Sri Valmiki Ramayanam - Book 3- English Verses by Ralph - Canto 31 to 60 Part 2

RÁMÁYAN OF VÁLMÍKI

Translated into English Verse

BY

RALPH T. H. GRIFFITH, M. A.,

[(Ralph Thomas Hotchkin Griffith), b. 1826 d. 1906]

PRINCIPAL OF THE BENARES COLLEGE

 

CANTO XXXI.: RÁVAN

But of the host of giants one,

Akampan, from the field had run

And sped to Lanká 1 to relate

In Rávan'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?

Vais'ravan 1b,Indra, Vishnu, 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 Rávan 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 Das'aratha, 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

Dúshan the fierce and Khara too.'

Rávan 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 Lakshman 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:

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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. 1

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'vercome 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 Tádakeya's 1b grove he drew,

Máricha 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.'

Rávan, the giants' mighty king,

Heard wise Máricha'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.'

Máricha 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.

Rávan, no rover of the night

With bravest heart can brook,

Met in the front of deadly fight,

On Raghu's son to look.

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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 Sitá 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.

Footnotes

265:1 The capital of the giant king Rávan.

265:1b Kuvera, the God of gold

266:1 In the great deluge.

266:1b The giant Máricha, son of Tádaká. Tádaká was slain by Ráma. See p. 39.

CANTO XXXII.: RÁVAN ROUSED.

But Súrpanakhá saw the plain

Spread with the fourteen thousand slain,

Doers of cruel deeds o'erthrown

By Ráma's mighty arm alone,

Add Tris'iras and Dúshan 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 Rávan'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 1 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 *limb*

Where Vishnu'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, 2

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 3 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.

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The sacrifice his hands o'erthrew,

And cruelly the Bráhmans slew.

His was a heart that naught oould 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 1 race,

Begirt by counsellor and peer,

Rávan, the foeman's mortal fear,

And terror in her features shown,

The giantess approached the throne.

   Then Súrpanakhá 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 Rávan of the eyes of fire

     Her tale, infuriate, told,

Footnotes

267:1 Indra's elephant.

267:2 Bhogavatí, in Pátála in the regions under the earth, is the capital of the serpent race whose king is Vásuki.

267:3 The grove of Indra.

CANTO XXXIII.: SÚRPANAKHÁ'S SPEECH.

Burning with anger, in the ring

Of counsellors who girt their king,

To Rávan, 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 Dúshan, 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 Dandak'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

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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.

Footnotes

268:1 Pulastya is considered as the ancestor of the Rakshases or giants, as he is the father of Vis'ravas, the father of Rávan and his brethren.

CANTO XXXIV.: SÛRPANAKHÁ'S SPEECH.

Then forth the giant's fury broke

As Súrpanakhá 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 Dandak forest, hard to tread?

What arms are his that he could smite

In fray the rovers of the night

And Tris'iras and Dúshan 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 Das'aratha'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 Dúshan both were dead,

And he had freed the saints and made

Asylum sure in Dandak'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 Lakshman, 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 Lakshman's savage blow.

But thou, O brother, shalt survey

Her moonlike loveliness to-day,

And Ráma'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.

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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.

Dúshan 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 Rávan, 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 fiuit 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,

Where 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, 1 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 2 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.

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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 man, 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 Rávan turned his eye to see.

Still marked where Garud sought to rest,

The fig-tree bore the name of Blest.

When Rávan 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 Marícha 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

Rávan the king, his mighty guest,

And he, well skilled in arts that guide

The eloquent, in turn replied:

Footnotes

270:1 Beings with the body of a man and the head of a horse.

270:2 Ájas, Maríchipas, Vaikhánasas, Máshas, and Bálakhilyas are classes of supernatural beings who lead the lives of hermits.

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 Súrpanakhá, Khara dwell,

And Dúshan with the arm of might.

And Tris'iras, 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 Dúshan, fearless warrior, died,

And Trisiras the fierce was slain,

And Dandak 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.

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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 Lakshman 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 Marícha 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 Varun 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.

0, 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 Dandak 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.

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O Rávan, 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 Rávan 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, Vibhíshan 1 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.'

