, Vibhishaṇ, Lanká’s throne Won by our arms is now thine own, Thou, mighty lord, hast nought to dread From heavenly Gods by Indra led. My last farewell, 0 King, receive, For Lanká’s isle this hour I leave.”

Loud rose their cry in answer: “We, O Raghu’s son, would go with thee. With thee delighted would we stray Where sweet Ayodhyá’s groves are gay, Then in the joyous synod view King-making balm thy brows bedew; Our homage to Kauśalyá pay, And hasten on our homeward way.”

Their prayer the son of Raghu heard, And spoke, his heart with rapture stirred: “Sugríva, O my faithful friend, Vibhishaṇ and ye chiefs, ascend. A joy beyond all joys the best Will fill my overflowing breast, If girt by you, O noble band, I seek again my native land.” With Vánar lords in danger tried Sugríva sprang to Ráma’s side, And girt by chiefs of giant kind Vibhíshan’s step was close behind. Swift through the air, as Ráma chose, The wondrous car from earth arose. And decked with swans and silver wings Bore through the clouds its freight of kings.

Canto CXXV. The Return.

Then Ráma, speeding through the skies, Bent on the earth his eager eyes: “Look, Sítá, see, divinely planned And built by Viśvakarmá’s hand, Lanká the lovely city rest Enthroned on Mount Trikúṭa’s crest Behold those fields, ensanguined yet, Where Vánar hosts and giants met. There, vainly screened by charm and spell, The robber Rávan fought and fell. There knelt Mandodarí(1021) and shed Her tears in floods for Rávan dead. And every dame who loved him sent From her sad heart her wild lament. There gleams the margin of the deep, Where, worn with toil, we sank to sleep. Look, love, the unconquered sea behold, King Varuṇ’s home ordained of old, Whose boundless waters roar and swell Rich with their store of pearl and shell. O see, the morning sun is bright On fair Hiraṇyanábha’s(1022) height, Who rose from Ocean’s sheltering breast That Hanumán might stay and rest. There stretches, famed for evermore, The wondrous bridge from shore to shore. The worlds, to life’s remotest day, Due reverence to the work shall pay, Which holier for the lapse of time Shall give release from sin and crime. Now thither bend, dear love, thine eyes Where green with groves Kishkindhá lies, The seat of King Sugríva’s reign, Where Báli by this hand was slain.(1023) There Ríshyamúka’s hill behold Bright gleaming with embedded gold. There too my wandering foot I set, There King Sugríva first I met. And, where yon trees their branches wave, My promise of assistance gave. There, flushed with lilies, Pampá shines With banks which greenest foliage lines, Where melancholy steps I bent And mourned thee with a mad lament. There fierce Kabandha, spreading wide His giant arms, in battle died. Turn, Sítá, turn thine eyes and see In Janasthán that glorious tree: There Rávaṇ, lord of giants slew Our friend Jaṭáyus brave and true, Thy champion in the hopeless strife, Who gave for thee his noble life. Now mark that glade amid the trees Where once we lived as devotees. See, see our leafy cot between Those waving boughs of densest green, Where Rávaṇ seized his prize and stole My love the darling of my soul. O, look again: beneath thee gleams Godávarí the best of streams, Whose lucid waters sweetly glide By lilies that adorn her side. There dwelt Agastya, holy sage, In plantain-sheltered hermitage. See Śarabhanga’s humble shed Which sovereign Indra visited. See where the gentle hermits dwell Neath Atri’s rule who loved us well; Where once thine eyes were blest to see His sainted dame who talked with thee. Now rest thine eyes with new delight On Chitrakúṭa’s woody height, See Jumna flashing in the sun Through groves of brilliant foliage run. Screened by the shade of spreading boughs. There Bharadvája keeps his vows, There Gangá, river of the skies, Rolls the sweet wave that purifies, There Śringavera’s towers ascend Where Guha reigns, mine ancient friend. I see, I see thy glittering spires, Ayodhyá, city of my sires. Bow down, bow down thy head, my sweet, Our home, our long-lost home to greet.”

Canto CXXVI. Bharat Consoled.

But Ráma bade the chariot stay, And halting in his airy way, In Bharadvája’s holy shade His homage to the hermit paid. “O saint,” he cried, “I yearn to know My dear Ayodhyá’s weal and woe. O tell me that the people thrive, And that the queens are yet alive.”

Joy gleamed in Bhardvája’s eye, Who gently smiled and made reply: “Thy brother, studious of thy will, Is faithful and obedient still. In tangled twine he coils his hair: Thy safe return is all his care. Before thy shoes he humbly bends, And to thy house and realm attends. When first these dreary years began, When first I saw the banished man, With Sítá, in his hermit coat, At this sad heart compassion smote. My breast with tender pity swelled: I saw thee from thy home expelled, Reft of all princely state, forlorn, A hapless wanderer travel-worn, Firm in thy purpose to fulfil Thy duty and thy father’s will. But boundless is my rapture now: Triumphant, girt with friends, art thou. Where’er thy wandering steps have been, Thy joy and woe mine eyes have seen. Thy glorious deeds to me art known, The Bráhmans saved, the foes o’erthrown. Such power have countless seasons spent In penance and devotion lent. Thy virtues, best of chiefs, I know, And now a boon would fain bestow. This hospitable gift(1024) receive: Then with the dawn my dwelling leave.” The bended head of Ráma showed His reverence for the grace bestowed; Then for each brave companion’s sake He sought a further boon and spake:

“O let that mighty power of thine The road to fair Ayodhyá line With trees where fruit of every hue The Vánars’ eye and taste may woo, And flowers of every season, sweet With stores of honeyed juice, may meet.” The hero ceased: the hermit bent His reverend head in glad assent; And swift, as Bharadvája willed, The prayer of Ráma was fulfilled. For many a league the lengthening road Trees thick with fruit and blossom showed With luscious beauty to entice The taste like trees of Paradise. The Vánars passed beneath the shade Of that delightful colonnade, Still tasting with unbounded glee The treasures of each wondrous tree.

Canto CXXVII. Ráma’s Message.

But Ráma, when he first looked down And saw afar Ayodhyá’s town, Had called Hanumán to his side, The chief on whom his heart relied, And said: “Brave Vánar, good at need, Haste onward, to Ayodhyá speed, And learn, I pray, if all be well With those who in the palace dwell. But as thou speedest on thy way Awhile at Śringavera stay. Tell Guha the Nishádas’ lord, That victor, with my queen restored, In health and strength with many a friend Homeward again my steps I bend. Thence by the road that he will show On to Ayodhyá swiftly go. There with my love my brother greet, And all our wondrous tale repeat. Say that victorious in the strife I come with Lakshmaṇ and my wife, Then mark with keenest eye each trace Of joy or grief on Bharat’s face. Be all his gestures closely viewed, Each change of look and attitude. Where breathes the man who will not cling To all that glorifies a king? Where beats the heart that can resign An ancient kingdom, nor repine To lose a land renowned for breeds Of elephants and warrior steeds? If, won by custom day by day, My brother Bharat thirsts for sway, Still let him rule the nations, still The throne of old Ikshváku fill. Go, mark him well: his feelings learn, And, ere we yet be near return.”

He ceased: and, garbed in human form, Forth sped Hanúmán swift as storm. Sublime in air he rose, and through The region of his father flew. He saw far far beneath his feet Where Gangá’s flood and Jumna meet. Descending from the upper air He entered Śringavera, where King Guha’s heart was well content To hear the message Ráma sent. Then, with his mighty strength renewed, The Vánar chief his way pursued, Válúkiní was far behind, And Gomatí with forests lined, And golden fields and pastures gay With flocks and herds beneath him lay. Then Nandigráma charmed his eye Where flowers were bright with every dye, And trees of lovely foliage made With meeting boughs delightful shade, Where women watched in trim array Their little sons’ and grandsons’ play. His eager eye on Bharat fell Who sat before his lonely cell. In hermit weed, with tangled hair, Pale, weak, and worn with ceaseless care. His royal pomp and state resigned For Ráma still he watched and pined, Still to his dreary vows adhered, And royal Ráma’s shoes revered. Yet still the terror of his arm Preserved the land from fear and harm.

The Wind-God’s son, in form a man, Raised reverent hands and thus began: “Fond greeting, Prince, I bring to thee, And Ráma’s self has sent it: he For whom thy spirit sorrows yet As for a hapless anchoret In Daṇḍak wood, in dire distress, With matted hair and hermit dress. This sorrow from thy bosom fling, And hear the tale of joy I bring. This day thy brother shalt thou meet Exulting in his foe’s defeat, Freed from his toil and lengthened vow, The light of victory on his brow, With Sítá, Lakshmaṇ and his friends Homeward at last his steps he bends.”

Then joy, too mighty for control, Rushed in full flood o’er Bharat’s soul; His reeling sense and strength gave way, And fainting on the earth he lay, At length upspringing from the ground, His arms about Hanúmán wound, With tender tears of rapture sprung, He dewed the neck to which he clung: “Art thou a God or man,” he cried, “Whom love and pity hither guide? For this a hundred thousand kine, A hundred villages be thine. A score of maids of spotless lives To thee I give to be thy wives, Of golden hue and bright of face, Each lovely for her tender grace.”

He ceased a while by joy subdued, And then his eager speech renewed.

Canto CXXVIII. Hanumán’s Story.

“In doubt and fear long years have passed And glorious tidings come at last. True, true is now the ancient verse Which men in time of bliss rehearse: “Once only in a hundred years Great joy to mortal men appears.” But now his woes and triumph tell, And loss and gain as each befell.” He ceased: Hanúmán mighty-souled The tale of Ráma’s wanderings told From that first day on which he stood In the drear shade of Daṇḍak wood. He told how fierce Virádha fell; He told of Śarabhanga’s cell Where Ráma saw with wondering eyes Indra descended from the skies. He told how Śúrpaṇakhí came, Her soul aglow with amorous flame, And fled repulsed, with rage and tears, Reft of her nose and severed ears. He told how Ráma’s might subdued The giants’ furious multitude; How Khara with the troops he led And Triśirás and Dúshaṇ bled: How Ráma, tempted from his cot, The golden deer pursued and shot, And Rávaṇ came and stole away The Maithil queen his hapless prey, When, as he fought, the dame to save, His noble life Jatáyus gave: How Ráma still the the search renewed, The robber to his hold pursued, Bridging the sea from shore to shore, And found his queen to part no more.(1025)

Canto CXXIX. The Meeting With Bharat.

O’erwhelmed with rapture Bharat heard The tale that all his being stirred, And, heralding the glad event, This order to Śatrughna sent: “Let every shrine with flowers be gay Let incense burn and music play. Go forth, go forth to meet your king, Let tabours sound and minstrels sing, Let bards swell high the note of praise Skilled in the lore of ancient days, Call forth the royal matrons: call Each noble from the council hall. Send all we love and honour most, Send Bráhmans and the warrior host, A glorious company to bring In triumph home our lord the king.”

Great rapture filled Śatrughna’s breast, Obedient to his brother’s hest. “Send forth ten thousand men” he cried, “Let brawny arms be stoutly plied, And, smoothing all with skilful care, The road for Kośal’s king prepare. Then o’er the earth let thousands throw Fresh showers of water cool as snow, And others strew with garlands gay With loveliest blooms our monarch’s way. On tower and temple porch and gate Let banners wave in royal state, And be each roof and terrace lined With blossoms loose and chaplets twined.”

The nobles hasting forth fulfilled His order as Śatrughna willed. Sublime on elephants they rode Whose gilded girths with jewels glowed. Attended close by thousands more Gay with the gear and flags they bore. A thousand chiefs their steeds bestrode, Their glittering cars a thousand showed. And countless hosts in rich array Pursued on foot their eager way. Veiled from the air with silken screens In litters rode the widowed queens. Kausalyá first, acknowledged head And sovereign of the household, led: Sumitrá next, and after, dames Of lower rank and humbler names. Then compassed by a white-robed throng Of Bráhmans, heralded with song, With shouts of joy from countless throats, And shells’ and tambours’ mingled notes, And drums resounding long and loud, Exulting Bharat joined the crowd. Still on his head, well-trained in lore Of duty, Ráma’s shoes he bore. The moon-white canopy was spread With flowery twine engarlanded, And jewelled cheuries, meet to hold O’er Ráma’s brow, shone bright with gold, Though Nandigráma’s town they neared, Of Ráma yet no sign appeared. Then Bharat called the Vánar chief And questioned thus in doubt and grief: “Hast thou uncertain, like thy kind, A sweet delusive guile designed? Where, where is royal Ráma? show The hero, victor of the foe. I gaze, but see no Vánars still Who wear each varied shape at will.”

