XXXVII. Preparations…

XXXVII. Preparations

Lords of the legions of the wood, The chieftains with Vibhishaṇ stood, And, strangers in the foeman’s land, Their hopes and fears in council scanned:

“See, see where Lanká’s towers ascend, Which Rávaṇ’s power and might defend, Which Gods, Gandharvas, fiends would fail To conquer, if they durst assail. How shall our legions pass within, The city of the foe to win, With massive walls and portals barred Which Rávaṇ keeps with surest guard?” With anxious looks the walls they eyed: And sage Vibhishaṇ thus replied: “These lords of mine(946) can answer: they Within the walls have found their way, The foeman’s plan and order learned, And hither to my side returned. Now, Ráma, let my tongue declare How Rávaṇ’s hosts are stationed there. Prahasta heads, in warlike state, His legions at the eastern gate. To guard the southern portal stands Mahodar, girt by Rákshas bands, Where mighty Mahápárśva, sent By Rávaṇ’s hest, his aid has lent. Guard of the gate that fronts the west Is valiant Indrajít, the best Of warriors, Rávaṇ’s joy and pride; And by the youthful chieftain’s side Are giants, armed for fierce attacks With sword and mace and battle-axe. North, where approach is dreaded most, The king, encompassed with a host Of giants trained in war, whose hands Wield maces, swords and lances, stands. All these are chiefs whom Rávaṇ chose As mightiest to resist his foes; And each a countless army(947) leads With elephants and cars and steeds.”

Then Ráma, while his spirit burned For battle, words like these returned: “The eastern gate be Níla’s care, Opponent of Prahasta there. The southern gate, with troops arrayed Let Angad, Báli’s son, invade. The gate that fronts the falling sun Shall be by brave Hanúmán won; Soon through its portals shall he lead His myriads of Vánar breed. The gate that fronts the north shall be Assailed by Lakshmaṇ and by me, For I myself have sworn to kill The tyrant who delights in ill. Armed with the boon which Brahmá gave, The Gods of heaven he loves to brave, And through the trembling worlds he flies, Oppressor of the just and wise. Thou, Jámbaván, and thou, O King Of Vánars, all your bravest bring, And with your hosts in dense array Straight to the centre force your way. But let no Vánar in the storm Disguise him in a human form, Ye chiefs who change your shapes at will, Retain your Vánar semblance still. Thus, when we battle with the foe, Both men and Vánars will ye know, In human form will seven appear; Myself, my brother Lakshmaṇ here; Vibhishaṇ, and the four he led From Lanká’s city when he fled.”

Thus Raghu’s son the chiefs addressed: Then, gazing on Suvela’s crest, Transported by the lovely sight, He longed to climb the mountain height.

XXXVIII. The Ascent Of Suvela

“Come let us scale,” the hero cried, “This hill with various metals dyed. This night upon the breezy crest Sugríva, Lakshmaṇ, I, will rest, With sage Vibhishaṇ, faithful friend, His counsel and his lore to lend. From those tall peaks each eager eye The foeman’s city shall espy, Who from the wood my darling stole And brought long anguish on my soul.”

Thus spake the lord of men, and bent His footsteps to the steep ascent, And Lakshmaṇ, true in weal and woe, Next followed with his shafts and bow. Vibhishaṇ followed, next in place, The sovereign of the Vánar race, And hundreds of the forest kind Thronged with impetuous feet, behind. The chiefs in woods and mountains bred Fast followed to Suvela’s head, And gazed on Lanká bright and fair As some gay city in the air. On glittering gates, on ramparts raised By giant hands, the chieftains gazed. They saw the mighty hosts that, skilled In arts of war, the city filled, And ramparts with new ramparts lined, The swarthy hosts that stood behind. With spirits burning for the fight They saw the giants from the height, And from a hundred throats rang out Defiance and the battle shout. Then sank the sun with dying flame, And soft the shades of twilight came, And the full moon’s delicious light Was shed upon the tranquil night.

XXXIX. Lanká

They slept secure: the sun arose And called the chieftains from repose. Before the wondering Vánars, gay With grove and garden, Lanká lay, Where golden buds the Champak showed, And bright with bloom Aśoka glowed, And palm and Sál and many a tree With leaf and flower were fair to see. They looked on wood and lawn and glade, On emerald grass and dusky shade, Where creepers filled the air with scent, And luscious fruit the branches bent, Where bees inebriate loved to throng, And each sweet bird was loud in song. The wondering Vánars passed the bound That circled that enchanting ground, And as they came a sweet breeze through The odorous alleys softly blew. Some Vánars, at their king’s behest, Onward to bannered Lanká pressed, While, startled by the strangers’ tread, The birds and deer before them fled. Earth trembled at each step they took, And Lanká at their shouting shook. Bright rose before their wondering eyes Trikúṭa’s peak that kissed the skies, And, clothed with flowers of every hue, Afar its golden radiance threw. Most fair to see the mountain’s head A hundred leagues in length was spread. There Rávaṇ’s town, securely placed, The summit of Trikúṭa graced. O’er leagues of land she stretched in pride, A hundred long and twenty wide. They saw a lofty wall enfold The city, built of blocks of gold, They saw the beams of morning fall On dome and fane within the wall, Bright with the shine that mansion gives Where Vishṇu in his glory lives. White-crested like the Lord of Snows Before them Rávaṇ’s palace rose. High on a thousand pillars raised With gold and precious stone it blazed, Guarded by giant warders, crown And ornament of Lanká’s town.