Footnotes

273:1 'The younger brother of the giant Rávan; when he and his brother had practiced austerities for a long series of years, Brahmá appeared to offer them boons: Vibhíshana asked that he might never meditate any unrighteousness.... On the death of Rávan Vibhíshana was installed as Rája of Lanká.' GARRETT'S Classical Dictionary of India.

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' 1b 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 Dandak wood is spread;

On flesh of slaughtered saints I fed.

Then Vis'vámitra, sage revered.

Holy of heart, my fury feared.

To Das'aratha's court he sped

And went before the king and said: 2b

'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 happv, victor of the foe.'

He spoke: the monarch gave assent,

And Ráma to the hermit lent.

So to his woodland home in joy

Went Vis'vámitra with the boy.

With ready bow the champion stood

To guard the rites in Dandak 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,

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Around his neck a chain of gold,

He grasped the bow he loved to bold;

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 Vis'vámitra'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 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 Sitá'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 so 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 Yama'a realm must go.'

Footnotes

273:1b Serpent-gods.

273:2b See p. 33.

CANTO XXXIX.: MÁRÍCHA'S SPEECH.

'I told thee of that dreadful day

When Ráma smote and spared to slay.

Now hear me, Rávan, 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 Dandak 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 Lakshman in the battle tried.

In senseless pride I scorned the might

Of that illustrious anchorite,

And heedless of a hermit foe,

Recalled my earlier overthow.

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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 Yama with his noose in hand.

I tell thee Rávan, 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  1 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 Namu*chi 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 Súrpanakhá'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 Rávan soorned 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

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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 Varun 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 [*} 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 in 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 Lakshman! Ah, mine own!'

With voice resembling Ráma's tone.

When Lakshman hears his brother's cry,

Impelled by Sitá 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 Sachi, 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:ii m.,ir v}, will quickly be

In Dandak 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 band 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,

     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 degire

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 io 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

Mirit and fame and joy and gain.

"Tis only by their master's grace

That servaits hold their lofty place.

But when tbc 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.

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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 Yama 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 my 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 Dandak 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 Rávan 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 lazuares* beneath it blazed.

With roseate bloom his flanks were dyed,

And lotus tints adorned his hide.

His shape was fair*, compact*, and slight;

p. 278

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 As'oka 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 be 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 Lakshman 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 Lakshman 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 Lakshman'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 magio guile,

The figure of a deer a while,

Bright as the very sun, or place

Where dwell the gay Gaudharya race.

No deer, O Ráma, e'er was seen

Thus decked with gold und 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 Lakshman's prudent speech aside

And thus with eager words replied:

Mv 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 ot 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,

p. 279

And strong and beauteous Kinnars  1 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 akin

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 Lakshman Ráma turned and spake:

   'Mark, Lakshman, 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 Sukra 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

p. 280

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

'Vatápi, thou with cruel spite

Hast conquered many an achorite

The noblest of the Brahman ask*--

And now thy ruin comes at last'

Now if my power he thus defies,

This giant, like Vatápi dies,

Daring to scorn a man like me,

A self subduing devotee.

Yea, as Agastya slew the foe,

My hand shall lay Mancha 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, Lakshman how my contort'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 stop the game

And bring the trophy to my dame.

   Jatavus, 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

CANTO XLIV: ARTCHA'S DEATH

Thus having warned his brother hold

He grasped his sword with * gold*

And followed with the *** in went

His wr* *ght and *

Then *

And *

Soon *

The *

A while with trembling heart he fled,

The * and showed his stately head.

With sword and bow the chief pursued

Where'or the fleeing deer he viewed

Sending* from dell* and lone recess

The splendid ** 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

Mancha 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 river of the night

*ged 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,

Besplendent at the sunbeam's glow,

The crusher of the smitten foe,

With skillful bead the mighty lord

Fixed well shaft and strained the cord.

Upon the deer his eyes he bent,

And like a fiery ** 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 Mancha's heart.

Scarce from the ground one foot he sprang,

Then stricken fell with deadly pang.

Ha* **, as he pressed* the ground,

He gave a roar of awful sound

And *e the wounded giant died

He threw his borrowed form aside

Remembering still his lord's behest

He pondered in his heart how best

Sítá's plight ** ** guard away,

And Ravan seize the helpless prey

The monster knew the time was nigh.