In eager love thus Bharat cried, And thus the Wind-God’s son replied: “Look, Bharat, on those laden trees That murmur with the song of bees; For Ráma’s sake the saint has made Untimely fruits, unwonted shade. Such power in ages long ago Could Indra’s gracious boon bestow. O, hear the Vánars’ voices, hear The shouting which proclaims them near. E’en now about to cross they seem Sweet Gomatí’s delightful stream. I see, I see the car designed By Brahmá’s own creative mind, The car which, radiant as the moon, Moves at the will by Brahmá’s boon; The car which once was Rávan’s pride, The victor’s spoil when Rávan died. Look, there are Raghu’s sons: between The brothers stands the rescued queen. There is Vibhishaṇ full in view, Sugríva and his retinue.”

He ceased: then rapture loosed each tongue: From men and dames, from old and young, One long, one universal cry, ’Tis he, ’tis Ráma, smote the sky. All lighted down with eager speed From elephant and car and steed, And every joyful eye intent On Ráma’s moonbright face was bent. Entranced a moment Bharat gazed: Then reverential hands he raised, And on his brother humbly pressed The honours due to welcome guest. Then Bharat clomb the car to greet His king and bowed him at his feet, Till Ráma raised him face to face And held him in a close embrace. Then Lakshmaṇ and the Maithil dame He greeted as he spoke his name(1026) He greeted next, supreme in place, The sovereign of the Vánar race, And Jámbaván and Báli’s son, And lords and chiefs, omitting none.(1027) Sugríva to his heart he pressed And thus with grateful words addressed: “Four brothers, Vánar king, were we, And now we boast a fifth in thee. By kindly acts a friend we know: Offence and wrong proclaim the foe.” To King Vibhishaṇ then he spake: “Well hast thou fought for Ráma’s sake.” Nor was the brave Śatrughna slow His reverential love to show To both his brothers, as was meet, And venerate the lady’s feet. Then Ráma to his mother came, Saw her pale cheek and wasted frame, With gentle words her heart consoled, And clasped her feet with loving hold. Then at Sumitrá’s feet he bent, And fair Kaikeyí’s, reverent, Greeted each dame from chief to least, And bowed him to the household priest. Up rose a shout from all the throng: “O welcome, Ráma, mourned so long. Welcome, Kausalyá’s joy and pride,” Ten hundred thousand voices cried. Then Bharat placed, in duty taught, On Ráma’s feet the shoes he brought: “My King,” he cried, “receive again The pledge preserved through years of pain, The rule and lordship of the land Entrusted to my weaker hand. No more I sigh o’er sorrows past, My birth and life are blest at last In the glad sight this day has shown, When Ráma comes to rule his own.”

He ceased: the faithful love that moved The prince’s soul each heart approved; Nor could the Vánar chiefs refrain From tender tears that fell like rain. Then Ráma, stirred with joy anew, His arms about his brother threw, And to the grove his course he bent Where Bharat’s hermit days were spent. Alighting in that pure retreat He pressed the earth with eager feet. Then, at his hest, the car rose high And sailing through the northern sky Sped homeward to the Lord of Gold Who owned the wondrous prize of old.(1028)

Canto CXXX. The Consecration.

Then, reverent hand to hand applied, Thus Bharat to his brother cried: “Thy realm, O King, is now restored, Uninjured to the rightful lord. This feeble arm with toil and pain, The weighty charge could scarce sustain. And the great burthen wellnigh broke The neck untrained to bear the yoke. The royal swan outspeeds the crow: The steed is swift, the mule is slow, Nor can my feeble feet be led O’er the rough ways where thine should tread. Now grant what all thy subjects ask: Begin, O King, thy royal task. Now let our longing eyes behold The glorious rite ordained of old, And on the new-found monarch’s head Let consecrating drops be shed.”

He ceased; victorious Ráma bent His head in token of assent. He sat, and tonsors trimmed with care His tangles of neglected hair Then, duly bathed, the hero shone With all his splendid raiment on. And Sítá with the matrons’ aid Her limbs in shining robes arrayed, Sumantra then, the charioteer, Drew, ordered by Śatrughna near, And stayed within the hermit grove The chariot and the steeds he drove. Therein Sugríva’s consorts, graced With gems, and Ráma’s queen were placed, All fain Ayodhyá to behold: And swift away the chariot rolled. Like Indra Lord of Thousand Eyes, Drawn by fleet lions through the skies. Thus radiant in his glory showed King Ráma as he homeward rode, In power and might unparalleled. The reins the hand of Bharat held. Above the peerless victor’s head The snow-white shade Śatrughna spread, And Lakshmaṇ’s ever-ready hand His forehead with a chourie fanned. Vibhishaṇ close to Lakshmaṇ’s side Sharing his task a chourie plied. Sugríva on Śatrunjay came, An elephant of hugest frame: Nine thousand others bore, behind, The chieftains of the Vánar kind All gay, in forms of human mould, With rich attire and gems and gold. Thus borne along in royal state King Ráma reached Ayodbyá’s gate With merry noise of shells and drums And joyful shouts, He comes, he comes, A Bráhman host with solemn tread, And kine the long procession led, And happy maids in ordered bands Threw grain and gold with liberal hands. Neath gorgeous flags that waved in rows On towers and roofs and porticoes. Mid merry crowds who sang and cheered The palace of the king they neared. Then Raghu’s son to Bharat, best Of duty’s slaves, these words addressed: “Pass onward to the monarch’s hall. The high-souled Vánars with thee call, And let the chieftains, as is meet, The widows of our father greet. And to the Vánar king assign Those chambers, best of all, which shine With lazulite and pearl inlaid, And pleasant grounds with flowers and shade.”

He ceased: and Bharat bent his head; Sugríva by the hand he led And passed within the palace where Stood couches which Śatrughna’s care, With robes and hangings richly dyed, And burning lamps, had seen supplied. Then Bharat spake: “I pray thee, friend, Thy speedy messengers to send, Each sacred requisite to bring That we may consecrate our king.” Sugríva raised four urns of gold, The water for the rite to hold, And bade four swiftest Vánars flee And fill them from each distant sea. Then east and west and south and north The Vánar envoys hastened forth. Each in swift flight an ocean sought And back through air his treasure brought, And full five hundred floods beside Pure water for the king supplied. Then girt by many a Bráhman sage, Vaśishṭha, chief for reverend age, High on a throne with jewels graced King Ráma and his Sítá placed. There by Jábáli, far revered, Vijay and Kaśyap’s son appeared; By Gautam’s side Kátváyan stood, And Vámadeva wise and good, Whose holy hands in order shed The pure sweet drops on Ráma’s head. Then priests and maids and warriors, all Approaching at Vaśishṭha’s call, With sacred drops bedewed their king, The centre of a joyous ring, The guardians of the worlds, on high, And all the children of the sky From herbs wherewith their hands were filled Rare juices on his brow distilled. His brows were bound with glistering gold Which Manu’s self had worn of old, Bright with the flash of many a gem His sire’s ancestral diadem. Śatrughna lent his willing aid And o’er him held the regal shade: The monarchs whom his arm had saved The chouries round his forehead waved. A golden chain, that flashed and glowed With gems the God of Wind bestowed: Mahendra gave a glorious string Of fairest pearls to deck the king, The skies with acclamation rang, The gay nymphs danced, the minstrels sang. On that blest day the joyful plain Was clothed anew with golden grain. The trees the witching influence knew, And bent with fruits of loveliest hue, And Ráma’s consecration lent New sweetness to each flowret’s scent. The monarch, joy of Raghu’s line, Gave largess to the Bráhmans, kine And steeds unnumbered, wealth untold Of robes and pearls and gems and gold. A jewelled chain, whose lustre passed The glory of the sun, he cast About his friend Sugríva’s neck; And, Angad Báli’s son to deck, He gave a pair of armlets bright With diamond and lazulite. A string of pearls of matchless hue Which gleams like tender moonlight threw Adorned with gems of brightest sheen, He gave to grace his darling queen. The offering from his hand received A moment on her bosom heaved; Then from her neck the chain she drew, A glance on all the Vánars threw, And wistful eyes on Ráma bent As still she held the ornament. Her wish he knew, and made reply To that mute question of her eye: “Yea, love; the chain on him bestow Whose wisdom truth and might we know, The firm ally, the faithful friend Through toil and peril to the end.”

Then on Hanúmán’s bosom hung The chain which Sítá’s hand had flung: So may a cloud, when winds are still With moon-lit silver gird a hill.

To every Vánar Ráma gave Rich treasures from the mine and wave. And with their honours well content Homeward their steps the chieftains bent. Ten thousand years Ayodhyá, blest With Ráma’s rule, had peace and rest, No widow mourned her murdered mate, No house was ever desolate. The happy land no murrain knew, The flocks and herds increased and grew. The earth her kindly fruits supplied, No harvest failed, no children died. Unknown were want, disease, and crime: So calm, so happy was the time.(1029)

APPENDIX.

Section XIII. Rávan Doomed.

Afterwards Rishyaśring said again to the King “I will perform another sacrificial act to secure thee a son.” Then the son of Vibháṇdak, of subdued passions, seeking the happiness of the king, proceeded to perform the sacrifice for the accomplishment of his wishes. Hither were previously collected the gods, with the Gandharvas, the Siddhas and the sages, for the sake of receiving their respective shares, Brahmá too, the sovereign of the gods, with Stháṇu, and Náráyaṇa, chief of beings and the four supporters of the universe, and the divine mothers of all the celestials, met together there. To the Aśvamedha, the great sacrifice of the magnanimous monarch, came also Indra the glorious one, surrounded by the Maruts. Rishyaśring then supplicated the gods assembled for their share of the sacrifice (saying), “This devout king Daśaratha, who, through the desire of offspring, confiding in you, has performed sacred austerities, and who has offered to you the sacrifice called Aśvamedha, is about to perform another sacrifice for the sake of obtaining sons: To him thus desirous of offspring be pleased to grant the blessing: I supplicate you all with joined hands. May he have four sons, renowned through the universe.” The gods replied to the sage’s son supplicating with joined hands, “Be it so: thou, O Bráhman, art ever to be regarded by us, as the king is in a peculiar manner. The lord of men by this sacrifice shall obtain the great object of his desires.” Having thus said, the gods preceded by Indra, disappeared.

They all then having seen that (sacrifice) performed by the great sage according to the ordinance went to Prajápati the lord of mankind, and with joined hands addressed Brahmá the giver of blessings, “O Brahmá, the Ráksha Rávaṇa by name, to whom a blessing was awarded by thee, through pride troubleth all of us the gods, and even the great sages, who perpetually practise sacred austerities. We, O glorious one, regarding the promise formerly granted by thy kindness that he should be invulnerable to the gods, the Dánavas and the Yakshas have born (sic) all, (his oppression); this lord of Rákshas therefore distresses the universe; and, inflated by this promise unjustly vexes the divine sages, the Yakshas, and Gandharvas, the Asuras, and men: where Rávaṇa remains there the sun loses his force, the winds through fear of him do not blow; the fire ceases to burn; the rolling ocean, seeing him, ceases to move its waves. Viśravas, distressed by his power, has abandoned Lanká and fled. O divine one save us from Rávaṇa, who fills the world with noise and tumult. O giver of desired things, be pleased to contrive a way for his destruction.”

Brahmá thus informed by the devas, reflecting, replied, “Oh! I have devised the method for slaying this outrageous tyrant. Upon his requesting, ‘May I be invulnerable to the divine sages, the Gaundharvas, the Yakshas, the Rákshasas and the serpents,’ I replied ‘Be it so.’ This Ráksha, through contempt, said nothing respecting man; therefore this wicked one shall be destroyed by man.” The gods, preceded by Śakra, hearing these words spoken by Brahmá, were filled with joy.

At this time Vishṇu the glorious, the lord of the world, arrayed in yellow, with hand ornaments of glowing gold, riding on Vinateya, as the sun on a cloud, arrived with his conch, his discus, and his club in his hand. Being adored by the excellent celestials, and welcomed by Brahmá, he drew near and stood before him. All the gods then addressed Vishṇu, “O Madhusudana, thou art able to abolish the distress of the distressed. We intreat thee, be our sanctuary, O Vishṇu.” Vishṇu replied, “Say, what shall I do?” The celestials hearing these his words added further. “The virtuous, the encourager of excellence, eminent for truth, the firm observer of his vows, being childless, is performing an Aśvamedha for the purpose of obtaining offspring. For the sake of the good of the universe, we intreat thee, O Vishṇu, to become his son. Dividing thyself into four parts, in the wombs of his three consorts equal to Hari, Śrí, and Kirti, assume the sonship of king Daśaratha, the lord of Ayodhyá, eminent in the knowledge of duty, generous and illustrious, as the great sages. Thus becoming man, O Vishṇu, conquer in battle Rávaṇa, the terror of the universe, who is invulnerable to the gods. This ignorant Rákshasa Rávaṇa, by the exertion of his power, afflicts the gods, the Gandharvaa, the Siddhas, and the most excellent sages; these sages, the Gandharvas, and the Apsaras, sporting in the forest Nandana have been destroyed by that furious one. We, with the sages, are come to thee seeking his destruction. The Siddhas, the Gandharvas, and the Yakshas betake themselves to thee, thou art our only refuge; O Deva, afflicter of enemies, regard the world of men, and destroy the enemy of the gods.”