XL. Rávan Attacked

Still stood the son of Raghu where Suvela’s peak rose high in air, And with Sugríva turned his eye To scan each quarter of the sky. There on Trikúṭa, nobly planned And built by Viśvakarmá’s hand, He saw the lovely Lanká, dressed In all her varied beauty, rest. High on a tower above the gate The tyrant stood in kingly state. The royal canopy displayed Above him lent its grateful shade, And servants, from the giant band, His cheek with jewelled chowries fanned. Red sandal o’er his breast was spread, His ornaments and robe were red: Thus shows a cloud of darksome hue With golden sunbeams flashing through. While Ráma and the chiefs intent Upon the king their glances bent, Up sprang Sugríva from the ground And reached the turret at a bound. Unterrified the Vánar stood, And wroth, with wondrous hardihood, The king in bitter words addressed, And thus his scorn and hate expressed:

“King of the giant race, in me The friend and slave of Ráma see. Lord of the world, he gives me power To smite thee in thy fenced tower.” While through the air his challenge rang, At Rávaṇ’s face the Vánar sprang. Snatched from his head the kingly crown And dashed it in his fury down. Straight at his foe the giant flew, His mighty arms about him threw. With strength resistless swung him round And dashed him panting to the ground. Unharmed amid the storm of blows Swift to his feet Sugríva rose. Again in furious fight they met: With streams of blood their limbs were wet, Each grasping his opponent’s waist. Thus with their branches interlaced, Which, crimson with the flowers of spring, From side to side the breezes swing, In furious wrestle you may see The Kinśuk and the Seemal tree.(948) They fought with fists and hands, alike Prepared to parry and to strike. Long time the doubtful combat, waged With matchless strength and fury, raged. Each fiercely struck, each guarded well, Till, closing, from the tower they fell, And, grasping each the other’s throat, Lay for an instant in the moat. They rose, and each in fiercer mood The sanguinary strife renewed. Well matched in size and strength and skill They fought the dubious battle still. While sweat and blood their limbs bedewed They met, retreated, and pursued: Each stratagem and art they tried, Stood front to front and swerved aside. His hand a while the giant stayed And called his magic to his aid. But brave Sugríva, swift to know The guileful purpose of the foe, Gained with light leap the upper air, And breath and strength and spirit there; Then, joyous as for victory won, Returned to Raghu’s royal son.

XLI. Ráma’s Envoy

When Ráma saw each bloody trace On King Sugríva’s limbs and face, He cried, while, sorrowing at the view, His arms about his friend he threw: “Too venturous chieftain, kings like us Bring not their lives in peril thus; Nor, save when counsel shows the need, Attempt so bold, so rash a deed. Remember, I, Vibhishaṇ all Have sorrowed fearing for thy fall. O do not—for us all I speak— These desperate adventures seek.” “I could not,” cried Sugríva, “brook Upon the giant king to look, Nor challenge to the deadly strife The fiend who robbed thee of thy wife.” “Now Lakshmaṇ, marshal,” Ráma cried, “Our legions where the woods are wide, And stand we ready to oppose The fury of our giant foes. This day our armies shall ascend The walls which Rávaṇ’s powers defend, And floods of Rákshas blood shall stain The streets encumbered with the slain.” Down from the peak he came, and viewed The Vánars’ ordered multitude. Each captain there for battle burned, Each fiery eye to Lanká turned. On, where the royal brothers led To Lanká’s walls the legions sped. The northern gate, where giant foes Swarmed round their monarch, Ráma chose Where he in person might direct The battle, and his troops protect. What arm but his the post might keep Where, strong as he who sways the deep,(949) Mid thousands armed with bow and mace, Stood Rávaṇ mightiest of his race? The eastern gate was Níla’s post, Where marshalled stood his Vánar host, And Mainda with his troops arrayed, And Dwivid stood to lend him aid. The southern gate was Angad’s care, Who ranged his bold battalions there. Hanúmán by the port that faced The setting sun his legions placed, And King Sugríva held the wood East of the gate where Rávaṇ stood. On every side the myriads met, And Lanká’s walls of close beset That scarce the roving gale could win A passage to the hosts within. Loud as the angry ocean’s roar When wild waves lash the rocky shore, Ten thousand thousand throats upsent A shout that tore the firmament, And Lanká with each grove and brook And tower and wall and rampart shook. The giants heard, and were appalled: Then Raghu’s son to Angad called, And, led by kingly duty,(950) gave This order merciful as brave: “Go, Angad, Rávaṇ’s presence seek, And thus my words of warning speak: “How art thou changed and fallen now, O Monarch of the giants, thou Whose impious fury would not spare Saint, nymph, or spirit of the air; Whose foot in haughty triumph trod On Yaksha, king, and Serpent God: How art thou fallen from thy pride Which Brahmá’s favour fortified! With myriads at thy Lanká’s gate I stand my righteous ire to sate, And punish thee with sword and flame, The tyrant fiend who stole my dame. Now show the might, employ the guile, O Monarch of the giants’ isle, Which stole a helpless dame away: Call up thy power and strength to-day. Once more I warn thee, Rákshas King, This hour the Maithil lady bring, And, yielding while there yet is time, Seek, suppliant, pardon for the crime, Or I will leave beneath the sun No living Rákshas, no, not one. In vain from battle wilt thou fly, Or borne on pinions seek the sky; The hand of Ráma shall not spare; His fiery shaft shall smite thee there.’ ”

He ceased: and Angad bowed his head; Thence like embodied flame he sped, And lighted from his airy road Within the Rákshas king’s abode. There sate, the centre of a ring Of counsellors, the giant king. Swift through the circle Angad pressed, And spoke with fury in his breast: “Sent by the lord of Kośal’s land, His envoy here, O King, I stand, Angad the son of Báli: fame Has haply taught thine ears my name. Thus in the words of Ráma I Am come to warn thee or defy: Come forth, and fighting in the van Display the spirit of a man. This arm shall slay thee, tyrant: all Thy nobles, kith and kin shall fall: And earth and heaven, from terror freed, Shall joy to see the oppressor bleed. Vibhishaṇ, when his foe is slain, Anointed king in peace shall reign. Once more I counsel thee: repent, Avoid the mortal punishment, With honour due the dame restore, And pardon for thy sin implore.”

