LI. Lakshman’s Lament…

LI. Lakshman’s Lament

As Lakshmaṇ still his vigil held By unaffected love impelled, Guha, whose heart the sight distressed, With words like these the prince addressed: “Beloved youth, this pleasant bed Was brought for thee, for thee is spread; On this, my Prince, thine eyelids close, And heal fatigue with sweet repose. My men are all to labour trained, But hardship thou hast ne’er sustained. All we this night our watch will keep And guard Kakutstha’s son asleep. In all the world there breathes not one More dear to me than Raghu’s son. The words I speak, heroic youth, Are true: I swear it by my truth. Through his dear grace supreme renown Will, so I trust, my wishes crown. So shall my life rich store obtain Of merit, blest with joy and gain. While Raghu’s son and Sítá lie Entranced in happy slumber, I Will, with my trusty bow in hand, Guard my dear friend with all my band. To me, who oft these forests range, Is naught therein or new or strange. We could with equal might oppose A four-fold army led by foes.”

Then royal Lakshmaṇ made reply: “With thee to stand as guardian nigh, Whose faithful soul regards the right, Fearless we well might rest to-night. But how, when Ráma lays his head With Sítá on his lowly bed,— How can I sleep? how can I care For life, or aught that’s bright and fair? Behold the conquering chief, whose might Is match for Gods and fiends in fight; With Sítá now he rests his head Asleep on grass beneath him spread. Won by devotion, text, and prayer, And many a rite performed with care, Chief of our father’s sons he shines Well marked, like him, with favouring signs. Brief, brief the monarch’s life will be Now his dear son is forced to flee; And quickly will the widowed state Mourn for her lord disconsolate. Each mourner there has wept her fill; The cries of anguish now are still: In the king’s hall each dame, o’ercome With weariness of woe is dumb. This first sad night of grief, I ween, Will do to death each sorrowing queen: Scarce is Kauśalyá left alive; My mother, too, can scarce survive. If when her heart is fain to break, She lingers for Śatrughna’s sake, Kauśalyá, mother of the chief, Must sink beneath the chilling grief. That town which countless thousands fill, Whose hearts with love of Ráma thrill,— The world’s delight, so rich and fair,— Grieved for the king, his death will share. The hopes he fondly cherished, crossed Ayodhyá’s throne to Ráma lost,— With mournful cries, Too late, too late! The king my sire will meet his fate. And when my sire has passed away, Most happy in their lot are they, Allowed, with every pious care, Part in his funeral rites to bear. And O, may we with joy at last,— These years of forest exile past,— Turn to Ayodhyá’s town to dwell With him who keeps his promise well!”

While thus the hero mighty-souled, In wild lament his sorrow told, Faint with the load that on him lay, The hours of darkness passed away. As thus the prince, impelled by zeal For his loved brother, prompt to feel Strong yearnings for the people’s weal, His words of truth outspake, King Guha grieved to see his woe, Heart-stricken, gave his tears to flow, Tormented by the common blow, Sad, as a wounded snake.

LII. The Crossing Of Gangá

Soon as the shades of night had fled, Uprising from his lowly bed, Ráma the famous, broad of chest, His brother Lakshmaṇ thus addressed: “Now swift upsprings the Lord of Light, And fled is venerable night. That dark-winged bird the Koïl now Is calling from the topmost bough, And sounding from the thicket nigh Is heard the peacock’s early cry. Come, cross the flood that seeks the sea, The swiftly flowing Jáhnaví.”(324)

King Guha heard his speech, agreed, And called his minister with speed: “A boat,” he cried, “swift, strong, and fair, With rudder, oars, and men, prepare, And place it ready by the shore To bear the pilgrims quickly o’er.” Thus Guha spake: his followers all Bestirred them at their master’s call; Then told the king that ready manned A gay boat waited near the strand. Then Guha, hand to hand applied, With reverence thus to Ráma cried: “The boat is ready by the shore: How, tell me, can I aid thee more? O lord of men, it waits for thee To cross the flood that seeks the sea. O godlike keeper of thy vow, Embark: the boat is ready now.”

Then Ráma, lord of glory high, Thus to King Guha made reply: “Thanks for thy gracious care, my lord: Now let the gear be placed on board.” Each bow-armed chief, in mail encased, Bound sword and quiver to his waist, And then with Sítá near them hied Down the broad river’s shelving side. Then with raised palms the charioteer, In lowly reverence drawing near, Cried thus to Ráma good and true: “Now what remains for me to do?” With his right hand, while answering The hero touched his friend: “Go back,” he said, “and on the king With watchful care attend. Thus far, Sumantra, thou wast guide; Now to Ayodhyá turn,” he cried: “Hence seek we leaving steeds and car, On foot the wood that stretches far.”

Sumantra, when, with grieving heart, He heard the hero bid him part, Thus to the bravest of the brave, Ikshváku’s son, his answer gave: “In all the world men tell of naught, To match thy deed, by heroes wrought— Thus with thy brother and thy wife Thrall-like to lead a forest life. No meet reward of fruit repays Thy holy lore, thy saintlike days, Thy tender soul, thy love of truth, If woe like this afflicts thy youth. Thou, roaming under forest boughs With thy dear brother and thy spouse Shalt richer meed of glory gain Than if three worlds confessed thy reign. Sad is our fate, O Ráma: we, Abandoned and repelled by thee, Must serve as thralls Kaikeyí’s will, Imperious, wicked, born to ill.”

Thus cried the faithful charioteer, As Raghu’s son, in rede his peer, Was fast departing on his road,— And long his tears of anguish flowed. But Ráma, when those tears were dried His lips with water purified, And in soft accents, sweet and clear, Again addressed the charioteer: “I find no heart, my friend, like thine, So faithful to Ikshváku’s line. Still first in view this object keep, That ne’er for me my sire may weep. For he, the world’s far-ruling king, Is old, and wild with sorrow’s sting; With love’s great burthen worn and weak: Deem this the cause that thus I speak Whate’er the high-souled king decrees His loved Kaikeyí’s heart to please, Yea, be his order what it may, Without demur thou must obey, For this alone great monarchs reign, That ne’er a wish be formed in vain. Then, O Sumantra, well provide That by no check the king be tried: Nor let his heart in sorrow pine: This care, my faithful friend, be thine. The honoured king my father greet, And thus for me my words repeat To him whose senses are controlled, Untired till now by grief, and old; “I, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ sorrow not, O Monarch, for our altered lot: The same to us, if here we roam, Or if Ayodhyá be our home, The fourteen years will quickly fly, The happy hour will soon be nigh When thou, my lord, again shalt see Lakshmaṇ, the Maithil dame, and me.” Thus having soothed, O charioteer, My father and my mother dear, Let all the queens my message learn, But to Kaikeyí chiefly turn. With loving blessings from the three, From Lakshmaṇ, Sítá, and from me, My mother, Queen Kauśalyá, greet With reverence to her sacred feet. And add this prayer of mine: “O King; Send quickly forth and Bharat bring, And set him on the royal throne Which thy decree has made his own. When he upon the throne is placed, When thy fond arms are round him laced, Thine aged heart will cease to ache With bitter pangs for Ráma’s sake.” And say to Bharat: “See thou treat The queens with all observance meet: What care the king receives, the same Show thou alike to every dame. Obedience to thy father’s will Who chooses thee the throne to fill, Will earn for thee a store of bliss Both in the world to come and this.’ ”