Vishṇu, the sovereign of the gods, the chief of the celestials, adored by all beings, being thus supplicated, replied to all the assembled gods (standing) before Brahmá, “Abandon fear; peace be with you; for your benefit having killed Rávaṇa the cruel, destructively active, the cause of fear to the divine sages, together with all his posterity, his courtiers and counsellors, and his relations, and friends, protecting the earth, I will remain incarnate among men for the space of eleven thousand years.”

Having given this promise to the gods, the divine Vishṇu, ardent in the work, sought a birth-place among men. Dividing himself into four parts, he whose eyes resemble the lotus and the pulasa, the lotus petal-eyed, chose for his father Daśaratha the sovereign of men. The divine sages then with the Gandharvas, the Rudras, and the (different sorts of) Apsaras, in the most excellent strains, praised the destroyer of Madhu, (saying) “Root up Rávaṇa, of fervid energy, the devastator, the enemy of Indra swollen with pride. Destroy him, who causes universal lamentation, the annoyer of the holy ascetics, terrible, the terror of the devout Tapaswis. Having destroyed Rávaṇa, tremendously powerful, who causes universal weeping, together with his army and friends, dismissing all sorrow, return to heaven, the place free from stain and sin, and protected by the sovereign of the celestial powers.”

Thus far the Section, containing the plan for the death of Rávaṇ.

CAREY AND MARSHMAN.

Caput XIV. RATIO NECANDI RAVANAE EXCOGITATA.

Prudens ille, voluminum sacrorum gnarus, responsum quod dederat aliquamdiu meditatus, mente ad se revocata regem deuno est effatus: Parabo tibi aliud sacrum, genitale, prolis masculae adipiscendae gratia, cum carminibus in ATHARVANIS exordio expressis rite peragendum. Tum coepit modestus Vibhândaci filius, regis commodis intentus, parare sacrum, quo eius desiderium expleret. Iam’antea eo convenerant, ut suam quisque portionem acciperent, Dî cum fidicinum coelestium choris, Beatique cum Sapientibus; Brachman Superûm regnator, Sthânus nec non augustus Nârâyanus, Indrasque almus, coram visendus Ventorum cohorte circumdatus, in magno isto sacrificio equino regis magnanimi. Ibidem vates ille deos, qui portiones suas accipiendi gratia advenerant, apprecatus, En inquit, hicce ex Dasarathus filiorum desiderio castimoniis adstrictus, fidei plenus, vestrum numen adoravit sacrificio equino. Nunc iterum accingit se ad aliud sacrum peragendum: quamobrem aequum est, ut filios cupienti vos faveatis. Ille ego, qui manus supplices tendo, vos universos pro eo apprecor: nascantur ei filii quatuor, faina per triplicem mundum clari. Divi supplicem vatis filium invicem affari: Fiat quod petis! Tu nobis, virsancte, imprimis es venerandus, nee minus rex ille; compos fiet voti sui egregii hominum princeps. Ita locuti Dî Indra duce, ex oculis evanuerunt.

Superi vero, legitime in concilio congregati. BRACHMANEM mundi creatorem his verbis compellarunt: Tuo munere auctus, O Brachman! gigas nomine Râvanas, prae superbia nos omnes vexat, pariterque Sapientes castimoniis gaudentes. A te propitio olim ex voto ei hoc munus concessum fuit, ut ne a diis, Danuidis, Geniisve necari posset. Nos, oraculum tuum reveriti, facinora eius qualiacunque toleramus. At ille gigantum tyrannus ternos mundos gravibus iniuriis vexat Deos, Sapientes, Genios, Fidicines coelestes, Titanes, mortales denique, exsuperat ille aegre cohibendus, tuoque munere demens. Non ibi calet sol, neque Ventus prae timore spirat, nee flagrat ignis, ubi Râvanas versatur. Ipse oceanus, vagis fluctibus redimitus, isto viso stat immotus; eiectus fuit e sede sua Cuvêrus, huius robore vexatus. Ergo ingens nobis periculum imminet ab hoc gigante visu horribili; tuum est, alme Parens! auxilium parare, quo hic deleatur. Ita admonitus ille a diis universis, paulisper meditatus, Ehem! inquit, hancce inveni rationem nefarium istum necandi. Petierat is a me, ut a Gandharvis, a Geniis, a Divis, Danuibus Gigantibusque necari non posset et me annuente voto suo potitus est. Prae contemptu vero monstrum illud homines non commemoravit: ideo ab homine est necandus: nullum aliud exstat leti genus, quod ei sit fatale. Postquam audiverant gratum hunc sermonem BRACHMANIS ore prolatum, Dî cum duce suo Indra summopere gaudio erecti sunt. Eodem temporis momento Vishnus, istuc accessit, splendore insignis, concham, discum et clavum manibus gestans, croceo vestitu, mundi dominus, vulturis Vinateii dorso, sicuti sol nimbo, vectus, armillas ex auro candente gerens, salutatus a Superûm primoribus. Quem laudibus celebratum reverenter Dî universi compellarunt. Tu animantium afflictorum es vindex, Madhûs interfector! quamobrem nos afflicti te apprecamur. Sis praesidio nobis numine tuo inconcusso. Dicite, inquit Vishnus, quid pro vobis facere me oporteat. Audito eius sermone, Dî hunc in modum respondent: Rex quidam, nomine Dasarathus, austeris castimoniis sese castigavit, litavit sacrificio equino, prolis cupidus et prole carens. Nostro hortatu tu, Vishnus, conditionem natorum eius subeas: ex tribus eius uxoribus, Pudicitiae, Venustatis et Famae similibus, nasci, velis, temetipsum quadrifariam dividens. Ibi tu in humanam naturam conversus Râvanam, gravissimam mundi pestem, diis insuperabilem, O Vishnus! proelio caede. Gigas ille vecors Râvanas Deos cum Fidicinum choris, Beatos et Sapientes praestantissimos vexat, audacia superbiens. Etenim ab hoc furioso Sapientes Fidicines et nymphae, ludentes in Nandano viridario, sunt proculcati. Tu es nostrum omnium summa salus, divine bellator! Ut deoram hostes extinguas, ad sortem humanam animum converte. Augustus ille Nârâyanus, diis hunc in modum coram hortantibus, eosdem apto hoc sermone compellavit: Quare, quaeso, hac in re negotium vestrum a me potissimum, corporea specie palam facto, est peragendum aut unde tantus vobis terror fuit iniectus? His verbis a Vishnû interrogati Dî talia proferre: Terror nobis instat, O Vishnus! a Râvana mundi direptore; a quo nos vindicare, corpore humano assumpto, tuum est. Nemo alius coelicoiarum praeter te hunc scelestum enecare potis est. Nimirum ille, O hostium domitor! per diuturnum tempus sese excruciaverat severissima abstinentia, qua magnus hicce rerum Parens propitius ipsi redditus est. Itaque almus votorum sponsor olim ei concessit securitatem ab ommibus animantibus, hominibus tamen exceptis. Hinc ilium, voti compotem, non aliunde quam ab homine necis periculum urget: tu ergo, humanitate assumpta eum intertice. Sic monitus Vishnus, Superûm princeps, quem mundus universus adorat, magnum Parentem oeterosque deos, in concilio congregatos, recti auctores, affatur: Mittite timorem; bene bobis eveniat! Vestrae salutis gratia, postquam praelio necavero Râvanam cum filiis nepotibusque, cum amicis, ministris, cognatis sociisque, crudelem istum aegre cohibendum, qui divinis Sapientibus terrorem meutit, per decem millia annorum decies centenis additis, commorabor in mortalium sedibus, orbem terrarum imperio regens. Tum divini sapientes et Fidicines conjuncti cum Rudris nympharumque choris celebravere Madhûs interfectorem hymnis, quales sedem aetheriam decent.

“Râvanam ilium insolentem, acri impetu actum, superbia elatum, Superûm hostem, tumultus cientem, bonorum piorumque pestem, humanitate assumpta pessamdare tuum est.”

SCHLEGEL.

Caput XIV. IL MEZZO STABILITO PER UCCIDERE RÁVANO.

Ma Riseyasringo soggiunse poscia al re: Tappresterò io un altro rito santissimo, genitale, onde tu conseguisca la prole che tu bramí. E in quel punto stesso il saggio figliulo di Vibhândaco, intento alla prosperità del re, pose mano al sacro rito per condurre ad effetto il suo desiderio. Già erano prima, per ricevere ciascuno la sua parte, qui convenuti al gran sacrifizio del re magnanimo l’Asvamedha, i Devi coi Gandharvi, i Siddhi e i Muni, Brahma Signor dei Sari, Sthânu e l’ Augusto Nârâyana, i quattio custodi dell’ universo e le Madri degli Iddu, i Yacsi insieme cogli Dei, e il sovrano, venerando Indra, visibile, circondato dalla schiera dei Maruti. Quivi così parlò Riscyasringo agli Dei venuti a partecipare del sacrifizio: Questo è il re Dasaratha, che per desiderio di progenie già s’ astrinse ad osservanze austeré, e testè pieno di fede ha a voi, O eccelsi, sacrificato con un Asvamedha. Ora egli, sollecito d’ aver figli, si dispone ad adempiere un nuovo rito; vogliate essere favorevole a lui che sospira progenie. Io alzo a voi supplici le mani, e voi tutti per lui imploro: nascano a lui quattro figli degni d’essere celebrati pei tre mondi. Risposero gli Dei al supplichevole figliuolo del Risci: Sia fatto ciò che chiedi; a te ed al re parimente si debbe da noi, O Brahmano, sommo pregio; canseguirà il re per questo sacro rito il suo suppremo desiderio. Ciò detto disparvero i Numi preceduti da Indra.

Poichè videro gli Dei compiersi debitamente dal gran Risci l’oblazione, venuti al cospetto di Brahma facitor del mondo, signor delle creature, così parlarono reverenti a lui dator di grazie: O Brahma, un Racsaso per nome Râvano, eui tu fosti largo del tuo favore, è per superbia infesto a noi tutti e ai grandi Saggi penitenti. Un di, O Nume, augusto, tu propizio a lui gli accordasti il favore, ch’ egli bramava, di non poter essere ucciso dagli Dei, dai Dânavi nè dai Yacsi: noi venerando i tuoi oracoli, ogni cosa sopportiamo da costui. Quindi il signor dei Racsasi infesta con perpetue offese i tre mondi, i Devi, i Risci, i Yacsi ed i Gandharvi, gli Asuri e gli uomini: tutti egli opprime indegnamente inorgoglito pel tuo dono. Colà dove si trova Râvano, più non isfavilla per timore il sole, più non spira il vento, più non fiammeggia il fuoco: l’ oceano stesso cui fan corona i vasti flutti, veggendo costui, tutto si turba e si commuove. Stretto dalla forza di costui e ridotto allo stremo dovette Vaisravano abbandonare Lancâ. Da questo Râvano, terror del mondo, tu ne proteggi, O almo Nume: degna, O dator d’ogni bene, trovar modo ad estirpar costui. Fatto di queste cose conscio dai Devi, stette alquanto meditando, poi rispose Brahma: Orsù! è stabilito il modo onde distruggere questo iniquo. Egli a me chiese, ed io gliel concessi, di non poter essere ucciso dai Devi, dai Risci, dai Gandharvi, dai Yacsi, dai Racsasi nè dai Serpenti; ma per disprezzo non fece menzione degli uomini quel Racso: or bene, sarà quell’ empio ucciso da un uomo. Udite le fauste parole profferte da Brahma, furono per ogni parte liete gli Iddii col loro duce Indra. In questo mezzo quì sopravvenne raggiante d’immensa luce il venerando Visnu, pensato da Brahma nell’ immortal sua mente, siccome atto ad estirpar colui; Allora Brahma colla schiera de’ Celesti così parlò a Visnu: Tu sei il conforto delle gente oppresse, O distruttor di Madhu: noi quindi a te supplichiamo afflitti: sia tu nostro sostegno, O Aciuto. Dite, loro rispose Visnu, quale cosa io debba far per voi; e gli Dei, udite queste parole, cosi soggiunsero: Un re per nome Dasaratha, giusto, virtuoso, veridico e pio, non ha progenie e la desidera: ei già s’ impose durissime penitenze, ed ora ha sacrificato con un Asvamedha: tu, per nostro consiglio, O Visnu, consenti a divenir suo figlio: fatte di te quattro parti, ti manifesta, O invocato dalle genti, nel seno delle quattro sue consorti, simili alla venusta Dea. Così esortato dagli Dei quivi presenti, l’augusto Nârâyana loro rispose queste opportune parole: Quale opra s’ha da me, fatto visible nel mondo, a compiere per voi, O Devi? e d’onde in voi cotal terrore? Intese le parole di Visnu, così risposero gli Dei: Il nostro terrore. O Visnu, nasce da un Racsaso per nome Râvano, spavento dell’ universo. Vestendo umano corpo, tu debbi esterminar costui. Nessuno fra i Celesti, fuorchè tu solo, è valevole ad uccidere quell’ iniquo. Egli, O domator de’ tuoi nemici, sostenne per lungo tempo acerbissime macerazioni: per esse fu di lui contento l’augusto sommo Genitore: e un di gli accordò propizio la sicurezza da tutti gli esseri, eccettutine gli uomini. Per questo favore a lui concesso nou ha egli a temere offesa da alcuna parte, fuorchè dall’ uomo, perciò, assumendo la natura umana, costui tu uccidi. Egli, il peggior di tutti i Racsasi, insano per la forza che gli infonde il dono avuto, da travaglio ai Devi ed ai Gaudharvi, ai Risci, ai Muni ed ai mortali. Egli, sicuro da morte pel favore ottenuto, è turbatore dei sacrifizj, nemico ed uccisor dei Brahmi, divoratore degli uomini, peste del mondo. Da lui furono assaliti re coi loro carri ed elefanti; altri percessi e fugati si dispersero per ogni dove. Da lui furono divorati Risci ed Apsarase: egli insomma oltracotato continuamente e quasi per ischerzo tutti travaglia i sette mondi. Perciò, O terribile ai nemici è stabilita la morte di costui per opra d’un uomo; poich’ un di per superbia del dono tutti sprezzò gli uomini. Tu, O supremo fra i Numi, dei, umanandoti, estirpare questo tremendo, superbo Ràvano, oltracotato, a noi nemico, terrore e flagello dei penitenti.