Loud rose the king’s infuriate cry: “Seize, seize the Vánar, let him die.” Four of his band their lord obeyed, And eager hands on Angad laid. He purposing his strength to show Gave no resistance to the foe, But swiftly round his captors cast His mighty arms and held them fast. Fierce shout and cry around him rang: Light to the palace roof he sprang, There his detaining arms unwound, And hurled the giants to the ground. Then, smiting with a fearful stroke, A turret from the roof he broke,— As when the fiery levin sent By Indra from the clouds has rent The proud peak of the Lord of Snow,— And flung the stony mass below. Again with loud terrific cry He sprang exulting to the sky, And, joyous for his errand done, Stood by the side of Raghu’s son.

XLII. The Sally

Still was the cry, “The Vánar foes Around the leaguered city close.” King Rávaṇ from the terrace gazed And saw, with eyes where fury blazed, The Vánar host in serried ranks Press to the moat and line the banks, And, first in splendour and in place, The lion lord of Raghu’s race. And Ráma looked on Lanká where Gay flags were streaming to the air, And, while keen sorrow pierced him through, His loving thoughts to Sítá flew: “There, there in deep affliction lies My darling with the fawn-like eyes. There on the cold bare ground she keeps Sad vigil and for Ráma weeps.” Mad with the thought, “Charge, charge,” he cried. “Let earth with Rákshas blood be dyed.”

Responsive to his call rang out A loud, a universal shout, As myriads filled the moat with stone, Trees, rocks, and mountains overthrown, And charging at their leader’s call Pressed forward furious to the wall. Some in their headlong ardour scaled The rampart’s height, the guard assailed, And many a ponderous fragment rent From portal, tower, and battlement. Huge gates adorned with burnished gold Were loosed and lifted from their hold; And post and pillar, with a sound Like thunder, fell upon the ground. At every portal, east and west And north and south, the chieftains pressed Each in his post appointed led His myriads in the forest bred.

“Charge, let the gates be opened wide: Charge, charge, my giants,” Rávaṇ cried. They heard his voice, and loud and long Rang the wild clamour of the throng, And shell and drum their notes upsent, And every martial instrument. Forth, at the bidding of their lord From every gate the giants poured, As, when the waters rise and swell, Huge waves preceding waves impel. Again from every Vánar throat A scream of fierce defiance smote The welkin: earth and sea and sky Reëchoed with the awful cry. The roar of elephants, the neigh Of horses eager for the fray. The frequent clash of warriors’ steel, The rattling of the chariot wheel. Fierce was the deadly fight: opposed In terrible array they closed, As when the Gods of heaven enraged With rebel fiends wild battle waged. Axe, spear, and mace were wielded well: At every blow a Vánar fell. But shivered rock and brandished tree Brought many a giant on his knee, To perish in his turn beneath The deadly wounds of nails and teeth.

XLIII. The Single Combats

Brave chiefs of each opposing side Their strength in single combat tried. Fierce Indrajít the fight began With Angad in the battle’s van. Sampáti, strongest of his race, Stood with Prajangha face to face. Hanúmán, Jambumáli met In mortal opposition set. Vibhishaṇ, brother of the lord Of Lanká, raised his threatening sword And singled out, with eyes aglow With wrath, Śatrughna for his foe. The mighty Gaja Tapan sought, And Níla with Nikumbha fought. Sugríva, Vánar king, defied Fierce Praghas long in battle tried, And Lakshmaṇ fearless in the fight Encountered Vírúpáksha’s might. To meet the royal Ráma came Wild Agniketu fierce as flame; Mitraghana, he who loved to strike His foeman and his friend alike: With Raśmiketu, known and feared Where’er his ponderous flag was reared; And Yajnakopa whose delight Was ruin of the sacred rite. These met and fought, with thousands more, And trampled earth was red with gore. Swift as the bolt which Indra sends When fire from heaven the mountain rends Smote Indrajít with furious blows On Angad queller of his foes. But Angad from his foeman tore The murderous mace the warrior bore, And low in dust his coursers rolled, His driver, and his car of gold. Struck by the shafts Prajangha sped, The Vánar chief Sampáti bled, But, heedless of his gashes he Crushed down the giant with a tree. Then car-borne Jambumáli smote Hanumán on the chest and throat; But at the car the Vánar rushed, And chariot, steeds, and rider crushed. Sugríva whirled a huge tree round, And struck fierce Praghas to the ground. One arrow shot from Lakshmaṇ’s bow Laid mighty Vírúpáksha low. His giant foes round Ráma pressed And shot their shafts at head and breast; But, when the iron shower was spent, Four arrows from his bow he sent, And every missile, deftly sped; Cleft from the trunk a giant head.(951)

XLIV. The Night

The lord of Light had sunk and set: Night came; the foeman struggled yet; And fiercer for the gloom of night Grew the wild fury of the fight. Scarce could each warrior’s eager eye The foeman from the friend descry. “Rákshas or Vánar? say;” cried each, And foe knew foeman by his speech. “Why wilt thou fly? O warrior, stay: Turn on the foe, and rend and slay:” Such were the cries, such words of fear Smote through the gloom each listening ear. Each swarthy rover of the night Whose golden armour flashed with light, Showed like a towering hill embraced By burning woods about his waist. The giants at the Vánars flew, And ravening ate the foes they slew: With mortal bite like serpent’s fang, The Vánars at the giants sprang, And car and steeds and they who bore The pennons fell bedewed with gore. No serried band, no firm array The fury of their charge could stay. Down went the horse and rider, down Went giant lords of high renown. Though midnight’s shade was dense and dark, With skill that swerved not from the mark Their bows the sons of Raghu drew, And each keen shaft a chieftain slew. Uprose the blinding dust from meads Ploughed by the cars and trampling steeds, And where the warriors fell the flood Was dark and terrible with blood. Six giants(952) singled Ráma out, And charged him with a furious shout Loud as the roaring of the sea When every wind is raging free. Six times he shot: six heads were cleft; Six giants dead on earth were left. Nor ceased he yet: his bow he strained, And from the sounding weapon rained A storm of shafts whose fiery glare Filled all the region of the air; And chieftains dropped before his aim Like moths that perish in the flame. Earth glistened where the arrows fell, As shines in autumn nights a dell Which fireflies, flashing through the gloom, With momentary light illume.