And called aloud with eager cry,

'Hi*, Sítá, Lakshman* and the tone

p. 281

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 Lakshman 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 has died,

'Ho Lakshman! ho, my Sítá!' cried

Ah, if that cry has reached her ear,

How dire must be my darling's fear!

And Lakshman 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 puck,

To Janasthán then turned his face

And hastened to his dwelling place.

CANTO XLV.: LAKSHMAN'S DEPARTURE.

But Sitá hearing as she thought,

Her husband's cry with anguish fraught.

Called to her guardian, 'Lakshman, run

And in the wood seek Raghu's son.

Scarce can my heart retain its throne,

Scarce can my life be called mine own,

Assail 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 * beneath some giant foe,

A * whom * overthrown'

   * to her prayer,* step he stirred

Obedient to his mother's word

T * Janak's child, with inflamed,

* scorn *

   Sumitrá's son, a friend *

* they brother's foe

W* at such *

* and neglect *

* Lakshman, * of me

* couldst see,

* thy *

* thy feet so *

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 Lakshman 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 * bent they wander here.

But O dismiss thy causeless fear.'

   Bright flashed her eye as Lashman 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

* of thy glorious race!

* joyous sight I ween to thee

p. 282

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, Lakshman, 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,

Aa thus once more the dame began:

'O Lakshman, if I widowed be

Godávan'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 Lakshman thus adressed,

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 Lakshman 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 Rávan 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 Rohini.  1

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 Rávan, when his eager eye

Beheld the longed-for moment nigh,

In mendicant's apparel dressed

Near to the Maithil lady pressed.

p. 283

In holy guise, a fiend abhorred,

He found her mourning for her lord.

Thus threatening draws S'anis'char  1 nigh

To Chitrá  2 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 bilken 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 rare 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 trees!

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, 1b or the Gods of storm, 2b

Or to the glorious Vasus  3b? 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 Rávan 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.

p. 284

The lady watched with anxious face

For Ráma coming from the chase

   With Lakshman by his side:

But nothing met her wandering glance

Save the wild forest's green expanse

   Extending far aud wide.

Footnotes

282:1 The favourite wife of the Moon.

283:1 The planet Saturn.

283:2 Another favourite of the Moon; one of the lunar mansions.

283:1b The Rudras, agents in creation, are eight in number; they sprang from the forehead of Brahmá.

283:2b Maruts, the attendants of Indra.

283:3b Radiant demi-gods.

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 Das'aratha, 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 Das'aratha'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 Lakshman, 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 Dandak 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,

Rávan 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

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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 shook.

Tue 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,

Rama 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, 1 towering o'er the laud,

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 Rama'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

Rávan, 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

Vais'ravan once, my brother, wrought

To ire, encountered me aud fought,

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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 Das'aratha 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 Urvas'í,

When with her foot she chanced to touch

Purúravas, and sorrowed much.  1

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 S'achí, 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 SITÁ.

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.

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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 Rávan 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  1 with ill-omened might

Steals Rohini'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 Rávan'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 Lakshman, thou whose joy is still

To do thine eider 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 itselt 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 Rávan bears his wife away.

Farewell, a long farewell to thee,

O pleasant stream Godávari,

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 fata.

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 we to Ráma's ear proclaim

That Rávan tears away his dame

Witn 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 Yama's self reclaimed his prey.'

Thus from the air the lady sent

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With piteous voice her last lament,

And as she wept she chanced to see

The vulture on a lofty tree.

As Rávan 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,

Rávan 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 Lakshman 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,

Jatayus is the name I bear.

Thy captive, known by Sítá's name,

Is the dear consort and the dame

Of Ráma Das'aratha'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 ill 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 S'úrpankhá'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 wholsome 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

Hear 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.

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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 Das'aratha must be done.

Stay for a while, O Rávan, 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.

Rávan'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 think 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 Rávan 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 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 Rávan 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 Rávan spake:

'Thou, King of giants, rash and blind,

Wilt be the ruin of thy kind,

Stealing the wife of Ráma, him

With lightning sears on chest and limb.