GORRESIO.

XIV.

De nouveau Rishyaçringa tint ce langage au Monarque: “Je vais célébrer un autre sacrifice, afin que le ciel accorde à tes vœux les enfants que tu souhaites.” Cela dit, cherchant le bonheur du roi et pour l’accomplissement de son désir, le fils puissant de Vibhándaka se mit à célébrer ce nouveau sacrifice.

Là auparavant, étaient venus déjà recevoir une part de l’ offrande les Dieux, accompagnés des Gaudharvas, et les Siddhas avec les Mounis divins, Brahma, le monarque des Souras, l’ immuable Śiva, et l’ auguste Náráyana, et les quatre gardiens vigilants du monde, et les mères des Immortels, et tous les Dieux, escortés des Yakshas, et le maître éminent du ciel, Indra, qui se manifestait aux yeux, environné par l’ essaim des Maroutes. Alors ce jeune anachorète avait supplié tous les Dieux, que le désir d’une part dans l’ offrande avait conduits á l’ açwamédha, cette grande cérémonie de ce roi magnanime; et, dans ce moment, l’ époux de Śántá les conjurait ainsi pour la seconde fois: “Cet homme en prières, c’est le roi Daçaratha, qui est privé de fils. Il est rempli d’ une foi vive; il s’est infligé de pénibles austérités; il vous a déjà servi, divinités augustes, le sacrifice d’un açwa-médha, et maintenant il s’étudie encore à vous plaire avec ce nouveau sacrifice dans l’espérance que vous lui donnerez les fils, où tendent ses désirs. Versez donc sur lui votre bienveillance et daignez sourire à son vœu pour des fils. C’est pour lui que moi ici, les mains jointes, je vous adresse à tous mes supplications: envoyez-lui quatre fils, qui soient vantés dans les trois mondes!”

“Ouí! répondirent les Dieux au fils suppliant du rishi; tu mérites que nous t’écoutions avec faveur, toi, brahme saint, et même, en premier lieu, ce roi. Comme récompense de ces différents sacrifices, le monarque obtendra cet objet le plus cher de ses désirs.”

Ayant aussi parlé et vu que le grand saint avait mis fin suivant les rites à son pieux sacrifice, les Dieux, Indra à leur tête, s’évanouissent dans le vide des airs et se rendent vers l’ architecte des mondes, le souverain des créatures, le donateur des biens, vers Brahma enfin, auquel tous, les mains jointes, ils adressent les paroles suivantes: “O Brahma, un rakshasa, nommé Râvana, tourne su mal les grâces, qu’il a reçues de toi. Dans son orgueil, il nous opprime tous; il opprime avec nous les grands anchorètes, qui se font un bonheur des macérations: car jadis, ayant su te plaire, O Bhagavat, il a reçu de toi ce don incomparable. ‘Oui, as-tu dit, exauçant le vœu du mauvais Génie; Dieu. Yaksha ou Démon ne pourra jamais causer ta mort!’ Et nous, par qui ta parole est respectée, nous avons tout supporté de ce roi des rakshasas, qui écrase de sa tyrannie les trois mondes, ou il promène l’ injure impunément. Enorgueilli de ce don victorieux, il opprime indignement les Dieux, les rishis, les Yakshas, les Gandharvas, les Asouras et les enfants de Manou. Là ou se tient Râvana, la peur empêche le soleil d’échauffer, le vent craint de souffler, et le feu n’ose flamboyer. A son aspect, la guirlande même des grands flots tremble au sein de la mer. Accablé par sa vigueur indomptable, Kouvéra défait lui a cédé Lanká. Suave-nous donc, ô toi, qui reposes daus le bonheur absolu; sauve-nous de Râvana, le fléau des mondes. Daigne, ô toi, qui souris aux vœux du suppliant, daigne imaginer un expedient pour ôter la vie à ce cruel Démon.” Les Dieux ayant ainsi dénoncé leurs maux à Brahma, il réfléchit un instant et leur tint ce langage: “Bien, voici que j’ai découvert un moyen pour tuer ce Génie scélérat. Que ni les Dieux, a-t-il dit, ni les rishis, ni les Gandharvas ni les Yakshas, ni les rakshasas, ni les Nágas même ne puissent me donner la mort! Soit lui ai-je répondu. Mais, par dédain pour la force humaine, les hommes n’ont pas été compris daus sa demande. C’est donc par la main d’ un homme, qu’il faut immoler ce méchant.” Ainsi tombée de la bouche du créateur, cette parole salutaire satisfit pleinement le roi des habitants du ciel et tous les Dieux avec lui. Lá, dans ce même instant, survint le fortuné Visnou, revêtu d’ une splendeur infinie; car c’était a lui, que Brahma avait pensé dans son âme pour la mort du tyran. Celui-ci donc avec l’essaim des Immortels adresse à Vishnou ces paroles: “Meurtrier de Madhou, comme tu aimes á tirer de l’affliction les êtres malheureux, nous te supplions, nous qui sommes plongés dans la tristesse, Divinité auguste, sois notre asyle!” “Dites! reprit Vishnou; que dois-je faire?” “Ayant oui les paroles de l’ineffable, tous les Dieux repondirent: Il est un roi nommé Daçaratha; il a embrassé une très-duré pénitence; il a célébré même le sacrifice d’un açwa-medha, parce qu’il n’a point de fils et qu’il veut en obtenir du ciel. Il est inébranlable dans sa piété, il est vanté pour ses vertus; la justice est son caractère, la verite est sa parole. Acquiesce donc à notre demande, ô toi, Vishnou, et consens à naître comme son fils. Divisé en quatre portions de toi-même, daigne, ô toi, qui foules aux pieds tes ennemis, daigne t’ incarner dans le sein de ses trois épouses, belles comme la déesse de la beauté.” Náráyana, le maître, non perceptible aux sens, mais qui alors s’ était rendu visible, Náráyana répondit cette parole salutaire aux Dieux, qui i invitaient à cet heroique avatára. Quelle chose, une fois revêtu de cette incarnation, faudra-t-il encore que je fasse pour vous, et de quelle part vient la terreur, qui vous trouble ainsi? A ces mots du grand Vishnou: “C’est le démon Rávana, reprirent les Dieux; c’est lui, Vishnou, cette désolation des mondes, qui nous inspire un tel effroi. Enveloppe-toi d’un corps, humain, et qu’il te plaise arrâcher du monde cette blessante epine; car nul autre que toi parmi les habitants du ciel n’est capable d’immoler ce pécheur. Sache que longtemps il s’est imposé la plus austére pénitence, et que par elle il s’est rendu agreable au suprême ayeul de toutes les créatures. Aussi le distributeur ineffable des gràces lui a-t-il accordé ce don insigne d’être invulnérable à tous les êtres, l’ homme seul excepté. Puisque, doué ainsi de cette faveur, la mort terrible et sûre ne peut venir à lui de nulle autre part que de l’homme, va, dompteur puissant de tes ennemis, va dans la condition humaine, et tue-le. Car ce don, auquel on ne peut résister, élevant au plus haut point l’ivresse de sa force, le vil rakshasa tourmente les Dieux, les rishis, les Gandharvas, les hommes sanctifiés par la pénitence; et, quoique, destructeur des sacrifices, lacérateur des Saintes Ecritures, ennemi des brahmes, dévorateur des hommes, cette faveur incomparable sauve de la mort Rávana le triste fléau des mondes. Il ose attaquer les rois, que défendant les chars de guerre, que remparent les élephants: d’autres blessés et mis en fuite, sont dissipés ça et là devant lui. Il a dévoré des saints, il a dévoré même une foule d’apsaras. Sans cesse, dans son délire, il s’amuse à tourmenter les sept mondes. Comme on vient de nous apprendre qu’ il n’a point daigné parler d’eux ce jour, que lui fut donnée cette faveur, dont il abuse, entre dans un corps humain, ô toi, qui peux briser tes ennemis, et jette sans vie à tes pieds, roi puissant des treize Dieux, ce Rávana superbe, d’une force épouvantable, d’un orgueil immense, l’ennemi de tous les ascètes, ce ver, qui les ronge, cette cause de leurs gémissements.”

Ici, dans le premier tome du saint Râmâyana, Finit le quatorzième chapitre, nommé: UN EXPÉDIENT POUR TUER RÁVANA.

HIPPOLYTE FAUCHE.

Uttarakánda.

The Rámáyan ends, epically complete, with the triumphant return of Ráma and his rescued queen to Ayodhyá and his consecration and coronation in the capital of his forefathers. Even if the story were not complete, the conclusion of the last Canto of the sixth Book, evidently the work of a later hand than Válmíki’s, which speaks of Ráma’s glorious and happy reign and promises blessings to those who read and hear the Rámáyan, would be sufficient to show that, when these verses were added, the poem was considered to be finished. The Uttarakáṇḍa or Last Book is merely an appendix or a supplement and relates only events antecedent and subsequent to those described in the original poem. Indian scholars however, led by reverential love of tradition, unanimously ascribe this Last Book to Válmíki, and regard it as part of the Rámáyan.

Signor Gorresio has published an excellent translation of the Uttarakáṇḍa, in Italian prose, from the recension current in Bengal;(1030) and Mr. Muir has epitomized a portion of the book in the Appendix to the Fourth Part of his Sanskrit Texts (1862). From these scholars I borrow freely in the following pages, and give them my hearty thanks for saving me much wearisome labour.