But Indrajít, when Báli’s son(953) The victory o’er the foe had won, Saw with a fury-kindled eye His mangled steeds and driver die; Then, lost in air, he fled the fight, And vanished from the victor’s sight. The Gods and saints glad voices raised, And Angad for his virtue praised; And Raghu’s sons bestowed the meed Of honour due to valorous deed.

Compelled his shattered car to quit, Rage filled the soul of Indrajít, Who brooked not, strong by Brahmá’s grace Defeat from one of Vánar race. In magic mist concealed from view His bow the treacherous warrior drew, And Raghu’s sons were first to feel The tempest of his winged steel. Then when his arrows failed to kill The princes who defied him still, He bound them with the serpent noose,(954) The magic bond which none might loose.

XLV. Indrajít’s Victory

Brave Ráma, burning still to know The station of his artful foe, Gave to ten chieftains, mid the best Of all the host, his high behest. Swift rose in air the Vánar band: Each region of the sky they scanned: But Rávaṇ’s son by magic skill Checked them with arrows swifter still, When streams of blood from chest and side The dauntless Vánars’ limbs had dyed, The giant in his misty shroud Showed like the sun obscured by cloud. Like serpents hissing through the air, His arrows smote the princely pair; And from their limbs at every rent A stream of rushing blood was sent. Like Kinśuk trees they stood, that show In spring their blossoms’ crimson glow. Then Indrajít with fury eyed Ikshváku’s royal sons, and cried:

“Not mighty Indra can assail Or see me when I choose to veil My form in battle: and can ye, Children of earth, contend with me? The arrowy noose this hand has shot Has bound you with a hopeless knot; And, slaughtered by my shafts and bow, To Yáma’s hall this hour ye go.”

He spoke, and shouted. Then anew The arrows from his bowstring flew, And pierced, well aimed with perfect art, Each limb and joint and vital part. Transfixed with shafts in every limb, Their strength relaxed, their eyes grew dim. As two tall standards side by side, With each sustaining rope untied, Fall levelled by the howling blast, So earth’s majestic lords at last Beneath the arrowy tempest reeled, And prostrate pressed the battle field.

XLVI. Indrajít’s Triumph

The Vánar chiefs whose piercing eyes Scanned eagerly the earth and skies, Saw the brave brothers wounded sore Transfixed with darts and stained with gore. The monarch of the Vánar race, With wise Vibhishaṇ, reached the place; Angad and Níla came behind, And others of the forest kind, And standing with Hanúmán there Lamented for the fallen pair. Their melancholy eyes they raised; In fruitless search a while they gazed. But magic arts Vibhishaṇ knew; Not hidden from his keener view, Though veiled by magic from the rest, The son of Rávaṇ stood confessed. Fierce Indrajít with savage pride The fallen sons of Raghu eyed, And every giant heart was proud As thus the warrior cried aloud:

“Slain by mine arrows Ráma lies, And closed in death are Lakshmaṇ’s eyes. Dead are the mighty princes who Dúshaṇ and Khara smote and slew. The Gods and fiends may toil in vain To free them from the binding chain. The haughty chief, my father’s dread, Who drove him sleepless from his bed, While Lanká, troubled like a brook In rain time, heard his name and shook: He whose fierce hate our lives pursued Lies helpless by my shafts subdued. Now fruitless is each wondrous deed Wrought by the race the forests breed, And fruitless every toil at last Like cloudlets when the rains are past.” Then rose the shout of giants loud As thunder from a bursting cloud, When, deeming Ráma, dead, they raised Their voices and the conqueror praised.

Still motionless, as lie the slain, The brothers pressed the bloody plain, No sigh they drew, no breath they heaved, And lay as though of life bereaved. Proud of the deed his art had done, To Lanká’s town went Rávaṇ’s son, Where, as he passed, all fear was stilled, And every heart with triumph filled. Sugríva trembled as he viewed Each fallen prince with blood bedewed, And in his eyes which overflowed With tears the flame of anger glowed. “Calm,” cried Vibhishaṇ, “calm thy fears, And stay the torrent of thy tears. Still must the chance of battle change, And victory still delight to range. Our cause again will she befriend And bring us triumph in the end. This is not death: each prince will break The spell that holds him, and awake; Nor long shall numbing magic bind The mighty arm, the lofty mind.”

He ceased: his finger bathed in dew Across Sugríva’s eyes he drew; From dulling mist his vision freed, And spoke these words to suit the need: “No time is this for fear: away With fainting heart and weak delay. Now, e’en the tear which sorrow wrings From loving eyes destruction brings. Up, on to battle at the head Of those brave troops which Ráma led. Or guardian by his side remain Till sense and strength the prince regain. Soon shall the trance-bound pair revive, And from our hearts all sorrow drive. Though prostrate on the earth he lie, Deem not that Ráma’s death is nigh; Deem not that Lakshmí will forget Or leave her darling champion yet. Rest here and be thy heart consoled; Ponder my words, be firm and bold. I, foremost in the battlefield, Will rally all who faint or yield. Their staring eyes betray their fear; They whisper each in other’s ear. They, when they hear my cheering cry And see the friend of Ráma nigh, Will cast their gloom and fears away Like faded wreaths of yesterday.”

Thus calmed he King Sugríva’s dread; Then gave new heart to those who fled. Fierce Indrajít, his soul on fire With pride of conquest, sought his sire, Raised reverent hands, and told him all, The battle and the princes’ fall. Rejoicing at his foes’ defeat Upsprang the monarch from his seat, Girt by his giant courtiers: round His warrior son his arms he wound, Close kisses on his head applied, And heard again how Ráma died.