Thus Ráma bade Sumantra go With thoughtful care instructed so. Sumantra all his message heard, And spake again, by passion stirred: “O, should deep feeling mar in aught The speech by fond devotion taught, Forgive whate’er I wildly speak: My love is strong, my tongue is weak. How shall I, if deprived of thee, Return that mournful town to see: Where sick at heart the people are Because their Ráma roams afar. Woe will be theirs too deep to brook When on the empty car they look, As when from hosts, whose chiefs are slain, One charioteer comes home again. This very day, I ween, is food Forsworn by all the multitude, Thinking that thou, with hosts to aid, Art dwelling in the wild wood’s shade. The great despair, the shriek of woe They uttered when they saw thee go, Will, when I come with none beside, A hundred-fold be multiplied. How to Kauśalyá can I say: “O Queen, I took thy son away, And with thy brother left him well: Weep not for him; thy woe dispel?” So false a tale I cannot frame, Yet how speak truth and grieve the dame? How shall these horses, fleet and bold, Whom not a hand but mine can hold, Bear others, wont to whirl the car Wherein Ikshváku’s children are! Without thee, Prince, I cannot, no, I cannot to Ayodhyá go. Then deign, O Ráma, to relent, And let me share thy banishment. But if no prayers can move thy heart, If thou wilt quit me and depart, The flames shall end my car and me, Deserted thus and reft of thee. In the wild wood when foes are near, When dangers check thy vows austere, Borne in my car will I attend, All danger and all care to end. For thy dear sake I love the skill That guides the steed and curbs his will: And soon a forest life will be As pleasant, for my love of thee. And if these horses near thee dwell, And serve thee in the forest well, They, for their service, will not miss The due reward of highest bliss. Thine orders, as with thee I stray, Will I with heart and head obey, Prepared, for thee, without a sigh, To lose Ayodhyá or the sky. As one defiled with hideous sin, I never more can pass within Ayodhyá, city of our king, Unless beside me thee I bring. One wish is mine, I ask no more, That, when thy banishment is o’er I in my car may bear my lord, Triumphant, to his home restored. The fourteen years, if spent with thee, Will swift as light-winged moments flee; But the same years, without thee told, Were magnified a hundred-fold. Do not, kind lord, thy servant leave, Who to his master’s son would cleave, And the same path with him pursue, Devoted, tender, just and true.”

Again, again Sumantra made His varied plaint, and wept and prayed. Him Raghu’s son, whose tender breast Felt for his servants, thus addressed: “O faithful servant, well my heart Knows how attached and true thou art. Hear thou the words I speak, and know Why to the town I bid thee go. Soon as Kaikeyí, youngest queen, Thy coming to the town has seen, No doubt will then her mind oppress That Ráma roams the wilderness. And so the dame, her heart content With proof of Ráma’s banishment, Will doubt the virtuous king no more As faithless to the oath he swore. Chief of my cares is this, that she, Youngest amid the queens, may see Bharat her son securely reign O’er rich Ayodhyá’s wide domain. For mine and for the monarch’s sake Do thou thy journey homeward take, And, as I bade, repeat each word That from my lips thou here hast heard.”

Thus spake the prince, and strove to cheer The sad heart of the charioteer, And then to royal Guha said These words most wise and spirited: “Guha, dear friend, it is not meet That people throng my calm retreat: For I must live a strict recluse, And mould my life by hermits’ use. I now the ancient rule accept By good ascetics gladly kept. I go: bring fig-tree juice that I In matted coils my hair may tie.”

Quick Guha hastened to produce, For the king’s son, that sacred juice. Then Ráma of his long locks made, And Lakshmaṇ’s too, the hermit braid. And the two royal brothers there With coats of bark and matted hair, Transformed in lovely likeness stood To hermit saints who love the wood. So Ráma, with his brother bold, A pious anchorite enrolled, Obeyed the vow which hermits take, And to his friend, King Guha, spake: “May people, treasure, army share, And fenced forts, thy constant care: Attend to all: supremely hard The sovereign’s task, to watch and guard.”

Ikshváku’s son, the good and brave, This last farewell to Guha gave, And then, with Lakshmaṇ and his bride, Determined, on his way he hied. Soon as he viewed, upon the shore, The bark prepared to waft them o’er Impetuous Gangá’s rolling tide, To Lakshmaṇ thus the chieftain cried: “Brother, embark; thy hand extend, Thy gentle aid to Sítá lend: With care her trembling footsteps guide, And place the lady by thy side.” When Lakshmaṇ heard, prepared to aid, His brother’s words he swift obeyed. Within the bark he placed the dame, Then to her side the hero came. Next Lakshmaṇ’s elder brother, lord Of brightest glory, when on board, Breathing a prayer for blessings, meet For priest or warrior to repeat, Then he and car-borne Lakshmaṇ bent, Well-pleased, their heads, most reverent, Their hands, with Sítá, having dipped, As Scripture bids, and water sipped, Farewell to wise Sumantra said, And Guha, with the train he led. So Ráma took, on board, his stand, And urged the vessel from the land. Then swift by vigorous arms impelled Her onward course the vessel held, And guided by the helmsman through The dashing waves of Gangá flew. Half way across the flood they came, When Sítá, free from spot and blame, Her reverent hands together pressed, The Goddess of the stream addressed: “May the great chieftain here who springs From Daśaratha, best of kings, Protected by thy care, fulfil His prudent father’s royal will. When in the forest he has spent His fourteen years of banishment, With his dear brother and with me His home again my lord shall see. Returning on that blissful day, I will to thee mine offerings pay, Dear Queen, whose waters gently flow, Who canst all blessed gifts bestow. For, three-pathed Queen, though wandering here, Thy waves descend from Brahmá’s sphere, Spouse of the God o’er floods supreme, Though rolling here thy glorious stream. To thee, fair Queen, my head shall bend, To thee shall hymns of praise ascend, When my brave lord shall turn again, And, joyful, o’er his kingdom reign. To win thy grace, O Queen divine, A hundred thousand fairest kine, And precious robes and finest meal Among the Bráhmans will I deal. A hundred jars of wine shall flow, When to my home, O Queen, I go; With these, and flesh, and corn, and rice, Will I, delighted, sacrifice. Each hallowed spot, each holy shrine That stands on these fair shores of thine, Each fane and altar on thy banks Shall share my offerings and thanks. With me and Lakshmaṇ, free from harm, May he the blameless, strong of arm, Reseek Ayodhyá from the wild, O blameless Lady undefiled!”