“After Ráma had returned to Ayodhyá and taken possession of the throne, the rishis [saints] assembled to greet him, and Agastya, in answer to his questions recounted many particulars regarding his old enemies. In the Krita Yuga (or Golden Age) the austere and pious Brahman rishi Pulastya, a son of Brahmá, being teased with the visits of different damsels, proclaimed that any one of them whom he again saw near his hermitage should become pregnant. This had not been heard by the daughter of the royal rishi Triṇavindu, who one day came into Pulastya’s neighbourhood, and her pregnancy was the result (Sect. 2, vv. 14 ff.). After her return home, her father, seeing her condition, took her to Pulastya, who accepted her as his wife, and she bore a son who received the name of Viśravas. This son was, like his father, an austere and religious sage. He married the daughter of the muni Bharadvája, who bore him a son to whom Brahmá gave the name of Vaiśravaṇ-Kuvera (Sect. 3, vv. 1 ff.). He performed austerities for thousands of years, when he obtained from Brahmá as a boon that he should be one of the guardians of the world (along with Indra, Varuṇa, and Yáma) and the god of riches. He afterwards consulted his father Viśravas about an abode, and at his suggestion took possession of the city of Lanká, which had formerly been built by Viśvakarmán for the Rákshasas, but had been abandoned by them through fear of Vishṇu, and was at that time unoccupied. Ráma then (Sect. 4) says he is surprised to hear that Lanká had formerly belonged to the Rákshasas, as he had always understood that they were the descendants of Pulastya, and now he learns that they had also another origin. He therefore asks who was their ancestor, and what fault they had committed that they were chased away by Vishṇu. Agastya replies that when Brahmá created the waters, he formed certain beings,—some of whom received the name of Rákshasas,—to guard them. The first Rákshasas kings were Heti and Praheti. Heti married a sister of Kála (Time). She bore him a son Vidyutkeśa, who in his turn took for his wife Lankatanka[t.]á, the daughter of Sandhyá (V. 21). She bore him a son Sukeśa, whom she abandoned, but he was seen by Śiva as he was passing by with his wife Párvatí, who made the child as old as his mother, and immortal, and gave him a celestial city. Sukeśa married a Gandharví called Devavatí who bore three sons, Mályavat, Sumáli and Máli. These sons practised intense austerities, when Brahmá appeared and conferred on them invincibility and long life. They then harassed the gods. Viśvakarmá gave them a city, Lanká, on the mountain Trikúṭa, on the shore of the southern ocean, which he had built at the command of Indra.… The three Rákshasa, Mályavat and his two brothers, then began to oppress the gods, rishis, etc.; who (Sect. 6, v. 1 ff.) in consequence resort for aid to Mahádeva, who having regard to his protégé Sukeśa the father of Mályavat, says that he cannot kill the Rákshasas, but advises the suppliants to go to Vishṇu, which they do, and receive from him a promise that he will destroy their enemies. The three Rákshasa kings, hearing of this, consult together, and proceed to heaven to attack the gods. Vishṇu prepares to meet them. The battle is described in the seventh section. The Rákshasas are defeated by Vishṇu with great slaughter, and driven back to Lanká, one of their leaders, Máli, being slain. Mályavat remonstrates with Vishṇu, who was assaulting the rear of the fugitives, for his unwarrior-like conduct, and wishes to renew the combat (Sect. 8, v. 3 ff.). Vishṇu replies that he must fulfil his promise to the gods by slaying the Rákshasas, and that he would destroy them even if they fled to Pátála. These Rákshasas, Agastya says, were more powerful than Rávaṇa, and, could only be destroyed by Náráyaṇa, i.e. by Ráma himself, the eternal, indestructible god. Sumáli with his family lived for along time in Pátála, while Kuvera dwelt in Lanká. In section 9 it is related that Sumáli once happened to visit the earth, when he observed Kuvera going in his chariot to see his father Viśravas. This leads him to consider how he might restore his own fortunes. He consequently desires his daughter Kaikasí to go and woo Viśravas, who receives her graciously. She becomes the mother of the dreadful Rávaṇa, of the huge Kumbhakarṇa, of Śúrpaṇakhá, and of the righteous Vibhishaṇa, who was the last son. These children grow up in the forest. Kumbhakarṇa goes about eating rishis. Kuvera comes to visit his father, when Kaikasí takes occasion to urge her son Rávaṇa to strive to become like his brother (Kuvera) in splendour. This Rávaṇa promises to do. He then goes to the hermitage of Gokarna with his brothers to perform austerity. In section 10 their austere observances are described: after a thousand years’ penance Rávaṇa throws his head into the fire. He repeats this oblation nine times after equal intervals, and is about to do it the tenth time, when Brahmá appears, and offers a boon. Rávaṇa asks immortality, but is refused. He then asks that he may be indestructible by all creatures more powerful than men; which boon is accorded by Brahmá together with the recovery of all the heads he had sacrificed and the power of assuming any shape he pleased. Vibhishaṇa asks as his boon that even amid the greatest calamities he may think only of righteousness, and that the weapon of Brahmá may appear to him unlearnt, etc. The god grants his request, and adds the gift of immortality. When Brahmá is about to offer a boon to Kumbhakarṇa, the gods interpose, as, they say, he had eaten seven Apsarases and ten followers of Indra, besides rishis and men; and beg that under the guise of a boon stupefaction may be inflicted on him. Brahmá thinks on Sarasvatí, who arrives and, by Brahmá’s command, enters into Kumbhakarṇa’s mouth that she may speak for him. Under this influence he asks that he may receive the boon of sleeping for many years, which is granted. When however Sarasvatí has left him, and he recovers his own consciousness, he perceives that he has been deluded. Kuvera by his father’s advice, gives up the city of Lanká to Rávaṇ.”(1031) Rávaṇa marries (Sect. 12) Mandodarí the beautiful daughter of the Asur Maya whose name has several times occurred in the Rámáyan as that of an artist of wonderful skill. She bears a son Meghanáda or the Roaring Cloud who was afterwards named Indrajít from his victory over the sovereign of the skies. The conquest of Kuvera, and the acquisition of the magic self-moving chariot which has done much service in the Rámáyan, form the subject of sections XIII., XIV. and XV. “The rather pretty story of Vedavatí is related in the seventeenth section, as follows: Rávaṇa in the course of his progress through the world, comes to the forest on the Himálaya, where he sees a damsel of brilliant beauty, but in ascetic garb, of whom he straightway becomes enamoured. He tells her that such an austere life is unsuited to her youth and attractions, and asks who she is and why she is leading an ascetic existence. She answers that she is called Vedavatí, and is the vocal daughter of Vṛihaspati’s son, the rishi Kuśadhwaja, sprung from him during his constant study of the Veda. The gods, gandharvas, etc., she says, wished that she should choose a husband, but her father would give her to no one else than to Vishṇu, the lord of the world, whom he desired for his son-in-law. Vedavatí then proceeds: ‘In order that I may fulfil this desire of my father in respect of Náráyaṇa, I wed him with my heart. Having entered into this engagement I practise great austerity. Náráyaṇa and no other than he, Purushottama, is my husband. From the desire of obtaining him, I resort to this severe observance.’ Rávaṇa’s passion is not in the least diminished by this explanation and he urges that it is the old alone who should seek to become distinguished by accumulating merit through austerity, prays that she who is so young and beautiful shall become his bride; and boasts that he is superior to Vishṇu. She rejoins that no one but he would thus contemn that deity. On receiving this reply he touches the hair of her head with the tip of his finger. She is greatly incensed, and forthwith cuts off her hair and tells him that as he has so insulted her, she cannot continue to live, but will enter into the fire before his eyes. She goes on ‘Since I have been insulted in the forest by thee who art wicked-hearted, I shall be born again for thy destruction. For a man of evil desire cannot be slain by a woman; and the merit of my austerity would be lost if I were to launch a curse against thee. But if I have performed or bestowed or sacrificed aught may I be born the virtuous daughter, not produced from the womb, of a righteous man.’ Having thus spoken she entered the blazing fire. Then a shower of celestial flowers fell (from every part of the sky). It is she, lord, who, having been Vedavatí in the Krita age, has been born (in the Treta age) as the daughter of the king of the Janakas, and (has become) thy [Ráma’s] bride; for thou art the eternal Vishṇu. The mountain-like enemy who was [virtually] destroyed before by her wrath, has now been slain by her having recourse to thy superhuman energy.” On this the commentator remarks: “By this it is signified that Sítá was the principal cause of Rávaṇa’s death; but the function of destroying him is ascribed to Ráma.” On the words, “thou art Vishṇu,” in the preceding verse the same commentator remarks: “By this it is clearly affirmed that Sítá was Lakshmí.” This is what Paráśara says: “In the god’s life as Ráma, she became Sítá, and in his birth as Krishṇa [she became] Rukminí.”(1032)

In the following section (XVIII.) “Rávaṇa is described as violently interrupting a sacrifice which is being performed by king Marutta, and the assembled gods in terror assume different shapes to escape; Indra becomes a peacock, Yáma a crow, Kuvera a lizard, and Varuṇa a swan; and each deity bestows a boon on the animal he had chosen. The peacock’s tail recalls Indra’s thousand eyes; the swan’s colour becomes white, like the foam of the ocean (Varuṇa being its lord); the lizard obtains a golden colour; and the crow is never to die except when killed by a violent death, and the dead are to enjoy the funeral oblations when they have been devoured by the crows.”(1033)

Rávaṇ then attacks Arjuna or Kárttavírya the mighty king of Máhishmati on the banks of the Narmadá, and is defeated, captured and imprisoned by Arjuna. At the intercession of Pulastya (Sect. XXII.) he is released from his bonds. He then visits Kishkindhá where he enters into alliance with Báli the King of the Vánars: “We will have all things in common,” says Rávaṇ, “dames, sons, cities and kingdoms, food, vesture, and all delights.” His next exploit is the invasion of the kingdom of departed spirits and his terrific battle with the sovereign Yáma. The poet in his description of these regions with the detested river with waves of blood, the dire lamentations, the cries for a drop of water, the devouring worm, all the tortures of the guilty and the somewhat insipid pleasures of the just, reminds one of the scenes in the under world so vividly described by Homer, Virgil, and Dante. Yáma is defeated (Sect. XXVI.) by the giant, not so much by his superior power as because at the request of Brahmá Yáma refrains from smiting with his deadly weapon the Rákshas enemy to whom that God had once given the promise that preserved him. In the twenty-seventh section Rávaṇ goes “under the earth into Pátála the treasure-house of the waters inhabited by swarms of serpents and Daityas, and well defended by Varuṇ.” He subdues Bhogavatí the city ruled by Vásuki and reduces the Nágas or serpents to subjection. He penetrates even to the imperial seat of Varuṇ. The God himself is absent, but his sons come forth and do battle with the invader. The giant is victorious and departs triumphant. The twenty-eighth section gives the details of a terrific battle between Rávaṇ and Mándhátá King of Ayodhyá, a distinguished ancestor of Ráma. Supernatural weapons are employed on both sides and the issue of the conflict is long doubtful. But at last Mándhátá prepares to use the mighty weapon “acquired by severe austerities through the grace and favour of Rudra.” The giant would inevitably have been slain. But two pre-eminent Munis Pulastya and Gálava beheld the fight through the power given by contemplation, and with words of exhortation they parted King Mándhátá and the sovereign of the Rákshases. Rávaṇ at last (Sect. XXXII.) returns homeward carrying with him in his car Pushpak the virgin daughters of kings, of Rishis, of Daityas, and Gandharvas whom he has seized upon his way. The thirty-sixth section describes a battle with Indra, in which the victorious Meghanáda son of the giant, makes the King of the Gods his prisoner, binds him with his magic art, and carries him away (Sect. XXVII.) in triumph to Lanká. Brahmá intercedes (Sect. XXXVIII.) and Indrajít releases his prisoner on obtaining in return the boon that sacrifice to the Lord of Fire shall always make him invincible in the coming battle. In sections XXXIX., XL, “we have a legend related to Ráma by the sage Agastya to account for the stupendous strength of the monkey Hanumán, as it had been described in the Rámáyaṇa. Rama naturally wonders (as perhaps many readers of the Rámáyaṇa have done since) why a monkey of such marvellous power and prowess had not easily overcome Báli and secured the throne for his friend Sugríva. Agastya replies that Hanumán was at that time under a curse from a Rishi, and consequently was not conscious of his own might.”(1034) The whole story of the marvellous Vánar is here given at length, but nothing else of importance is added to the tale already given in the Rámáyaṇa. The Rishis or saints then (Sect. XL.) return to their celestial seats, and the Vánars, Rákshases and bears also (Sect. XLIII.) take their departure. The chariot Pushpak is restored to its original owner Kuvera, as has already been related in the Rámáyaṇ.

The story of Ráma and Sítá is then continued, and we meet with matter of more human interest. The winter is past and the pleasant spring-time is come, and Ráma and Sítá sit together in the shade of the Aśoka trees happy as Indra and Śachí when they drink in Paradise the nectar of the Gods. “Tell me, my beloved,” says Ráma, “for thou wilt soon be a mother, hast thou a wish in thy heart for me to gratify?” And Sítá smiles and answers: “I long, O son of Raghu, to visit the pure and holy hermitages on the banks of the Ganges and to venerate the feet of the saints who there perform their rigid austerities and live on roots and berries. This is my chief desire, to stand within the hermits’ grove were it but for a single day.” And Ráma said: “Let not the thought trouble thee: thou shalt go to the grove of the ascetics.” But slanderous tongues have been busy in Ayodhyá, and Sítá has not been spared. Ráma hears that the people are lamenting his blind folly in taking back to his bosom the wife who was so long a captive in the palace of Rávaṇ. Ráma well knows her spotless purity in thought, word, and deed, and her perfect love of him; but he cannot endure the mockery and the shame and resolves to abandon his unsuspecting wife. He orders the sad but still obedient Lakshmaṇ to convey her to the hermitage which she wishes to visit and to leave her there, for he will see her face again no more. They arrive at the hermitage, and Lakshmaṇ tells her all. She falls fainting on the ground, and when she recovers her consciousness sheds some natural tears and bewails her cruel and undeserved lot. But she resolves to live for the sake of Ráma and her unborn son, and she sends by Lakshmaṇ a dignified message to the husband who has forsaken her: “I grieve not for myself,” she says “because I have been abandoned on account of what the people say, and not for any evil that I have done. The husband is the God of the wife, the husband is her lord and guide; and what seems good unto him she should do even at the cost of her life.”