XLVII. Sítá

Still on the ground where Ráma slept Their faithful watch the Vánars kept. There Angad stood o’erwhelmed with grief And many a lord and warrior chief; And, ranged in densest mass around, Their tree-armed legions held the ground. Far ranged each Vánar’s eager eye, Now swept the land, now sought the sky, All fearing, if a leaf was stirred, A Rákshas in the sound they heard. The lord of Lanká in his hall, Rejoicing at his foeman’s fall, Commanded and the warders came Who ever watched the Maithil dame. “Go,” cried the Rákshas king, “relate To Janak’s child her husband’s fate. Low on the earth her Ráma lies, And dark in death are Lakshmaṇ’s eyes. Bring forth my car and let her ride To view the chieftains side by side. The lord to whom her fancy turned For whose dear sake my love she spurned, Lies smitten, as he fiercely led The battle, with his brother dead. Lead forth the royal lady: go Her husband’s lifeless body show. Then from all doubt and terror free Her softening heart will turn to me.”

They heard his speech: the car was brought; That shady grove the warders sought Where, mourning Ráma night and day, The melancholy lady lay. They placed her in the car and through The yielding air they swiftly flew. The lady looked upon the plain, Looked on the heaps of Vánar slain, Saw where, triumphant in the fight, Thronged the fierce rovers of the night, And Vánar chieftains, mournful-eyed, Watched by the fallen brothers’ side. There stretched upon his gory bed Each brother lay as lie the dead, With shattered mail and splintered bow Pierced by the arrows of the foe. When on the pair her eyes she bent, Burst from her lips a wild lament Her eyes o’erflowed, she groaned and sighed And thus in trembling accents cried:

XLVIII. Sítá’s Lament

“False are they all, proved false to-day, The prophets of my fortune, they Who in the tranquil time of old A blessed life for me foretold, Predicting I should never know A childless dame’s, a widow’s woe, False are they all, their words are vain, For thou, my lord and life, art slain. False was the priest and vain his lore Who blessed me in those days of yore By Ráma’s side in bliss to reign: For thou, my lord and life, art slain. They hailed me happy from my birth, Proud empress of the lord of earth. They blessed me—but the thought is pain— For thou, my lord and life, art slain. Ah, fruitless hope! each glorious sign That stamps the future queen is mine, With no ill-omened mark to show A widow’s crushing hour of woe. They say my hair is black and fine, They praise my brows’ continuous line; My even teeth divided well, My bosom for its graceful swell. They praise my feet and fingers oft; They say my skin is smooth and soft, And call me happy to possess The twelve fair marks that bring success.(955) But ah, what profit shall I gain? Thou, O my lord and life, art slain. The flattering seer in former days My gentle girlish smile would praise, And swear that holy water shed By Bráhman hands upon my head Should make me queen, a monarch’s bride: How is the promise verified? Matchless in might the brothers slew In Janasthán the giant crew. And forced the indomitable sea To let them pass to rescue me. Theirs was the fiery weapon hurled By him who rules the watery world;(956) Theirs the dire shaft by Indra sped; Theirs was the mystic Brahmá’s Head.(957) In vain they fought, the bold and brave: A coward’s hand their death-wounds gave. By secret shafts and magic spell The brothers, peers of Indra, fell. That foe, if seen by Ráma’s eye One moment, had not lived to fly. Though swift as thought, his utmost speed Had failed him in the hour of need. No might, no tear, no prayer may stay Fate’s dark inevitable day. Nor could their matchless valour shield These heroes on the battle field. I sorrow for the noble dead, I mourn my hopes for ever fled; But chief my weeping eyes o’erflow For Queen Kauśalyá’s hopeless woe. The widowed queen is counting now Each hour prescribed by Ráma’s vow, And lives because she longs to see Once more her princely sons and me.”

Then Trijaṭá,(958) of gentler mould Though Rákshas born, her grief consoled: “Dear Queen, thy causeless woe dispel: Thy husband lives, and all is well. Look round: in every Vánar face The light of joyful hope I trace. Not thus, believe me, shine the eyes Of warriors when their leader dies. An Army, when the chief is dead, Flies from the field dispirited. Here, undisturbed in firm array, The Vánars by the brothers stay. Love prompts my speech; no longer grieve; Ponder my counsel, and believe. These lips of mine from earliest youth Have spoken, and shall speak, the truth. Deep in my heart thy gentle grace And patient virtues hold their place. Turn, lady, turn once more thine eye: Though pierced with shafts the heroes lie, On brows and cheeks with blood-drops wet The light of beauty lingers yet. Such beauty ne’er is found in death, But vanishes with parting breath. O, trust the hope these tokens give: The heroes are not dead, but live.”

Then Sítá joined her hands, and sighed, “O, may thy words be verified!” The car was turned, which fleet as thought The mourning queen to Lanká brought. They led her to the garden, where Again she yielded to despair, Lamenting for the chiefs who bled On earth’s cold bosom with the dead.

XLIX. Ráma’s Lament

Ranged round the spot where Ráma fell Each Vánar chief stood sentinel. At length the mighty hero broke The trance that held him, and awoke. He saw his senseless brother, dyed With blood from head to foot, and cried: “What have I now to do with life Or rescue of my prisoned wife, When thus before my weeping eyes, Slain in the fight, my brother lies? A queen like Sítá I may find Among the best of womankind, But never such a brother, tried In war, my guardian, friend, and guide. If he be dead, the brave and true, I will not live but perish too. How, reft of Lakshmaṇ, shall I meet My mother, and Kaikeyí greet? My brother’s eager question brook, And fond Sumitrá’s longing look? What shall I say, o’erwhelmed with shame To cheer the miserable dame? How, when she hears her son is dead, Will her sad heart be comforted? Ah me, for longer life unfit This mortal body will I quit; For Lakshmaṇ slaughtered for my sake, From sleep of death will never wake. Ah when I sank oppressed with care, Thy gentle voice could soothe despair. And art thou, O my brother, killed? Is that dear voice for ever stilled? Cold are those lips, my brother, whence Came never word to breed offence? Ah stretched upon the gory plain My brother lies untimely slain: Numbed is the mighty arm that slew The leaders of the giant crew. Transfixed with shafts, with blood-streams red, Thou liest on thy lowly bed: So sinks to rest, his journey done, Mid arrowy rays the crimson sun. Thou, when from home and sire I fled, The wood’s wild ways with me wouldst tread: Now close to thine my steps shall be, For I in death will follow thee. Vibhishaṇ now will curse my name, And Ráma as a braggart blame, Who promised—but his word is vain— That he in Lanká’s isle should reign. Return, Sugríva: reft of me Lead back thy Vánars o’er the sea, Nor hope to battle face to face With him who rules the giant race. Well have ye done and nobly fought, And death in desperate combat sought. All that heroic might can do, Brave Vánars, has been done by you. My faithful friends I now dismiss: Return: my last farewell is this.”