As, praying for her husband’s sake, The faultless dame to Gangá spake, To the right bank the vessel flew With her whose heart was right and true. Soon as the bark had crossed the wave, The lion leader of the brave, Leaving the vessel on the strand, With wife and brother leapt to land. Then Ráma thus the prince addressed Who filled with joy Sumitrá’s breast: “Be thine alike to guard and aid In peopled spot, in lonely shade. Do thou, Sumitrá’s son, precede: Let Sítá walk where thou shalt lead. Behind you both my place shall be, To guard the Maithil dame and thee. For she, to woe a stranger yet, No toil or grief till now has met; The fair Videhan will assay The pains of forest life to-day. To-day her tender feet must tread Rough rocky wilds around her spread: No tilth is there, no gardens grow, No crowding people come and go.”

The hero ceased: and Lakshmaṇ led Obedient to the words he said: And Sítá followed him, and then Came Raghu’s pride, the lord of men. With Sítá walking o’er the sand They sought the forest, bow in hand, But still their lingering glances threw Where yet Sumantra stood in view. Sumantra, when his watchful eye The royal youths no more could spy, Turned from the spot whereon he stood Homeward with Guha from the wood. Still on the brothers forced their way Where sweet birds sang on every spray, Though scarce the eye a path could find Mid flowering trees where creepers twined. Far on the princely brothers pressed, And stayed their feet at length to rest Beneath a fig tree’s mighty shade With countless pendent shoots displayed. Reclining there a while at ease, They saw, not far, beneath fair trees A lake with many a lotus bright That bore the name of Lovely Sight. Ráma his wife’s attention drew, And Lakshmaṇ’s, to the charming view: “Look, brother, look how fair the flood Glows with the lotus, flower and bud!”

They drank the water fresh and clear, And with their shafts they slew a deer. A fire of boughs they made in haste, And in the flame the meat they placed. So Raghu’s sons with Sítá shared The hunter’s meal their hands prepared, Then counselled that the spreading tree Their shelter and their home should be.

LIII. Ráma’s Lament

When evening rites were duly paid, Reclined beneath the leafy shade, To Lakshmaṇ thus spake Ráma, best Of those who glad a people’s breast: “Now the first night has closed the day That saw us from our country stray, And parted from the charioteer; Yet grieve not thou, my brother dear. Henceforth by night, when others sleep, Must we our careful vigil keep, Watching for Sítá’s welfare thus, For her dear life depends on us. Bring me the leaves that lie around, And spread them here upon the ground, That we on lowly beds may lie, And let in talk the night go by.”

So on the ground with leaves o’erspread, He who should press a royal bed, Ráma with Lakshmaṇ thus conversed, And many a pleasant tale rehearsed: “This night the king,” he cried, “alas! In broken sleep will sadly pass. Kaikeyí now content should be, For mistress of her wish is she. So fiercely she for empire yearns, That when her Bharat home returns, She in her greed, may even bring Destruction on our lord the king. What can he do, in feeble eld, Reft of all aid and me expelled, His soul enslaved by love, a thrall Obedient to Kaikeyí’s call? As thus I muse upon his woe And all his wisdoms overthrow, Love is, methinks, of greater might To stir the heart than gain and right. For who, in wisdom’s lore untaught, Could by a beauty’s prayer be bought To quit his own obedient son, Who loves him, as my sire has done! Bharat, Kaikeyí’s child, alone Will, with his wife, enjoy the throne, And blissfully his rule maintain O’er happy Kośala’s domain. To Bharat’s single lot will fall The kingdom and the power and all, When fails the king from length of days, And Ráma in the forest strays. Whoe’er, neglecting right and gain, Lets conquering love his soul enchain, To him, like Daśaratha’s lot, Comes woe with feet that tarry not. Methinks at last the royal dame, Dear Lakshmaṇ, has secured her aim, To see at once her husband dead, Her son enthroned, and Ráma fled. Ah me! I fear, lest borne away By frenzy of success, she slay Kauśalyá, through her wicked hate Of me, bereft, disconsolate; Or her who aye for me has striven Sumitrá, to devotion given. Hence, Lakshmaṇ, to Ayodhyá speed, Returning in the hour of need. With Sítá I my steps will bend Where Daṇḍak’s mighty woods extend. No guardian has Kauśalyá now: O, be her friend and guardian thou. Strong hate may vile Kaikeyí lead To many a base unrighteous deed, Treading my mother ’neath her feet When Bharat holds the royal seat. Sure in some antenatal time Were children, by Kauśalyá’s crime, Torn from their mothers’ arms away, And hence she mourns this evil day. She for her child no toil would spare Tending me long with pain and care; Now in the hour of fruitage she Has lost that son, ah, woe is me. O Lakshmaṇ, may no matron e’er A son so doomed to sorrow bear As I, my mother’s heart who rend With anguish that can never end. The Sáriká,(325) methinks, possessed More love than glows in Ráma’s breast. Who, as the tale is told to us, Addressed the stricken parrot thus: “Parrot, the capturer’s talons tear, While yet alone thou flutterest there, Before his mouth has closed on me:” So cried the bird, herself to free. Reft of her son, in childless woe, My mother’s tears for ever flow: Ill-fated, doomed with grief to strive, What aid can she from me derive? Pressed down by care, she cannot rise From sorrow’s flood wherein she lies. In righteous wrath my single arm Could, with my bow, protect from harm Ayodhyá’s town and all the earth: But what is hero prowess worth? Lest breaking duty’s law I sin, And lose the heaven I strive to win, The forest life today I choose, And kingly state and power refuse.”