Sítá is honourably received by the saint Válmíki himself, and the holy women of the hermitage are charged to entertain and serve her. In this calm retreat she gives birth to two boys who receive the names of Kuśa and Lava. They are carefully brought up and are taught by Válmíki himself to recite the Rámáyaṇ. The years pass by: and Ráma at length determines to celebrate the Aśvamedha or Sacrifice of the Steed. Válmíki, with his two young pupils, attends the ceremony, and the unknown princes recite before the delighted father the poem which recounts his deeds. Ráma inquires into their history and recognizes them as his sons. Sítá is invited to return and solemnly affirm her innocence before the great assembly.

“But Sítá’s heart was too full; this second ordeal was beyond even her power to submit to, and the poet rose above the ordinary Hindu level of women when he ventured to paint her conscious purity as rebelling: ‘Beholding all the spectators, and clothed in red garments, Sítá clasping her hands and bending low her face, spoke thus in a voice choked with tears: “as I, even in mind, have never thought of any other than Ráma, so may Mádhaví the goddess of Earth, grant me a hiding-place.” As Sítá made this oath, lo! a marvel appeared. Suddenly cleaving the earth, a divine throne of marvellous beauty rose up, borne by resplendent dragons on their heads: and seated on it, the goddess of Earth, raising Sítá with her arm, said to her, “Welcome to thee!” and placed her by her side. And as the queen, seated on the throne, slowly descended to Hades, a continuous shower of flowers fell down from heaven on her head.’(1035)”

“Both the great Hindu epics thus end in disappointment and sorrow. In the Mahábhárata the five victorious brothers abandon the hardly won throne to die one by one in a forlorn pilgrimage to the Himálaya; and in the same way Ráma only regains his wife, after all his toils, to lose her. It is the same in the later Homeric cycle—the heroes of the Iliad perish by ill-fated deaths. And even Ulysses, after his return to Ithaca, sets sail again to Thesprotia, and finally falls by the hand of his own son. But in India and Greece alike this is an afterthought of a self-conscious time, which has been subsequently added to cast a gloom on the strong cheerfulness of the heroic age.”(1036)

“The termination of Ráma’s terrestrial career is thus told in Sections 116 ff. of the Uttarakáṇda. Time, in the form of an ascetic, comes to his palace gate, and asks, as the messenger of the great rishi (Brahmá) to see Ráma. He is admitted and received with honour, but says, when he is asked what he has to communicate, that his message must be delivered in private, and that any one who witnesses the interview is to lose his life. Ráma informs Lakshmaṇ of all this, and desires him to stand outside. Time then tells Ráma that he has been sent by Brahmá, to say that when he (Ráma, i.e. Vishṇu) after destroying the worlds was sleeping on the ocean, he had formed him (Brahmá) from the lotus springing from his navel, and committed to him the work of creation; that he (Brahmá) had then entreated Ráma to assume the function of Preserver, and that the latter had in consequence become Vishṇu, being born as the son of Aditi, and had determined to deliver mankind by destroying Rávaṇa, and to live on earth ten thousand and ten hundred years; that period, adds Time, was now on the eve of expiration, and Ráma could either at his pleasure prolong his stay on earth, or ascend to heaven and rule over the gods. Ráma replies, that he had been born for the good of the three worlds, and would now return to the place whence he had come, as it was his function to fulfil the purposes of the gods. While they are speaking the irritable rishi Durvásas comes, and insists on seeing Ráma immediately, under a threat, if refused, of cursing Ráma and all his family.”

Lakshmaṇ, preferring to save his kinsman, though knowing that his own death must be the consequence of interrupting the interview of Ráma with Time, enters the palace and reports the rishi’s message to Ráma. Ráma comes out, and when Durvásas has got the food he wished, and departed, Ráma reflects with great distress on the words of Time, which require that Lakshmaṇ should die. Lakshmaṇ however exhorts Ráma not to grieve, but to abandon him and not break his own promise. The counsellors concurring in this advice, Ráma abandons Lakshmaṇ, who goes to the river Sarayú, suppresses all his senses, and is conveyed bodily by Indra to heaven. The gods are delighted by the arrival of the fourth part of Vishṇu. Ráma then resolves to install Bharata as his successor and retire to the forest and follow Lakshmaṇ. Bharata however refuses the succession, and determines to accompany his brother. Ráma’s subjects are filled with grief, and say they also will follow him wherever he goes. Messengers are sent to Śatrughna, the other brother, and he also resolves to accompany Ráma; who at length sets out in procession from his capital with all the ceremonial appropriate to the “great departure,” silent, indifferent to external objects, joyless, with Śrí on his right, the goddess Earth on his left, Energy in front, attended by all his weapons in human shapes, by the Vedas in the forms of Bráhmans, by the Gáyatrí, the Omkára, the Vashaṭkára, by rishis, by his women, female slaves, eunuchs, and servants. Bharata with his family, and Śatrughna, follow together with Bráhmans bearing the sacred fire, and the whole of the people of the country, and even with animals, etc., etc. Ráma, with all these attendants, comes to the banks of the Sarayú. Brahmá, with all the gods and innumerable celestial cars, now appears, and all the sky is refulgent with the divine splendour. Pure and fragrant breezes blow, a shower of flowers falls. Ráma enters the waters of the Sarayú; and Brahmá utters a voice from the sky, saying: “Approach, Vishṇu; Rághava, thou hast happily arrived, with thy godlike brothers. Enter thine own body as Vishṇu or the eternal ether. For thou art the abode of the worlds: no one comprehends thee, the inconceivable and imperishable, except the large-eyed Máyá thy primeval spouse.” Hearing these words, Ráma enters the glory of Vishṇu with his body and his followers. He then asks Brahmá to find an abode for the people who had accompanied him from devotion to his person, and Brahmá appoints them a celestial residence accordingly.(1037)

ADDITIONAL NOTES.

Queen Fortune.

“A curious festival is celebrated in honour of this divinity (Lakshmî) on the fifth lunar day of the light half of the month Mâgha (February), when she is identified with Saraswatí the consort of Brahmá, and the goddess of learning. In his treatise on festivals, a great modern authority, Raghunandana, mentions, on the faith of a work called Samvatsara-sandipa, that Lakshmî is to be worshipped in the forenoon of that day with flowers, perfumes, rice, and water; that due honour is to be paid to inkstand and writing-reed, and no writing to be done. Wilson, in his essay on the Religious Festivals of the Hindus (works, vol. ii, p. 188. ff.) adds that on the morning of the 2nd February, the whole of the pens and inkstands, and the books, if not too numerous and bulky, are collected, the pens or reeds cleaned, the inkstands scoured, and the books wrapped up in new cloth, are arranged upon a platform, or a sheet, and strewn over with flowers and blades of young barley, and that no flowers except white are to be offered. After performing the necessary rites, … all the members of the family assemble and make their prostrations; the books, the pens, and ink having an entire holiday; and should any emergency require a written communication on the day dedicated to the divinity of scholarship, it is done with chalk or charcoal upon a black or white board.”

CHAMBERS’S ENCYCLOPÆDIA. Lakshmî.

Indra.

“The Hindu Jove or Jupiter Tonans, chief of the secondary deities. He presides over swarga or paradise, and is more particularly the god of the atmosphere and winds. He is also regent of the east quarter of the sky. As chief of the deities he is called Devapati, Devadeva, Surapati, etc.; as lord of the atmosphere Divaspati; as lord of the eight Vasus or demigods, Fire, etc., Vásava; as breaking cities into fragments, Purandara, Puranda; as lord of a hundred sacrifices (the performance of a hundred Aśvamedhas elevating the sacrificer to the rank of Indra) Śatakratu, Śatamakha; as having a thousand eyes, Sahasráksha; as husband of Śachí, Śachípati. His wife is called Śachí, Indráṇí, Sakráṇí, Maghoni, Indraśakti, Pulomajá, and Paulomí. His son is Jayanta. His pleasure garden or elysium is Nandana; his city, Amarávatí; his palace, Vaijayanta; his horse, Uchchaihśravas, his elephant, Airávata; his charioteer, Mátali.”

PROFESSOR M. WILLIAMS’S English-Sanskrit Dictionary. Indra.

Vishnu.

“The second person of the Hindu triad, and the most celebrated and popular of all the Indian deities. He is the personification of the preserving power, and became incarnate in nine different forms, for the preservation of mankind in various emergencies. Before the creation of the universe, and after its temporary annihilation, he is supposed to sleep on the waters, floating on the serpent Śesha, and is then identified with Náráyaṇa. Brahmá, the creator, is fabled to spring at that time from a lotus which grows from his navel, whilst thus asleep.… His ten avatárs or incarnations are:

“1. The Matsya, or fish. In this avatár Vishṇu descended in the form of a fish to save the pious king Satyavrata, who with the seven Rishis and their wives had taken refuge in the ark to escape the deluge which then destroyed the earth. 2, The Kúrma, or Tortoise. In this he descended in the form of a tortoise, for the purpose of restoring to man some of the comforts lost during the flood. To this end he stationed himself at the bottom of the ocean, and allowed the point of the great mountain Mandara to be placed upon his back, which served as a hard axis, whereon the gods and demons, with the serpent Vásuki twisted round the mountain for a rope, churned the waters for the recovery of the amrita or nectar, and fourteen other sacred things. 3. The Varáha, or Boar. In this he descended in the form of a boar to rescue the earth from the power of a demon called ‘golden-eyed,’ Hiraṇyáksha. This demon had seized on the earth and carried it with him into the depths of the ocean. Vishṇu dived into the abyss, and after a contest of a thousand years slew the monster. 4. The Narasinha, or Man-lion. In this monstrous shape of a creature half-man, half-lion, Vishṇu delivered the earth from the tyranny of an insolent demon called Hiraṇyakaśipu. 5. Vámana, or Dwarf. This avatár happened in the second age of the Hindús or Tretáyug, the four preceding are said to have occurred in the first or Satyayug; the object of this avatár was to trick Bali out of the dominion of the three worlds. Assuming the form of a wretched dwarf he appeared before the king and asked, as a boon, as much land as he could pace in three steps. This was granted; and Vishṇu immediately expanding himself till he filled the world, deprived Bali at two steps of heaven and earth, but in consideration of some merit, left Pátála still in his dominion. 6. Paraśuráma. 7. Rámchandra. 8. Krishṇa, or according to some Balaráma. 9. Buddha. In this avatár Vishṇu descended in the form of a sage for the purpose of making some reform in the religion of the Brahmins, and especially to reclaim them from their proneness to animal sacrifice. Many of the Hindús will not allow this to have been an incarnation of their favourite god. 10. Kalki, or White Horse. This is yet to come. Vishṇu mounted on a white horse, with a drawn scimitar, blazing like a comet, will, according to prophecy, end this present age, viz. the fourth or Kaliyug, by destroying the world, and then renovating creation by an age of purity.”

WILLIAM’S DICTIONARY. Vishṇu.

Siva.

“A celebrated Hindú God, the Destroyer of creation, and therefore the most formidable of the Hindú Triad. He also personifies reproduction, since the Hindú philosophy excludes the idea of total annihilation without subsequent regeneration. Hence he is sometimes confounded with Brahmá, the creator or first person of the Triad. He is the particular God of the Tántrikas, or followers of the books called Tantras. His worshippers are termed Śaivas, and although not so numerous as the Vaishṇavas, exalt their god to the highest place in the heavens, and combine in him many of the attributes which properly belong to the other deities. According to them Śiva is Time, Justice, Fire, Water, the Sun, the Destroyer and Creator. As presiding over generation, his type is the Linga, or Phallus, the origin probably of the Phallic emblem of Egypt and Greece. As the God of generation and justice, which latter character he shares with the god Yama, he is represented riding a white bull. His own colour, as well as that of the bull, is generally white, referring probably to the unsullied purity of Justice. His throat is dark-blue; his hair of a light reddish colour, and thickly matted together, and gathered above his head like the hair of an ascetic. He is sometimes seen with two hands, sometimes with four, eight, or ten, and with five faces. He has three eyes, one being in the centre of his forehead, pointing up and down. These are said to denote his view of the three divisions of time, past, present, and future. He holds a trident in his hand to denote, as some say, his relationship to water, or according to others, to show that the three great attributes of Creator, Destroyer, and Regenerator are combined in him. His loins are enveloped in a tiger’s skin. In his character of Time, he not only presides over its extinction, but also its astronomical regulation. A crescent or half-moon on his forehead indicates the measure of time by the phases of the moon; a serpent forms one of his necklaces to denote the measure of time by years, and a second necklace of human skulls marks the lapse and revolution of ages, and the extinction and succession of the generations of mankind. He is often represented as entirely covered with serpents, which are the emblems of immortality. They are bound in his hair, round his neck, wrists, waist, arms and legs; they serve as rings for his fingers, and earrings for his ears, and are his constant companions. Śiva has more than a thousand names which are detailed at length in the sixty-ninth chapter of the Śiva Puráṇa.”—WILLIAMS’S DICTIONARY, Śiva.