Bedewed with tears was every cheek As thus the Vánars heard him speak. Vibhishaṇ on the field had stayed The Vánar hosts who fled dismayed. Now lifting up his mace on high With martial step the chief drew nigh. The hosts who watched by Ráma’s side Beheld his shape and giant stride. ’Tis he, ’tis Rávaṇ’s son, they thought: And all in flight their safety sought.

L. The Broken Spell

Sugríva viewed the flying crowd, And thus to Angad cried aloud: “Why run the trembling hosts, as flee Storm-scattered barks across the sea?” “Dost thou not mark,” the chief replied, “Transfixed with shafts, with bloodstreams dyed, With arrowy toils about them wound, The sons of Raghu on the ground?”

That moment brought Vibhishaṇ near. Sugríva knew the cause of fear, And ordered Jámbaván, who led The bears, to check the hosts that fled. The king of bears his hest obeyed: The Vánars’ headlong flight was stayed. A little while Vibhishaṇ eyed The brothers fallen side by side. His giant fingers wet with dew Across the heroes’ eyes he drew, Still on the pair his sad look bent, And spoke these word in wild lament: “Ah for the mighty chiefs brought low By coward hand and stealthy blow! Brave pair who loved the open fight, Slain by that rover of the night. Dishonest is the victory won By Indrajít my brother’s son. I on their might for aid relied, And in my cause they fought and died. Lost is the hope that soothed each pain: I live, but live no more to reign, While Lanká’s lord, untouched by ill, Exults in safe defiance still.”

“Not thus,” Sugríva said, “repine, For Lanká’s isle shall still be thine. Nor let the tyrant and his son Exult before the fight be done. These royal chiefs, though now dismayed, Freed from the spell by Garuḍ’s aid, Triumphant yet the foe shall meet And lay the robber at their feet.”

His hope the Vánar monarch told, And thus Vibhishaṇ’s grief consoled. Then to Susheṇ who at his side Expectant stood, Sugríva cried: “When these regain their strength and sense, Fly, bear them to Kishkindhá hence. Here with my legions will I stay, The tyrant and his kinsmen slay, And, rescued from the giant king, The Maithil lady will I bring, Like Glory lost of old, restored By Śakra, heaven’s almighty lord.”

Susheṇ made answer: “Hear me yet: When Gods and fiends in battle met, So fiercely fought the demon crew, So wild a storm of arrows flew, That heavenly warriors faint with pain, Sank smitten by the ceaseless rain. Vṛihaspati,(959) with herb and spell, Cured the sore wounds of those who fell. And, skilled in arts that heal and save, New life and sense and vigour gave. Far, on the Milky Ocean’s shore, Still grow those herbs in boundless store; Let swiftest Vánars thither speed And bring them for our utmost need. Those herbs that on the mountain spring Let Panas and Sampáti bring, For well the wondrous leaves they know, That heal each wound and life bestow. Beside that sea which, churned of yore, The amrit on its surface bore, Where the white billows lash the land, Chandra’s fair height and Droṇa stand. Planted by Gods each glittering steep Looks down upon the milky deep. Let fleet Hanúmán bring us thence Those herbs of wondrous influence.”

Meanwhile the rushing wind grew loud, Red lightnings flashed from banks of cloud. The mountains shook, the wild waves rose, And smitten with resistless blows Unrooted fell each stately tree That fringed the margin of the sea. All life within the waters feared Then, as the Vánars gazed, appeared King Garuḍ’s self, a wondrous sight, Disclosed in flames of fiery light. From his fierce eye in sudden dread All serpents in a moment fled. And those transformed to shaft that bound The princes vanished in the ground. On Raghu’s sons his eyes he bent, And hailed the lords armipotent. Then o’er them stooped the feathered king, And touched their faces with his wing. His healing touch their pangs allayed, And closed each rent the shafts had made. Again their eyes were bright and bold, Again the smooth skin shone like gold. Again within their shell enshrined Came memory and each power of mind: And, from those numbing bonds released, Their spirit, zeal, and strength increased. Firm on their feet they stood, and then Thus Ráma spake, the lord of men:

“By thy dear grace in sorest need From deadly bonds we both are freed. To these glad eyes as welcome now As Aja(960) or my sire art thou. Who art thou, mighty being? say, Thus glorious in thy bright array.” He ceased: the king of birds replied, While flashed his eye with joy and pride: “In me, O Raghu’s son, behold One who has loved thee from of old: Garuḍ, the lord of all that fly, Thy guardian and thy friend am I. Not all the Gods in heaven could loose These numbing bonds, this serpent noose, Wherewith fierce Rávaṇ’s son, renowned For magic arts, your limbs had bound. Those arrows fixed in every limb Were mighty snakes, transformed by him. Blood thirsty race, they live beneath The earth, and slay with venomed teeth. On, smite the lord of Lanká’s isle, But guard you from the giants’ guile Who each dishonest art employ And by deceit brave foes destroy. So shall the tyrant Rávaṇ bleed, And Sítá from his power be freed.” Thus Garuḍ spake: then, swift as thought, The region of the sky he sought, Where in the distance like a blaze Of fire he vanished from the gaze.