Thus mourning in that lonely spot The troubled chief bewailed his lot, And filled with tears, his eyes ran o’er; Then silent sat, and spake no more. To him, when ceased his loud lament, Like fire whose brilliant might is spent, Or the great sea when sleeps the wave, Thus Lakshmaṇ consolation gave: “Chief of the brave who bear the bow, E’en now Ayodhyá, sunk in woe, By thy departure reft of light Is gloomy as the moonless night. Unfit it seems that thou, O chief, Shouldst so afflict thy soul with grief, So with thou Sítá’s heart consign To deep despair as well as mine. Not I, O Raghu’s son, nor she Could live one hour deprived of thee: We were, without thine arm to save, Like fish deserted by the wave. Although my mother dear to meet, Śatrughna, and the king, were sweet, On them, or heaven, to feed mine eye Were nothing, if thou wert not by.”

Sitting at ease, their glances fell Upon the beds, constructed well, And there the sons of virtue laid Their limbs beneath the fig tree’s shade.

LIV. Bharadvája’s Hermitage

So there that night the heroes spent Under the boughs that o’er them bent, And when the sun his glory spread, Upstarting, from the place they sped. On to that spot they made their way, Through the dense wood that round them lay, Where Yamuná’s(326) swift waters glide To blend with Gangá’s holy tide. Charmed with the prospect ever new The glorious heroes wandered through Full many a spot of pleasant ground, Rejoicing as they gazed around, With eager eye and heart at ease, On countless sorts of flowery trees. And now the day was half-way sped When thus to Lakshmaṇ Ráma said: “There, there, dear brother, turn thine eyes; See near Prayág(327) that smoke arise: The banner of our Lord of Flames The dwelling of some saint proclaims. Near to the place our steps we bend Where Yamuná and Gangá blend. I hear and mark the deafening roar When chafing floods together pour. See, near us on the ground are left Dry logs, by labouring woodmen cleft, And the tall trees, that blossom near Saint Bharadvája’s home, appear.”

The bow-armed princes onward passed, And as the sun was sinking fast They reached the hermit’s dwelling, set Near where the rushing waters met. The presence of the warrior scared The deer and birds as on he fared, And struck them with unwonted awe: Then Bharadvája’s cot they saw. The high-souled hermit soon they found Girt by his dear disciples round: Calm saint, whose vows had well been wrought, Whose fervent rites keen sight had bought. Duly had flames of worship blazed When Ráma on the hermit gazed: His suppliant hands the hero raised, Drew nearer to the holy man With his companions, and began, Declaring both his name and race And why they sought that distant place: “Saint, Daśaratha’s children we, Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, come to thee. This my good wife from Janak springs, The best of fair Videha’s kings; Through lonely wilds, a faultless dame, To this pure grove with me she came. My younger brother follows still Me banished by my father’s will: Sumitrá’s son, bound by a vow,— He roams the wood beside me now. Sent by my father forth to rove, We seek, O Saint, some holy grove, Where lives of hermits we may lead, And upon fruits and berries feed.”

When Bharadvája, prudent-souled, Had heard the prince his tale unfold, Water he bade them bring, a bull, And honour-gifts in dishes full, And drink and food of varied taste, Berries and roots, before him placed, And then the great ascetic showed A cottage for the guests’ abode. The saint these honours gladly paid To Ráma who had thither strayed, Then compassed sat by birds and deer And many a hermit resting near. The prince received the service kind, And sat him down rejoiced in mind. Then Bharadvája silence broke, And thus the words of duty spoke: “Kakutstha’s royal son, that thou Hadst sought this grove I knew ere now. Mine ears have heard thy story, sent Without a sin to banishment. Behold, O Prince, this ample space Near where the mingling floods embrace, Holy, and beautiful, and clear: Dwell with us, and be happy here.”

By Bharadvája thus addressed, Ráma whose kind and tender breast All living things would bless and save, In gracious words his answer gave:

“My honoured lord, this tranquil spot, Fair home of hermits, suits me not: For all the neighbouring people here Will seek us when they know me near: With eager wish to look on me, And the Videhan dame to see, A crowd of rustics will intrude Upon the holy solitude. Provide, O gracious lord, I pray, Some quiet home that lies away, Where my Videhan spouse may dwell Tasting the bliss deserved so well.”

The hermit heard the prayer he made: A while in earnest thought he stayed, And then in words like these expressed His answer to the chief’s request: “Ten leagues away there stands a hill Where thou mayst live, if such thy will: A holy mount, exceeding fair; Great saints have made their dwelling there: There great Langúrs(328) in thousands play, And bears amid the thickets stray; Wide-known by Chitrakúṭa’s name, It rivals Gandhamádan’s(329) fame. Long as the man that hill who seeks Gazes upon its sacred peaks, To holy things his soul he gives And pure from thought of evil lives. There, while a hundred autumns fled, Has many a saint with hoary head Spent his pure life, and won the prize, By deep devotion, in the skies: Best home, I ween, if such retreat, Far from the ways of men, be sweet: Or let thy years of exile flee Here in this hermitage with me.”

Thus Bharadvája spake, and trained In lore of duty, entertained The princes and the dame, and pressed His friendly gifts on every guest.

Thus to Prayág the hero went, Thus saw the saint preëminent, And varied speeches heard and said: Then holy night o’er heaven was spread. And Ráma took, by toil oppressed, With Sítá and his brother, rest; And so the night, with sweet content, In Bharadvája’s grove was spent. But when the dawn dispelled the night, Ráma approached the anchorite, And thus addressed the holy sire Whose glory shone like kindled fire: “Well have we spent, O truthful Sage, The night within thy hermitage: Now let my lord his guests permit For their new home his grove to quit.”

Then, as he saw the morning break, In answer Bharadvája spake: “Go forth to Chitrakúṭa’s hill, Where berries grow, and sweets distil: Full well, I deem, that home will suit Thee, Ráma, strong and resolute. Go forth, and Chitrakúṭa seek, Famed mountain of the Varied Peak. In the wild woods that gird him round All creatures of the chase are found: Thou in the glades shalt see appear Vast herds of elephants and deer. With Sítá there shalt thou delight To gaze upon the woody height; There with expanding heart to look On river, table-land, and brook, And see the foaming torrent rave Impetuous from the mountain cave. Auspicious hill! where all day long The lapwing’s cry, the Koïl’s song Make all who listen gay: Where all is fresh and fair to see, Where elephants and deer roam free, There, as a hermit, stay.”