Apsarases.

“Originally these deities seem to have been personifications of the vapours which are attracted by the sun, and form into mist or clouds: their character may be thus interpreted in the few hymns of the Rigveda where mention is made of them. At a subsequent period when the Gandharva of the Rigveda who personifies there especially the Fire of the Sun, expanded into the Fire of Lightning, the rays of the moon and other attributes of the elementary life of heaven as well as into pious acts referring to it, the Apsarasas become divinities which represent phenomena or objects both of a physical and ethical kind closely associated with that life; thus in the Yajurveda Sunbeams are called the Apsarasas associated with the Gandharva who is the Sun; Plants are termed the Apsarasas connected with the Gandharva Fire: Constellations are the Apsarasas of the Gandharva Moon: Waters the Apsarasas of the Gandharva Wind, etc. etc.… In the last Mythological epoch when the Gandharvas have saved from their elementary nature merely so much as to be musicians in the paradise of Indra, the Apsarasas appear among other subordinate deities which share in the merry life of Indra’s heaven, as the wives of the Gandharvas, but more especially as wives of a licentious sort, and they are promised therefore, too, as a reward to heroes fallen in battle when they are received in the paradise of Indra; and while, in the Rigveda, they assist Soma to pour down his floods, they descend in the epic literature on earth merely to shake the virtue of penitent Sages and to deprive them of the power they would otherwise have acquired through unbroken austerities.”—GOLDSTÜCKER’S Sanskrit Dictionary.

Vishnu’s Incarnation As Ráma.

“Here is described one of the avatárs, descents or manifestations of Vishṇu in a visible form. The word avatár signifies literally descent. The avatár which is here spoken of, that in which, according to Indian traditions, Vishṇu descended and appeared upon earth in the corporeal form of Ráma, the hero of the Rámáyana, is the seventh in the series of Indian avatárs. Much has been said before now of these avatárs, and through deficient knowledge of the ideas and doctrines of India, they have been compared to the sublime dogma of the Christian Incarnation. This is one of the grossest errors that ignorance of the ideas and beliefs of a people has produced. Between the avatárs of India and the Christian Incarnation there is such an immensity of difference that it is impossible to find any reasonable analogy that can approximate them. The idea of the avatárs is intimately united with that of the Trimúrti; the bond of connection between these two ideas is an essential notion common to both, the notion of Vishṇu. What is the Trimúrti? I have already said that it is composed of three Gods, Brahmá (masculine), Vishṇu the God of avatárs, and Śiva. These three Gods, who when reduced to their primitive and most simple expression are but three cosmogonical personifications, three powers or forces of nature, these Gods, I say, are here found, according to Indian doctrines, entirely external to the true God of India, or Brahma in the neuter gender. Brahma is alone, unchangeable in the midst of creation: all emanates from him, he comprehends all, but he remains extraneous to all: he is Being and the negation of beings. Brahma is never worshipped; the indeterminate Being is never invoked; he is inaccessible to the prayers as the actions of man; humanity, as well as nature, is extraneous to him. External to Brahma rises the Trimúrti, that is to say, Brahmá (masculine) the power which creates, Vishṇu the power which preserves, and Śiva the power which destroys: theogony here commences at the same time with cosmogony. The three divinities of the Trimúrti govern the phenomena of the universe and influence all nature. The real God of India is by himself without power; real efficacious power is attributed only to three divinities who exist externally to him. Brahmá, Vishṇu, and Śiva, possessed of qualities in part contradictory and attributes that are mutually exclusive, have no other accord or harmony than that which results from the power of things itself, and which is found external to their own thoughts. Such is the Indian Trimúrti. What an immense difference between this Triad and the wonderful Trinity of Christianity! Here there is only one God, who created all, provides for all, governs all. He exists in three Persons equal to one another, and intimately united in one only infinite and eternal substance. The Father represents the eternal thought and the power which created, the Son infinite love, the Holy Spirit universal sanctification. This one and triune God completes by omnipotent power the great work of creation which, when it has come forth from His hands, proceeds in obedience to the laws which He has given it, governed with certain order by His infinite providence.

“The immense difference between the Trimúrti of India and the Christian Trinity is found again between the avatárs of Vishṇu and the Incarnation of Christ. The avatár was effected altogether externally to the Being who is in India regarded as the true God. The manifestation of one essentially cosmogonical divinity wrought for the most part only material and cosmogonical prodigies. At one time it takes the form of the gigantic tortoise which sustains Mount Mandar from sinking in the ocean; at another of the fish which raises the lost Veda from the bottom of the sea, and saves mankind from the waters. When these avatárs are not cosmogonical they consist in some protection accorded to men or Gods, a protection which is neither universal nor permanent. The very manner in which the avatár is effected corresponds to its material nature, for instance the mysterious vase and the magic liquor by means of which the avatár here spoken of takes place. What are the forms which Vishṇu takes in his descents? They are the simple forms of life; he becomes a tortoise, a boar, a fish, but he is not obliged to take the form of intelligence and liberty, that is to say, the form of man. In the avatár of Vishṇu is discovered the inpress of pantheistic ideas which have always more or less prevailed in India. Does the avatár produce a permanent and definitive result in the world? By no means. It is renewed at every catastrophe either of nature or man, and its effects are only transitory.… To sum up then, the Indian avatár is effected externally to the true God of India, to Brahma; it has only a cosmogonical or historical mission which is neither lasting nor decisive; it is accomplished by means of strange prodigies and magic transformations; it may assume promiscuously all the forms of life; it may be repeated indefinitely. Now let the whole of this Indian idea taken from primitive tradition be compared with the Incarnation of Christ and it will be seen that there is between the two an irreconcilable difference. According to the doctrines of Christianity the Everlasting Word, Infinite Love, the Son of God, and equal to Him, assumed a human body, and being born as a man accomplished by his divine act the great miracle of the spiritual redemption of man. His coming had for its sole object to bring erring and lost humanity back to Him; this work being accomplished, and the divine union of men with God being re-established, redemption is complete and remains eternal.

“The superficial study of India produced in the last century many erroneous ideas, many imaginary and false parallels between Christianity and the Brahmanical religion. A profounder knowledge of Indian civilization and religion, and philological studies enlarged and guided by more certain principles have dissipated one by one all those errors. The attributes of the Christian God, which by one of those intellectual errors, which Vico attributes to the vanity of the learned, had been transferred to Vishṇu, have by a better inspired philosophy been reclaimed for Christianity, and the result of the two religions, one immovable and powerless, the other diffusing itself with all its inherent force and energy, has shown further that there is a difference, a real opposition, between the two principles.”—GORRESIO.

Kusa and Lava.

As the story of the banishment of Sítá and the subsequent birth in Válmíki’s hermitage of Kuśa and Lava the rhapsodists of the Rámáyan, is intimately connected with the account in the introductory cantos of Válmíki’s composition of the poem, I shall, I trust, be pardoned for extracting it from my rough translation of Kálidása’s Raghuvaṇśa, parts only of which have been offered to the public.

“Then, day by day, the husband’s hope grew high, Gazing with love on Sítá’s melting eye: With anxious care he saw her pallid cheek, And fondly bade her all her wishes speak. “Once more I fain would see,” the lady cried, “The sacred groves that rise on Gangá’s side, Where holy grass is ever fresh and green, And cattle feeding on the rice are seen: There would I rest awhile, where once I strayed Linked in sweet friendship to each hermit maid.” And Ráma smiled upon his wife, and sware, With many a tender oath, to grant her prayer. It chanced, one evening, from a lofty seat He viewed Ayodhyá stretched before his feet: He looked with pride upon the royal road Lined with gay shops their glittering stores that showed, He looked on Sarjú’s silver waves, that bore The light barks flying with the sail and oar; He saw the gardens near the town that lay, Filled with glad citizens and boys at play. Then swelled the monarch’s bosom with delight, And his heart triumphed at the happy sight. He turned to Bhadra, standing by his side,— Upon whose secret news the king relied.— And bade him say what people said and thought Of all the exploits that his arm had wrought. The spy was silent, but, when questioned still, Thus spake, obedient to his master’s will: “For all thy deeds in peace and battle done The people praise thee, King, except for one: This only act of all thy life they blame,— Thy welcome home of her, thy ravished dame.” Like iron yielding to the iron’s blow, Sank Ráma, smitten by those words of woe. His breast, where love and fear for empire vied, Swayed, like a rapid swing, from side to side. Shall he this rumour scorn, which blots his life, Or banish her, his dear and spotless wife? But rigid Duty left no choice between His perilled honour and his darling queen. Called to his side, his brothers wept to trace The marks of anguish in his altered face. No longer bright and glorious as of old, He thus addressed them when the tale was told: “Alas! my brothers, that my life should blot The fame of those the Sun himself begot: As from the labouring cloud the driven rain Leaves on the mirror’s polished face a stain. E’en as an elephant who loathes the stake And the strong chain he has no power to break, I cannot brook this cry on every side, That spreads like oil upon the moving tide. I leave the daughter of Videha’s King, And the fair blossom soon from her to spring, As erst, obedient to my sire’s command, I left the empire of the sea-girt land. Good is my queen, and spotless; but the blame Is hard to bear, the mockery and the shame. Men blame the pure Moon for the darkened ray, When the black shadow takes the light away. And, O my brothers, if ye wish to see Ráma live long from this reproach set free, Let not your pity labour to control The firm sad purpose of his changeless soul.”

Thus Ráma spake. The sorrowing brothers heard His stern resolve, without an answering word; For none among them dared his voice to raise, That will to question:—and they could not praise. “Beloved brother,” thus the monarch cried To his dear Lakshmaṇ, whom he called aside.— Lakshmaṇ, who knew no will save his alone Whose hero deeds through all the world were known:— “My queen has told me that she longs to rove Beneath the shade of Saint Válmíki’s grove: Now mount thy car, away my lady bear; Tell all, and leave her in the forest there.”

The car was brought, the gentle lady smiled, As the glad news her trusting heart beguiled. She mounted up: Sumantra held the reins; And forth the coursers bounded o’er the plains. She saw green fields in all their beauty dressed, And thanked her husband in her loving breast. Alas! deluded queen! she little knew How changed was he whom she believed so true; How one she worshipped like the Heavenly Tree Could, in a moment’s time, so deadly be. Her right eye throbbed,—ill-omened sign, to tell The endless loss of him she loved so well, And to the lady’s saddening heart revealed The woe that Lakshmaṇ, in his love, concealed. Pale grew the bloom of her sweet face,—as fade The lotus blossoms,—by that sign dismayed. “Oh, may this omen,”—was her silent prayer,— “No grief to Ráma or his brothers bear!”