A mighty host obeys his will

And troops of slaves his palace fill;

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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 Jatayus, 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 aim 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 Rávan 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 Rávan'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 Rávan'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 Lakshman, 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,

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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 Rávan raised her up, and bare

His captive through the fields of air,

Calling with accents loud and shrill

On Ráma and on Lakshman 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 Rávan 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 Rávan 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. 1

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. 2

The birds of every wing had flocked

To stately trees by breezes rocked:

p. 292

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 Rávan tear the dame away,

His glorious light began to fail

And all his disk grew cold and pale.

'If Rávan from the forest hies**

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 Das'aratha, and undone

   She swooned with fear and pain.

Footnotes

291:1 The spirits of the good dwell in heaven until their store of accumulated merit is exhausted. Then they redescend to earth in the form of falling stars.

291:2 See The Descent of Gangá, Book I Canto XLIV.

CANTO LIII.: SITÁ'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,

Fresh 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 Rávan, 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 Rávan, let me go,

And save thy soul from coming woe.

Or if thou wilt not not 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

Mv 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

p. 293

The deadly coil of Fate is bound,

And thou, O Ravan, 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 Vaitarani, the flood

Thatt 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 ihe 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'er-thrown:

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, here

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 Lanka's city fled.

He bore awny 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 rook and lake and brook.

He passed at length the sounding sea

Where monstrous creatures wander free,--

Seat of Lord Varun's ancient reign,

Controller of the eternal main.

The angry waves were raised and tossed

As Rávan 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 Rávan speeding like the storm,

Bearing his death in human form,

The struggling Sítá, lighted down

In royal Lanka'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 Maya laid

The lovely Maya, demon maid.

Then Rávan gave command to all

The dread she-fiends who filled the halls

'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 Brahma gave,

p. 294

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 Dúshan 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 Rávan 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,

p. 295

No spirit in the worlds I see

A match in power and might for me.

What wilt tbou 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 Lanka'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 conscerating 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 tbou 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 Rávan 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 Das'aratha 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,

Mv husband, yea a God to me.

With shoulders like the forest king's,

From old Ikshváku's line he springs.

He with his brother Lakshman'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 victim's 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

p. 296

Like Káma slain by Rudra's eye. 1

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 Dandak 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 stired,

Then thus with fury in his eye

He made in threats his fierce reply

'Hear Maithil lady, hear my speech

* to my words and ponder each

* 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 Rávan, 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.

Rávan 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 As'oka 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 Lakshman 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 body of the * smile,

True consort * to happy fate

W * and dedicate

p. 297

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 Sachi's lord, the Thousand-eyed,

To the Asoka garden hied.

He came and stood where Sitá 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,

Videhau 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 S'achi's lord?

With Rhagu'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 S'achi 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 Lakshman, 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 Lakshman and her lord she thought.

'If my brave lord be still alive,

If valiant Lakshman 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 Lakshman 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 rung out:

'Alas, some dire disaster seems

Portended by the jackal's screams.

O may the Maitil dame be screened

From outrage of each hungry fiend!

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Alas, if Lakshman 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, Lakshman, 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 Lakshman 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.

Lakshman's left hand be took, and then

In gentle tones the prince of men,

Though sharp and fierce their tenour ran,

Thus to his brother chief began:

   'O Lakshman, thou art much to blame

Leaving alone the Maíthil 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 Lakshman, 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 tear and pain oppress my heart

     That dreads the coming blow,

   And through my left eye keenly dart

     The throbs that herald woe.

   Ah Lakshman, 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 Maíthil 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 Maíthil 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 teacherous sin,

If, Sítá lost, my days I end,

And thou without me homeward wend!

O, let not good Kaus'alyá 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,

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But if my wife have perished, I

Reft of ray love will surely die,

O Lakshman, 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 Sita 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 Lakshman 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 Síta bent,

To Janasthán the chieftain went,

Hastening on with eager stride,

And Lakshman 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, Lakshman, 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 come 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.'

   Lakshman, 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, Lakshman, 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, Lakshman, 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 Lakshman, 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,

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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,'

(Continued ...)

(My humble salutations to Sreeman Ralph T. H. Griffith for the collection)