LV. The Passage Of Yamuná

The princely tamers of their foes Thus passed the night in calm repose, Then to the hermit having bent With reverence, on their way they went. High favour Bharadvája showed, And blessed them ready for the road. With such fond looks as fathers throw On their own sons, before they go. Then spake the saint with glory bright To Ráma peerless in his might: “First, lords of men, direct your feet Where Yamuná and Gangá meet; Then to the swift Kálindí(330) go, Whose westward waves to Gangá flow. When thou shalt see her lovely shore Worn by their feet who hasten o’er, Then, Raghu’s son, a raft prepare, And cross the Sun born river there. Upon her farther bank a tree, Near to the landing wilt thou see. The blessed source of varied gifts, There her green boughs that Fig-tree lifts: A tree where countless birds abide, By Śyáma’s name known far and wide. Sítá, revere that holy shade: There be thy prayers for blessing prayed. Thence for a league your way pursue, And a dark wood shall meet your view, Where tall bamboos their foliage show, The Gum-tree and the Jujube grow. To Chitrakúṭa have I oft Trodden that path so smooth and soft, Where burning woods no traveller scare, But all is pleasant, green, and fair.”

When thus the guests their road had learned, Back to his cot the hermit turned, And Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, Sítá paid Their reverent thanks for courteous aid. Thus Ráma spake to Lakshmaṇ, when The saint had left the lords of men: “Great store of bliss in sooth is ours On whom his love the hermit showers.” As each to other wisely talked, The lion lords together walked On to Kálindí’s woody shore; And gentle Sítá went before. They reached that flood, whose waters flee With rapid current to the sea; Their minds a while to thought they gave And counselled how to cross the wave. At length, with logs together laid, A mighty raft the brothers made. Then dry bamboos across were tied, And grass was spread from side to side. And the great hero Lakshmaṇ brought Cane and Rose-Apple boughs and wrought, Trimming the branches smooth and neat, For Sítá’s use a pleasant seat. And Ráma placed thereon his dame Touched with a momentary shame, Resembling in her glorious mien All-thought-surpassing Fortune’s Queen. Then Ráma hastened to dispose, Each in its place, the skins and bows, And by the fair Videhan laid The coats, the ornaments, and spade. When Sítá thus was set on board, And all their gear was duly stored, The heroes each with vigorous hand, Pushed off the raft and left the land. When half its way the raft had made, Thus Sítá to Kálindí prayed: “Goddess, whose flood I traverse now, Grant that my lord may keep his vow. For thee shall bleed a thousand kine, A hundred jars shall pour their wine, When Ráma sees that town again Where old Ikshváku’s children reign.”

Thus to Kálindí’s stream she sued And prayed in suppliant attitude. Then to the river’s bank the dame, Fervent in supplication, came. They left the raft that brought them o’er, And the thick wood that clothed the shore, And to the Fig-tree Śyáma made Their way, so cool with verdant shade. Then Sítá viewed that best of trees, And reverent spake in words like these: “Hail, hail, O mighty tree! Allow My husband to complete his vow; Let us returning, I entreat, Kauśalyá and Sumitrá meet.” Then with her hands together placed Around the tree she duly paced. When Ráma saw his blameless spouse A suppliant under holy boughs, The gentle darling of his heart, He thus to Lakshmaṇ spake apart: “Brother, by thee our way be led; Let Sítá close behind thee tread: I, best of men, will grasp my bow, And hindmost of the three will go. What fruits soe’er her fancy take, Or flowers half hidden in the brake, For Janak’s child forget not thou To gather from the brake or bough.”

Thus on they fared. The tender dame Asked Ráma, as they walked, the name Of every shrub that blossoms bore, Creeper, and tree unseen before: And Lakshmaṇ fetched, at Sítá’s prayer, Boughs of each tree with clusters fair. Then Janak’s daughter joyed to see The sand-discoloured river flee, Where the glad cry of many a bird, The sáras and the swan, was heard. A league the brothers travelled through The forest noble game they slew: Beneath the trees their meal they dressed And sat them down to eat and rest. A while in that delightful shade Where elephants unnumbered strayed, Where peacocks screamed and monkeys played, They wandered with delight. Then by the river’s side they found A pleasant spot of level ground, Where all was smooth and fair around, Their lodging for the night.

LVI. Chitrakúta

Then Ráma, when the morning rose, Called Lakshmaṇ gently from repose: “Awake, the pleasant voices hear Of forest birds that warble near. Scourge of thy foes, no longer stay; The hour is come to speed away.”

The slumbering prince unclosed his eyes When thus his brother bade him rise, Compelling, at the timely cry, Fatigue, and sleep, and rest to fly. The brothers rose and Sítá too; Pure water from the stream they drew, Paid morning rites, then followed still The road to Chitrakúṭa’s hill. Then Ráma as he took the road With Lakshmaṇ, while the morning, glowed, To the Videhan lady cried, Sítá the fair, the lotus-eyed: “Look round thee, dear; each flowery tree Touched with the fire of morning see: The Kinśuk, now the Frosts are fled,— How glorious with his wreaths of red! The Bel-trees see, so loved of men, Hanging their boughs in every glen. O’erburthened with their fruit and flowers: A plenteous store of food is ours. See, Lakshmaṇ, in the leafy trees, Where’er they make their home. Down hangs, the work of labouring bees The ponderous honeycomb. In the fair wood before us spread The startled wild-cock cries: Hark, where the flowers are soft to tread, The peacock’s voice replies. Where elephants are roaming free, And sweet birds’ songs are loud, The glorious Chitrakúṭa see: His peaks are in the cloud. On fair smooth ground he stands displayed, Begirt by many a tree: O brother, in that holy shade How happy shall we be!”(331) Then Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, Sítá, each Spoke raising suppliant hands this speech To him, in woodland dwelling met, Válmíki, ancient anchoret: “O Saint, this mountain takes the mind, With creepers, trees of every kind, With fruit and roots abounding thus, A pleasant life it offers us: Here for a while we fain would stay, And pass a season blithe and gay.”

Then the great saint, in duty trained, With honour gladly entertained: He gave his guests a welcome fair, And bade them sit and rest them there, Ráma of mighty arm and chest His faithful Lakshmaṇ then addressed: “Brother, bring hither from the wood Selected timber strong and good, And build therewith a little cot; My heart rejoices in the spot That lies beneath the mountain’s side, Remote, with water well supplied.”

Sumitrá’s son his words obeyed, Brought many a tree, and deftly made, With branches in the forest cut, As Ráma bade, a leafy hut. Then Ráma, when the cottage stood Fair, firmly built, and walled with wood, To Lakshmaṇ spake, whose eager mind To do his brother’s will inclined: “Now, Lakshmaṇ as our cot is made, Must sacrifice be duly paid By us, for lengthened life who hope, With venison of the antelope. Away, O bright-eyed Lakshmaṇ, speed: Struck by thy bow a deer must bleed: As Scripture bids, we must not slight The duty that commands the rite.”