Then the glad Vánars’ joy rang out In many a wild tumultuous shout, And the loud roar of drum and shell Startled each distant sentinel.

LI. Dhúmráksha’s Sally

King Rávaṇ, where he sat within, Heard from his hall the deafening din, And with a spirit ill at ease Addressed his lords in words like these:

“That warlike shout, those joyous cries, Loud as the thunder of the skies, Upsent from every Vánar throat, Some new-born confidence denote. Hark, how the sea and trembling shore Re-echo with the Vánars’ roar. Though arrowy chains, securely twined Both Ráma and his brother bind, Still must the fierce triumphant shout Disturb my soul with rising doubt. Swift envoys to the army send, And learn what change these cries portend.”

Obedient, at their master’s call, Fleet giants clomb the circling wall. They saw the Vánars formed and led: They saw Sugríva at their head, The brothers from their bonds released: And hope grew faint and fear increased. Their faces pale with doubt and dread, Back to the giant king they sped, And to his startled ear revealed The tidings of the battle field.

The flush of rage a while gave place To chilling fear that changed his face:

“What?” cried the tyrant, “are my foes Freed from the binding snakes that close With venomed clasp round head and limb, Bright as the sun and fierce like him: The spell a God bestowed of yore, The spell that never failed before? If arts like these be useless, how Shall giant strength avail us now? Go forth, Dhúmráksha, good at need, The bravest of my warriors lead: Force through the foe thy conquering way, And Ráma and the Vánars slay.”

Before his king with reverence due Dhúmráksha bowed him, and withdrew. Around him at his summons came Fierce legions led by chiefs of fame. Well armed with sword and spear and mace, They hurried to the gathering place, And rushed to battle, borne at speed By elephant and car and steed.

LII. Dhúmráksha’s Death

The Vánars saw the giant foe Pour from the gate in gallant show, Rejoiced with warriors’ fierce delight And shouted, longing for the fight. Near came the hosts and nearer yet: Dire was the tumult as they met, As, serried line to line opposed, The Vánars and the giants closed. Fierce on the foe the Vánars rushed, And, wielding trees, the foremost crushed; But, feathered from the heron’s wing, With eager flight from sounding string, Against them shot with surest aim A ceaseless storm of arrows came: And, pierced in head and chest and side, Full many a Vánar fell and died. They perished slain in fierce attacks With sword and pike and battle-axe; But myriads following undismayed Their valour in the fight displayed. Unnumbered Vánars rent and torn With shaft and spear to earth were borne. But crushed by branchy trees and blocks Of jagged stone and shivered rocks Which the wild Vánars wielded well The bravest of the giants fell. Their trampled banners strewed the fields, And broken swords and spears and shields; And, crushed by blows which none might stay, Cars, elephants, and riders lay. Dhúmráksha turned his furious eye And saw his routed legions fly. Still dauntless, with terrific blows, He struck and slew his foremost foes. At every blow, at every thrust, He laid a Vánar in the dust. So fell they neath the sword and lance In battle’s wild Gandharva(961) dance, Where clang of bow and clash of sword Did duty for the silvery chord, And hoofs that rang and steeds that neighed Loud concert for the dancers made. So fiercely from Dhúmráksha’s bow His arrows rained in ceaseless flow, The Vánar legions turned and fled To all the winds discomfited. Hanúmán saw the Vánars fly; He heaved a mighty rock on high. His keen eyes flashed with wrathful fire, And, rapid as the Wind his sire, Strong as the rushing tempests are, He hurled it at the advancing car. Swift through the air the missile sang: The giant from the chariot sprang, Ere crushed by that terrific blow Lay pole and wheel and flag and bow. Hanúmán’s eyes with fury blazed: A mountain’s rocky peak he raised, Poised it on high in act to throw, And rushed upon his giant foe. Dhúmráksha saw: he raised his mace And smote Hanúmán on the face, Who maddened by the wound’s keen pang Again upon his foeman sprang; And on the giant’s head the rock Descended with resistless shock. Crushed was each limb: a shapeless mass He lay upon the blood-stained grass.

LIII. Vajradanshtra’s Sally

When Rávaṇ in his palace heard The mournful news, his wrath was stirred; And, gasping like a furious snake, To Vajradanshṭra thus he spake:

“Go forth, my fiercest captain, lead The bravest of the giants’ breed. Go forth, the sons of Raghu slay And by their side Sugríva lay.”

He ceased: the chieftain bowed his head And forth with gathered troops he sped. Cars, camels, steeds were well arrayed, And coloured banners o’er them played. Rings decked his arms: about his waist The life-protecting mail was braced, And on the chieftain’s forehead set Glittered his cap and coronet. Borne on a bannered car that glowed With golden sheen the warrior rode, And footmen marched with spear and sword And bow and mace behind their lord. In pomp and pride of warlike state They sallied from the southern gate, But saw, as on their way they sped, Dread signs around and overhead. For there were meteors falling fast, Though not a cloud its shadow cast; And each ill-omened bird and beast, Forboding death, the fear increased, While many a giant slipped and reeled, Falling before he reached the field. They met in mortal strife engaged, And long and fierce the battle raged. Spears, swords uplifted, gleamed and flashed, And many a chief to earth was dashed. A ceaseless storm of arrows rained, And limbs were pierced and blood-distained. Terrific was the sound that filled The air, and every heart was chilled, As hurtling o’er the giants flew The rocks and trees which Vánars threw. Fierce as a hungry lion when Unwary deer approach his den, Angad, his eyes with fury red, Waving a tree above his head, Rushed with wild charge which none could stay Where stood the giants’ dense array. Like tall trees levelled by the blast Before him fell the giants fast, And earth that streamed with blood was strown With warriors, steeds, and cars o’erthrown.