When Lakshmaṇ, faithful to his brother, stood Prepared to leave her in the distant wood, The holy Gangá, flowing by the way, Raised all her hands of waves to bid him stay. At length with sobs and burning tears that rolled Down his sad face, the king’s command he told; As when a monstrous cloud, in evil hour, Rains from its labouring womb a stony shower. She heard, she swooned, she fell upon the earth, Fell on that bosom whence she sprang to birth. As, when the tempest in its fury flies, Low in the dust the prostrate creeper lies, So, struck with terror sank she on the ground, And all her gems, like flowers, lay scattered round. But Earth, her mother, closed her stony breast, And, filled with doubt, denied her daughter rest. She would not think the Chief of Raghu’s race Would thus his own dear guiltless wife disgrace. Stunned and unconscious, long the lady lay, And felt no grief, her senses all astray. But gentle Lakshmaṇ, with a brother’s care, Brought back her sense, and with her sense, despair. But not her wrongs, her shame, her grief, could wring One angry word against her lord the King: Upon herself alone the blame she laid, For tears and sighs that would not yet be stayed. To soothe her anguish Lakshmaṇ gently strove; He showed the path to Saint Válmíki’s grove; And craved her pardon for the share of ill He wrought, obedient to his brother’s will. “O, long and happy, dearest brother, live! I have to praise,” she cried, “and not forgive: To do his will should be thy noblest praise; As Vishṇu ever Indra’s will obeys. Return, dear brother: on each royal dame Bestow a blessing in poor Sítá’s name, And bid them, in their love, kind pity take Upon her offspring, for the father’s sake. And speak my message in the monarch’s ear, The last last words of mine that he shall hear: “Say, was it worthy of thy noble race Thy guiltless queen thus lightly to disgrace? For idle tales to spurn thy faithful bride, Whose constant truth the searching fire had tried? Or may I hope thy soul refused consent, And but thy voice decreed my banishment? Hope that no care could turn, no love could stay The lightning stroke that falls on me to-day? That sins committed in the life that’s fled Have brought this evil on my guilty head? Think not I value now my widowed life, Worthless to her who once was Ráma’s wife. I only live because I hope to see The dear dear babe that will resemble thee. And then my task of penance shall be done, With eyes uplifted to the scorching sun; So shall the life that is to come restore Mine own dear husband, to be lost no more.” And Lakshmaṇ swore her every word to tell, Then turned to go, and bade the queen farewell. Alone with all her woes, her piteous cries Rose like a butchered lamb’s that struggling dies. The reverend sage who from his dwelling came For sacred grass and wood to feed the flame, Heard her loud shrieks that rent the echoing wood, And, quickly following, by the mourner stood. Before the sage the lady bent her low, Dried her poor eyes, and strove to calm her woe. With blessings on her hopes the blameless man In silver tones his soothing speech began: “First of all faithful wives, O Queen, art thou; And can I fail to mourn thy sorrows now? Rest in this holy grove, nor harbour fear Where dwell in safety e’en the timid deer. Here shall thine offspring safely see the light, And be partaker of each holy rite. Here, near the hermits’ dwellings, shall thou lave Thy limbs in Tonse’s sin-destroying wave, And on her isles, by prayer and worship, gain Sweet peace of mind, and rest from care and pain. Each hermit maiden with her sweet soft voice, Shall soothe thy woe, and bid thy heart rejoice: With fruit and early flowers thy lap shall fill, And offer grain that springs for us at will. And here, with labour light, thy task shall be To water carefully each tender tree, And learn how sweet a nursing mother’s joy Ere on thy bosom rest thy darling boy.…”

That very night the banished Sítá bare Two royal children, most divinely fair.…

The saint Válmíki, with a friend’s delight, Graced Sítá’s offspring with each holy rite. Kuśa and Lava—such the names they bore— Learnt, e’en in childhood, all the Vedas’ lore; And then the bard, their minstrel souls to train, Taught them to sing his own immortal strain. And Ráma’s deeds her boys so sweetly sang, That Sítá’s breast forgot her bitterest pang.…

Then Sítá’s children, by the saint’s command, Sang the Rámáyan, wandering through the land. How could the glorious poem fail to gain Each heart, each ear that listened to the strain! So sweet each minstrel’s voice who sang the praise Of Ráma deathless in Válmíki’s lays. Ráma himself amid the wondering throng Marked their fair forms, and loved the noble song, While, still and weeping, round the nobles stood, As, on a windless morn, a dewy wood. On the two minstrels all the people gazed, Praised their fair looks and marvelled as they praised; For every eye amid the throng could trace Ráma’s own image in each youthful face. Then spoke the king himself and bade them say Who was their teacher, whose the wondrous lay. Soon as Válmíki, mighty saint, he saw, He bowed his head in reverential awe. “These are thy children” cried the saint, “recall Thine own dear Sítá, pure and true through all.” “O holy father,” thus the king replied, “The faithful lady by the fire was tried; But the foul demon’s too successful arts Raised light suspicions in my people’s hearts. Grant that their breasts may doubt her faith no more, And thus my Sítá and her sons restore.”

Raghuvaṇśa Cantos XIV, XV.

Parasuráma, Page 87.

“He cleared the earth thrice seven times of the Kshatriya caste, and filled with their blood the five large lakes of Samanta, from which he offered libations to the race of Bhrigu. Offering a solemn sacrifice to the King of the Gods Paraśuráma presented the earth to the ministering priests. Having given the earth to Kaśyapa, the hero of immeasurable prowess retired to the Mahendra mountain, where he still resides; and in this manner was there enmity between him and the race of the Kshatriyas, and thus was the whole earth conquered by Paraśuráma.” The destruction of the Kshatriyas by Paraśuráma had been provoked by the cruelty of the Kshatriyas. Chips from a German Workshop, Vol. II. p. 334.

The scene in which he appears is probably interpolated for the sake of making him declare Ráma to be Vishṇu. “Herr von Schlegel has often remarked to me,” says Lassen, “that without injuring the connexion of the story all the chapters [of the Rámáyan] might be omitted in which Ráma is regarded as an incarnation of Vishṇu. In fact, where the incarnation of Vishṇu as the four sons of Daśaratha is described, the great sacrifice is already ended, and all the priests remunerated at the termination, when the new sacrifice begins at which the Gods appear, then withdraw, and then first propose the incarnation to Vishṇu. If it had been an original circumstance of the story, the Gods would certainly have deliberated on the matter earlier, and the celebration of the sacrifice would have continued without interruption.” LASSEN, Indische Alterthumskunde, Vol. I. p. 489.

Yáma, Page 68.

Son of Vivasvat=Jima son of Vivanghvat, the Jamshíd of the later Persians.

Fate, Page 68.

“The idea of fate was different in India from that which prevailed in Greece. In Greece fate was a mysterious, inexorable power which governed men and human events, and from which it was impossible to escape. In India Fate was rather an inevitable consequence of actions done in births antecedent to one’s present state of existence, and was therefore connected with the doctrine of metempsychosis. A misfortune was for the most part a punishment, an expiation of ancient faults not yet entirely cancelled.” GORRESIO.

Visvámitra, Page 76.

“Though of royal extraction, Viśvámitra conquered for himself and his family the privileges of a Brahman. He became a Brahman, and thus broke through all the rules of caste. The Brahmans cannot deny the fact, because it forms one of the principal subjects of their legendary poems. But they have spared no pains to represent the exertions of Viśvámitra, in his struggle for Brahmanhood, as so superhuman that no one would easily be tempted to follow his example. No mention is made of these monstrous penances in the Veda, where the struggle between Viśvámitra, the leader of the Kuśikas or Bharatas, and the Brahman Vaśishtha, the leader of the white-robed Tritsus, is represented as the struggle of two rivals for the place of Purohita or chief priest and minister at the court of King Sudás, the son of Pijavana.” Chips from a German Workshop, Vol. II. p. 336.

Household Gods, Page 102.

“No house is supposed to be without its tutelary divinity, but the notion attached to this character is now very far from precise. The deity who is the object of hereditary and family worship, the Kuladevatá, is always one of the leading personages of the Hindu mythology, as Śiva, Vishṇu or Durgá, but the Grihadevatá rarely bears any distinct appellation. In Bengal, the domestic god is sometimes the Sálagrám stone, sometimes the tulasi plant, sometimes a basket with a little rice in it, and sometimes a water-jar—to either of which a brief adoration is daily addressed, most usually by the females of the family. Occasionally small images of Lakshmi or Chaṇdi fulfil the office, or should a snake appear, he is venerated as the guardian of the dwelling. In general, however, in former times, the household deities were regarded as the unseen spirits of ill, the ghosts and goblins who hovered about every spot, and claimed some particular sites as their own. Offerings were made to them in the open air, by scattering a little rice with a short formula at the close of all ceremonies to keep them in good humour.

“The household gods correspond better with the genii locorum than with the lares or penates of autiquity.”

H. H. WILSON.

Page 107.

Śaivya, a king whom earth obeyed, Once to a hawk a promise made.

The following is a free version of this very ancient story which occurs more than once in the Mahábhárat:

THE SUPPLIANT DOVE.

Chased by a hawk there came a dove With worn and weary wing, And took her stand upon the hand Of Káśí’s mighty king. The monarch smoothed her ruffled plumes And laid her on his breast, And cried, “No fear shall vex thee here, Rest, pretty egg-born, rest! Fair Káśí’s realm is rich and wide, With golden harvests gay, But all that’s mine will I resign Ere I my guest betray.” But panting for his half won spoil The hawk was close behind. And with wild cry and eager eye Came swooping down the wind: “This bird,” he cried, “my destined prize, ’Tis not for thee to shield: ’Tis mine by right and toilsome flight O’er hill and dale and field. Hunger and thirst oppress me sore, And I am faint with toil: Thou shouldst not stay a bird of prey Who claims his rightful spoil. They say thou art a glorious king, And justice is thy care: Then justly reign in thy domain, Nor rob the birds of air.” Then cried the king: “A cow or deer For thee shall straightway bleed, Or let a ram or tender lamb Be slain, for thee to feed. Mine oath forbids me to betray My little twice-born guest: See how she clings with trembling wings To her protector’s breast.” “No flesh of lambs,” the hawk replied, “No blood of deer for me; The falcon loves to feed on doves And such is Heaven’s decree. But if affection for the dove Thy pitying heart has stirred, Let thine own flesh my maw refresh, Weighed down against the bird.” He carved the flesh from off his side, And threw it in the scale, While women’s cries smote on the skies With loud lament and wail. He hacked the flesh from side and arm, From chest and back and thigh, But still above the little dove The monarch’s scale stood high. He heaped the scale with piles of flesh, With sinews, blood and skin, And when alone was left him bone He threw himself therein. Then thundered voices through the air; The sky grew black as night; And fever took the earth that shook To see that wondrous sight. The blessed Gods, from every sphere, By Indra led, came nigh: While drum and flute and shell and lute Made music in the sky. They rained immortal chaplets down, Which hands celestial twine, And softly shed upon his head Pure Amrit, drink divine. Then God and Seraph, Bard and Nymph Their heavenly voices raised, And a glad throng with dance and song The glorious monarch praised. They set him on a golden car That blazed with many a gem; Then swiftly through the air they flew, And bore him home with them. Thus Káśí’s lord, by noble deed, Won heaven and deathless fame: And when the weak protection seek From thee, do thou the same.

Scenes from the Rámáyan, &c.

Page 108.

The ceremonies that attended the consecration of a king (Abhikshepa lit. Sprinkling over) are fully described in Goldstücker’s Dictionary, from which the following extract is made: “The type of the inauguration ceremony as practised at the Epic period may probably be recognized in the history of the inauguration of Ráma, as told in the Rámáyana, and in that of the inauguration of Yudhishṭhira, as told in the Mahábháratha. Neither ceremony is described in these poems with the full detail which is given of the vaidik rite in the Aitareya-Bráhmaṇam; but the allusion that Ráma was inaugurated by Vaśishṭha and the other Bráhmanas in the same manner as Indra by the Vasus … and the observation which is made in some passages that a certain rite of the inauguration was performed ‘according to the sacred rule’ … admit of the conclusion that the ceremony was supposed to have taken place in conformity with the vaidik injunction.… As the inauguration of Ráma was intended and the necessary preparations for it were made when his father Daśaratha was still alive, but as the ceremony itself, through the intrigues of his step-mother Kaikeyí, did not take place then, but fourteen years later, after the death of Daśaratha, an account of the preparatory ceremonies is given in the Ayodhyákáṇḍa (Book II) as well as in the Yuddha-Káṇḍa (Book VI.) of the Rámáyaṇa, but an account of the complete ceremony in the latter book alone. According to the Ayodhyákáṇḍa, on the day preceding the intended inauguration Ráma and his wife Sítá held a fast, and in the night they performed this preliminary rite: Ráma having made his ablutions, approached the idol of Náráyaṇa, took a cup of clarified butter, as the religious law prescribes, made a libation of it into the kindled fire, and drank the remainder while wishing what was agreeable to his heart. Then, with his mind fixed on the divinity he lay, silent and composed, together with Sítá, on a bed of Kuśa-grass, which was spread before the altar of Vishṇu, until the last watch of the night, when he awoke and ordered the palace to be prepared for the solemnity. At day-break reminded of the time by the voices of the bards, he performed the usual morning devotion and praised the divinity. In the meantime the town Ayodhyá had assumed a festive appearance and the inauguration implements had been arranged … golden water-jars, an ornamented throne-seat, a chariot covered with a splendid tiger-skin, water taken from the confluence of the Ganges and Jumna, as well as from other sacred rivers, tanks, wells, lakes, and from all oceans, honey, curd, clarified butter, fried grain, Kuśa-grass, flowers, milk; besides, eight beautiful damsels, and a splendid furious elephant, golden and silver jars, filled with water, covered with Udumbara branches and various lotus flowers, besides a white jewelled chourie, a white splendid parasol, a white bull, a white horse, all manner of musical instruments and bards.… In the preceding chapter … there are mentioned two white chouries instead of one, and all kinds of seeds, perfumes and jewels, a scimitar, a bow, a litter, a golden vase, and a blazing fire, and amongst the living implements of the pageant, instead of the bards, gaudy courtesans, and besides the eight damsels, professors of divinity, Bráhmaṇas, cows and pure kinds of wild beasts and birds, the chiefs of town and country-people and the citizens with their train.”