Lakshmaṇ, the chief whose arrows laid His foemen low, his word obeyed; And Ráma thus again addressed The swift performer of his hest: “Prepare the venison thou hast shot, To sacrifice for this our cot. Haste, brother dear, for this the hour, And this the day of certain power.” Then glorious Lakshmaṇ took the buck His arrow in the wood had struck; Bearing his mighty load he came, And laid it in the kindled flame. Soon as he saw the meat was done, And that the juices ceased to run From the broiled carcass, Lakshmaṇ then Spoke thus to Ráma best of men: “The carcass of the buck, entire, Is ready dressed upon the fire. Now be the sacred rites begun To please the God, thou godlike one.”

Ráma the good, in ritual trained, Pure from the bath, with thoughts restrained, Hasted those verses to repeat Which make the sacrifice complete. The hosts celestial came in view, And Ráma to the cot withdrew, While a sweet sense of rapture stole Through the unequalled hero’s soul. He paid the Viśvedevas(332) due. And Rudra’s right, and Vishṇu’s too, Nor wonted blessings, to protect Their new-built home, did he neglect. With voice repressed he breathed the prayer, Bathed duly in the river fair, And gave good offerings that remove The stain of sin, as texts approve. And many an altar there he made, And shrines, to suit the holy shade, All decked with woodland chaplets sweet, And fruit and roots and roasted meat, With muttered prayer, as texts require, Water, and grass and wood and fire. So Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, Sítá paid Their offerings to each God and shade, And entered then their pleasant cot That bore fair signs of happy lot. They entered, the illustrious three, The well-set cottage, fair to see, Roofed with the leaves of many a tree, And fenced from wind and rain: So, at their Father Brahmá’s call, The Gods of heaven, assembling all, To their own glorious council hall Advance in shining train. So, resting on that lovely hill, Near the fair lily-covered rill, The happy prince forgot, Surrounded by the birds and deer, The woe, the longing, and the fear That gloom the exile’s lot.

LVII. Sumantra’s Return

When Ráma reached the southern bank, King Guha’s heart with sorrow sank: He with Sumantra talked, and spent With his deep sorrow, homeward went. Sumantra, as the king decreed, Yoked to the car each noble steed, And to Ayodhyá’s city sped With his sad heart disquieted. On lake and brook and scented grove His glances fell, as on he drove: City and village came in view As o’er the road his coursers flew. On the third day the charioteer, When now the hour of night was near, Came to Ayodhyá’s gate, and found The city all in sorrow drowned. To him, in spirit quite cast down, Forsaken seemed the silent town, And by the rush of grief oppressed He pondered in his mournful breast: “Is all Ayodhyá burnt with grief, Steed, elephant, and man, and chief? Does her loved Ráma’s exile so Afflict her with the fires of woe?” Thus as he mused, his steeds flew fast, And swiftly through the gate he passed. On drove the charioteer, and then In hundreds, yea in thousands, men Ran to the car from every side, And, “Ráma, where is Ráma?” cried. Sumantra said: “My chariot bore The duteous prince to Gangá’s shore; I left him there at his behest, And homeward to Ayodhyá pressed.” Soon as the anxious people knew That he was o’er the flood they drew Deep sighs, and crying, Ráma! all Wailed, and big tears began to fall. He heard the mournful words prolonged, As here and there the people thronged: “Woe, woe for us, forlorn, undone, No more to look on Raghu’s son! His like again we ne’er shall see, Of heart so true, of hand so free, In gifts, in gatherings for debate, When marriage pomps we celebrate, What should we do? What earthly thing Can rest, or hope, or pleasure bring?”

Thus the sad town, which Ráma kept As a kind father, wailed and wept. Each mansion, as the car went by, Sent forth a loud and bitter cry, As to the window every dame, Mourning for banished Ráma, came. As his sad eyes with tears o’erflowed, He sped along the royal road To Daśaratha’s high abode. There leaping down his car he stayed; Within the gates his way he made; Through seven broad courts he onward hied Where people thronged on every side. From each high terrace, wild with woe, The royal ladies flocked below: He heard them talk in gentle tone, As each for Ráma made her moan: “What will the charioteer reply To Queen Kauśalyá’s eager cry? With Ráma from the gates he went; Homeward alone, his steps are bent. Hard is a life with woe distressed, But difficult to win is rest, If, when her son is banished, still She lives beneath her load of ill.”

Such was the speech Sumantra heard From them whom grief unfeigned had stirred. As fires of anguish burnt him through, Swift to the monarch’s hall he drew, Past the eighth court; there met his sight, The sovereign in his palace bright, Still weeping for his son, forlorn, Pale, faint, and all with sorrow worn. As there he sat, Sumantra bent And did obeisance reverent, And to the king repeated o’er The message he from Ráma bore. The monarch heard, and well-nigh brake His heart, but yet no word he spake: Fainting to earth he fell, and dumb, By grief for Ráma overcome. Rang through the hall a startling cry, And women’s arms were tossed on high, When, with his senses all astray, Upon the ground the monarch lay. Kauśalyá, with Sumitrá’s aid, Raised from the ground her lord dismayed: “Sire, of high fate,” she cried, “O, why Dost thou no single word reply To Ráma’s messenger who brings News of his painful wanderings? The great injustice done, art thou Shame-stricken for thy conduct now? Rise up, and do thy part: bestow Comfort and help in this our woe. Speak freely, King; dismiss thy fear, For Queen Kaikeyí stands not near, Afraid of whom thou wouldst not seek Tidings of Ráma: freely speak.”

When the sad queen had ended so, She sank, insatiate in her woe, And prostrate lay upon the ground, While her faint voice by sobs was drowned. When all the ladies in despair Saw Queen Kauśalyá wailing there, And the poor king oppressed with pain, They flocked around and wept again.