LIV. Vajradanshtra’s Death

The giant leader fiercely rained His arrows and the fight maintained. Each time the clanging cord he drew His certain shaft a Vánar slew. Then, as the creatures he has made Fly to the Lord of Life for aid, To Angad for protection fled The Vánar hosts dispirited. Then raged the battle fiercer yet When Angad and the giant met. A hundred thousand arrows, hot With flames of fire, the giant shot; And every shaft he deftly sent His foeman’s body pierced and rent. From Angad’s limbs ran floods of gore: A stately tree from earth he tore, Which, maddened as his gashes bled, He hurled at his opponent’s head. His bow the dauntless giant drew; To meet the tree swift arrows flew, Checked the huge missile’s onward way, And harmless on the earth it lay. A while the Vánar chieftain gazed, Then from the earth a rock he raised Rent from a thunder-splitten height, And cast it with resistless might. The giant marked, and, mace in hand, Leapt from his chariot to the sand, Ere the rough mass descending broke The seat, the wheel, the pole and yoke.

Then Angad seized a shattered hill, Whereon the trees were flowering still, And with full force the jagged peak Fell crashing on the giant’s cheek. He staggered, reeled, and fell: the blood Gushed from the giant in a flood. Reft of his might, each sense astray, A while upon the sand he lay. But strength and wandering sense returned Again his eyes with fury burned, And with his mace upraised on high He wounded Angad on the thigh. Then from his hand his mace he threw, And closer to his foeman drew. Then with their fists they fought, and smote On brow and cheek and chest and throat. Worn out with toil, their limbs bedewed, With blood, the strife they still renewed, Like Mercury and fiery Mars Met in fierce battle mid the stars.

A while the deadly fight was stayed: Each armed him with his trusty blade Whose sheath with tinkling bells supplied, And golden net, adorned his side; And grasped his ponderous leather shield To fight till one should fall or yield. Unnumbered wounds they gave and took: Their wearied bodies reeled and shook. At length upon the sand that drank Streams of their blood the warriors sank, But as a serpent rears his head Sore wounded by a peasant’s tread, So Angad, fallen on his knees, Yet gathered strength his sword to seize; And, severed by the glittering blade, The giant’s head on earth was laid.

[I omit Cantos LV, LVI, LVII, and LVIII, which relate how Akampan and Prahasta sally out and fall. There is little novelty of incident in these Cantos and the results are exactly the same as before. In Canto LV, Akampan, at the command of Rávaṇ, leads forth his troops. Evil omens are seen and heard. The enemies meet, and many fall on each side, the Vánars transfixed with arrows, the Rákshases crushed with rocks and trees.

In Canto LVI Akampan sees that the Rákshases are worsted, and fights with redoubled rage and vigour. The Vánars fall fast under his “nets of arrows.” Hanumán comes to the rescue. He throws mountain peaks at the giant which are dexterously stopped with flights of arrows; and at last beats him down and kills him with a tree.

In Canto LVII, Rávaṇ is seriously alarmed. He declares that he himself, Kumbhakarṇa or Prahasta, must go forth. Prahasta sallies out vaunting that the fowls of the air shall eat their fill of Vánar flesh.

In Canto LVIII, the two armies meet. Dire is the conflict; ceaseless is the rain of stones and arrows. At last Níla meets Prahasta and breaks his bow. Prahasta leaps from his car, and the giant and the Vánar fight on foot. Níla with a huge tree crushes his opponent who falls like a tree when its roots are cut.]

LIX. Rávan’s Sally

They told him that the chief was killed, And Rávaṇ’s breast with rage was filled. Then, fiercely moved by wrath and pride, Thus to his lords the tyrant cried:

“No longer, nobles, may we show This lofty scorn for such a foe By whom our bravest, with his train Of steeds and elephants, is slain. Myself this day will take the field, And Raghu’s sons their lives shall yield.”

High on the royal car, that glowed With glory from his face, he rode; And tambour shell and drum pealed out, And joyful was each giant’s shout. A mighty host, with eyeballs red Like flames of kindled fire, he led. He passed the city gate, and viewed, Arrayed, the Vánar multitude, Those wielding massy rocks, and these Armed with the stems of uptorn trees, And Ráma with his eyes aglow With warlike ardour viewed the foe, And thus the brave Vibhishaṇ, best Of weapon-wielding chiefs, addressed: “What captain leads this bright array Where lances gleam and banners play, And thousands armed with spear and sword Await the bidding of their lord?”

“Seest, thou,” Vibhishaṇ answered, “one Whose face is as the morning sun, Preëminent for hugest frame? Akampan(962) is the giant’s name. Behold that chieftain, chariot-borne, Whom Brahmá’s chosen gifts adorn. He wields a bow like Indra’s own; A lion on his flag is shown, His eyes with baleful fire are lit: ’Tis Rávaṇ’s son, ’tis Indrajít. There, brandishing in mighty hands His huge bow, Atikáya stands. And that proud warrior o’er whose head A moon-bright canopy is spread: Whose might, in many a battle tried, Has tamed imperial Indra’s pride; Who wears a crown of burnished gold, Is Lanká’s lord the lofty-souled.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LX. Kumbhakarna Roused

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

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

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

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

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

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

LXI. The Vánars’ Alarm

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

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

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

LXII. Rávan’s Request

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

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

LXIII. Kumbhakarna’s Boast

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

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

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

LXIV. Mahodar’s Speech

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

LXV. Kumbhakarna’s Speech

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

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

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

LXVI. Kumbhakarna’s Sally

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

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

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

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

LXVII. Kumbhakarna’s Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LXVIII. Rávan’s Lament

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

LXIX. Narántak’s Death

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

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

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

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

LXX. The Death Of Trisirás

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

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

LXXI. Atikáya’s Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

LXXII. Rávan’s Speech

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

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

LXXIII. Indrajít’s Victory

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

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

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

LXXIV. The Medicinal Herbs

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

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

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

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

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

LXXV. The Night Attack

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

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

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