LVIII. Ráma’s Message

The king a while had senseless lain, When care brought memory back again. Then straight he called, the news to hear Of Ráma, for the charioteer, With reverent hand to hand applied He waited by the old man’s side, Whose mind with anguish was distraught Like a great elephant newly caught. The king with bitter pain distressed The faithful charioteer addressed, Who, sad of mien, with flooded eye, And dust upon his limbs, stood by: “Where will be Ráma’s dwelling now At some tree’s foot, beneath the bough; Ah, what will be the exile’s food, Bred up with kind solicitude? Can he, long lapped in pleasant rest, Unmeet for pain, by pain oppressed, Son of earth’s king, his sad night spend Earth-couched, as one that has no friend? Behind him, when abroad he sped, Cars, elephant, and foot were led: Then how shall Ráma dwell afar In the wild woods where no men are? How, tell me, did the princes there, With Sítá good and soft and fair, Alighting from the chariot, tread The forest wilds around them spread? A happy lot is thine, I ween, Whose eyes my two dear sons have seen Seeking on foot the forest shade, Like the bright Twins to view displayed, The heavenly Aśvins, when they seek The woods that hang ’neath Mandar’s peak. What words, Sumantra, quickly tell, From Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, Sítá fell? How in the wood did Ráma eat? What was his bed, and what his seat? Full answer to my questions give, For I on thy replies shall live, As with the saints Yayáti held Sweet converse, from the skies expelled.”

Urged by the lord of men to speak, Whose sobbing voice came faint and weak, Thus he, while tears his utterance broke, In answer to the monarch spoke: “Hear then the words that Ráma said, Resolved in duty’s path to tread. Joining his hands, his head he bent, And gave this message, reverent: “Sumantra, to my father go, Whose lofty mind all people know: Bow down before him, as is meet, And in my stead salute his feet. Then to the queen my mother bend, And give the greeting that I send: Ne’er may her steps from duty err, And may it still be well with her. And add this word: “O Queen, pursue Thy vows with faithful heart and true; And ever at due season turn Where holy fires of worship burn. And, lady, on our lord bestow Such honour as to Gods we owe. Be kind to every queen: let pride And thought of self be cast aside. In the king’s fond opinion raise Kaikeyí, by respect and praise. Let the young Bharat ever be Loved, honoured as the king by thee: Thy king-ward duty ne’er forget: High over all are monarchs set.”

And Bharat, too, for me address: Pray that all health his life may bless. Let every royal lady share, As justice bids, his love and care. Say to the strong-armed chief who brings Joy to Iksváku’s line of kings: “As ruling prince thy care be shown Of him, our sire, who holds the throne. Stricken in years he feels their weight; But leave him in his royal state. As regent heir content thee still, Submissive to thy father’s will.’ ” Ráma again his charge renewed, As the hot flood his cheek bedewed: “Hold as thine own my mother dear Who drops for me the longing tear.” Then Lakshmaṇ, with his soul on fire, Spake breathing fast these words of ire: “Say, for what sin, for what offence Was royal Ráma banished thence? He is the cause, the king: poor slave To the light charge Kaikeyí gave. Let right or wrong the motive be, The author of our woe is he. Whether the exile were decreed Through foolish faith or guilty greed, For promises or empire, still The king has wrought a grievous ill. Grant that the Lord of all saw fit To prompt the deed and sanction it, In Ráma’s life no cause I see For which the king should bid him flee. His blinded eyes refused to scan The guilt and folly of the plan, And from the weakness of the king Here and hereafter woe shall spring. No more my sire: the ties that used To bind me to the king are loosed. My brother Ráma, Raghu’s son, To me is lord, friend, sire in one. The love of men how can he win, Deserting, by the cruel sin, Their joy, whose heart is swift to feel A pleasure in the people’s weal? Shall he whose mandate could expel The virtuous Ráma, loved so well, To whom his subjects’ fond hearts cling— Shall he in spite of them be king?”

But Janak’s child, my lord, stood by, And oft the votaress heaved a sigh. She seemed with dull and wandering sense, Beneath a spirit’s influence. The noble princess, pained with woe Which till that hour she ne’er could know, Tears in her heavy trouble shed, But not a word to me she said. She raised her face which grief had dried And tenderly her husband eyed, Gazed on him as he turned to go While tear chased tear in rapid flow.”

LIX. Dasaratha’s Lament

As thus Sumantra, best of peers, Told his sad tale with many tears, The monarch cried, “I pray thee, tell At length again what there befell.” Sumantra, at the king’s behest, Striving with sobs he scarce repressed, His trembling voice at last controlled, And thus his further tidings told: “Their locks in votive coils they wound, Their coats of bark upon them bound, To Gangá’s farther shore they went, Thence to Prayág their steps were bent. I saw that Lakshmaṇ walked ahead To guard the path the two should tread. So far I saw, no more could learn, Forced by the hero to return. Retracing slow my homeward course, Scarce could I move each stubborn horse: Shedding hot tears of grief he stood When Ráma turned him to the wood.(333) As the two princes parted thence I raised my hands in reverence, Mounted my ready car, and bore The grief that stung me to the core. With Guha all that day I stayed, Still by the earnest hope delayed That Ráma, ere the time should end, Some message from the wood might send. Thy realms, great Monarch, mourn the blow, And sympathize with Ráma’s woe. Each withering tree hangs low his head, And shoot, and bud, and flower are dead. Dried are the floods that wont to fill The lake, the river, and the rill. Drear is each grove and garden now, Dry every blossom on the bough. Each beast is still, no serpents crawl: A lethargy of woe on all. The very wood is silent: crushed With grief for Ráma, all is hushed. Fair blossoms from the water born, Gay garlands that the earth adorn, And every fruit that gleams like gold, Have lost the scent that charmed of old. Empty is every grove I see, Or birds sit pensive on the tree. Where’er I look, its beauty o’er, The pleasance charms not as before. I drove through fair Ayodhyá’s street: None flew with joy the car to meet. They saw that Ráma was not there, And turned them sighing in despair. The people in the royal way Wept tears of bitter grief, when they Beheld me coming, from afar, No Ráma with me in the car. From palace roof and turret high Each woman bent her eager eye; She looked for Ráma, but in vain; Gazed on the car and shrieked for pain. Their long clear eyes with sorrow drowned They, when this common grief was found, Looked each on other, friend and foe, In sympathy of levelling woe: No shade of difference between Foe, friend, or neutral, there was seen. Without a joy, her bosom rent With grief for Ráma’s banishment, Ayodhyá like the queen appears Who mourns her son with many tears.”

He ended: and the king, distressed. With sobbing voice that lord addressed: “Ah me, by false Kaikeyí led, Of evil race, to evil bred, I took no counsel of the sage, Nor sought advice from skill and age, I asked no lord his aid to lend, I called no citizen or friend. Rash was my deed, bereft of sense Slave to a woman’s influence. Surely, my lord, a woe so great Falls on us by the will of Fate; It lays the house of Raghu low, For Destiny will have it so. I pray thee, if I e’er have done An act to please thee, yea, but one, Fly, fly, and Ráma homeward lead: My life, departing, counsels speed. Fly, ere the power to bid I lack, Fly to the wood: bring Ráma back. I cannot live for even one Short hour bereaved of my son. But ah, the prince, whose arms are strong, Has journeyed far: the way is long: Me, me upon the chariot place, And let me look on Ráma’s face. Ah me, my son, mine eldest-born, Where roams he in the wood forlorn, The wielder of the mighty bow, Whose shoulders like the lion’s show? O, ere the light of life be dim, Take me to Sítá and to him. O Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and O thou Dear Sítá, constant to thy vow, Beloved ones, you cannot know That I am dying of my woe.”

The king to bitter grief a prey, That drove each wandering sense away, Sunk in affliction’s sea, too wide To traverse, in his anguish cried: “Hard, hard to pass, my Queen, this sea Of sorrow raging over me: No Ráma near to soothe mine eye, Plunged in its lowest deeps I lie. Sorrow for Ráma swells the tide, And Sítá’s absence makes it wide: My tears its foamy flood distain, Made billowy by my sighs of pain: My cries its roar, the arms I throw About me are the fish below, Kaikeyí is the fire that feeds Beneath: my hair the tangled weeds: Its source the tears for Ráma shed: The hump-back’s words its monsters dread: The boon I gave the wretch its shore, Till Ráma’s banishment be o’er.(334) Ah me, that I should long to set My eager eyes to-day On Raghu’s son, and he be yet With Lakshmaṇ far away!” Thus he of lofty glory wailed, And sank upon the bed. Beneath the woe his spirit failed, And all his senses fled.

LX. Kausalyá Consoled

As Queen Kauśalyá, trembling much, As blighted by a goblin’s touch, Still lying prostrate, half awoke To consciousness, ’twas thus she spoke: “Bear me away, Sumantra, far, Where Ráma, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ are. Bereft of them I have no power To linger on a single hour. Again, I pray, thy steps retrace, And me in Daṇḍak forest place, For after them I needs must go, Or sink to Yama’s realms below.”

His utterance choked by tears that rolled Down from their fountains uncontrolled, With suppliant hands the charioteer Thus spake, the lady’s heart to cheer: “Dismiss thy grief, despair, and dread That fills thy soul, of sorrow bred, For pain and anguish thrown aside, Will Ráma in the wood abide. And Lakshmaṇ, with unfailing care Will guard the feet of Ráma there, Earning, with governed sense, the prize That waits on duty in the skies. And Sítá in the wild as well As in her own dear home will dwell; To Ráma all her heart she gives, And free from doubt and terror lives. No faintest sign of care or woe The features of the lady show: Methinks Videha’s pride was made For exile in the forest shade. E’en as of old she used to rove Delighted in the city’s grove, Thus, even thus she joys to tread The woodlands uninhabited. Like a young child, her face as fair As the young moon, she wanders there. What though in lonely woods she stray Still Ráma is her joy and stay: All his the heart no sorrow bends, Her very life on him depends. For, if her lord she might not see, Ayodhyá like the wood would be. She bids him, as she roams, declare The names of towns and hamlets there, Marks various trees that meet her eye, And many a brook that hurries by, And Janak’s daughter seems to roam One little league away from home When Ráma or his brother speaks And gives the answer that she seeks. This, Lady, I remember well, Nor angry words have I to tell: Reproaches at Kaikeyí shot, Such, Queen, my mind remembers not.” The speech when Sítá’s wrath was high, Sumantra passed in silence by, That so his pleasant words might cheer With sweet report Kauśalyá’s ear. “Her moonlike beauty suffers not Though winds be rude and suns be hot: The way, the danger, and the toil Her gentle lustre may not soil. Like the red lily’s leafy crown Or as the fair full moon looks down, So the Videhan lady’s face Still shines with undiminished grace. What if the borrowed colours throw O’er her fine feet no rosy glow, Still with their natural tints they spread A lotus glory where they tread. In sportive grace she walks the ground And sweet her chiming anklets sound. No jewels clasp the faultless limb: She leaves them all for love of him. If in the woods her gentle eye A lion sees, or tiger nigh, Or elephant, she fears no ill For Ráma’s arm supports her still. No longer be their fate deplored, Nor thine, nor that of Kośal’s lord, For conduct such as theirs shall buy Wide glory that can never die. For casting grief and care away, Delighting in the forest, they With joyful spirits, blithe and gay, Set forward on the ancient way Where mighty saints have led: Their highest aim, their dearest care To keep their father’s honour fair, Observing still the oath he sware, They roam, on wild fruit fed.” Thus with persuasive art he tried To turn her from her grief aside, By soothing fancies won. But still she gave her sorrow vent: “Ah Ráma,” was her shrill lament, “My love, my son, my son!”

LXI. Kausalyá’s Lament

When, best of all who give delight, Her Ráma wandered far from sight, Kauśalyá weeping, sore distressed, The king her husband thus addressed: “Thy name, O Monarch, far and wide Through the three worlds is glorified: Yet Ráma’s is the pitying mind, His speed is true, his heart is kind. How will thy sons, good lord, sustain With Sítá, all their care and pain? How in the wild endure distress, Nursed in the lap of tenderness? How will the dear Videhan bear The heat and cold when wandering there Bred in the bliss of princely state, So young and fair and delicate? The large-eyed lady, wont to eat The best of finely seasoned meat— How will she now her life sustain With woodland fare of self-sown grain? Will she, with joys encompassed long, Who loved the music and the song, In the wild wood endure to hear The ravening lion’s voice of fear? Where sleeps my strong-armed hero, where, Like Lord Mahendra’s standard, fair? Where is, by Lakshmaṇ’s side, his bed, His club-like arm beneath his head? When shall I see his flower-like eyes, And face that with the lotus vies, Feel his sweet lily breath, and view His glorious hair and lotus hue? The heart within my breast, I feel, Is adamant or hardest steel, Or, in a thousand fragments split, The loss of him had shattered it, When those I love, who should be blest, Are wandering in the wood distressed, Condemned their wretched lives to lead In exile, by thy ruthless deed. If, when the fourteen years are past, Ráma reseeks his home at last, I think not Bharat will consent To yield the wealth and government. At funeral feasts some mourners deal To kith and kin the solemn meal, And having duly fed them all Some Bráhmans to the banquet call. The best of Bráhmans, good and wise, The tardy summoning despise, And, equal to the Gods, disdain Cups, e’en of Amrit, thus to drain. Nay e’en when Bráhmans first have fed, They loathe the meal for others spread, And from the leavings turn with scorn, As bulls avoid a fractured horn. So Ráma, sovereign lord of men, Will spurn the sullied kingship then: He born the eldest and the best, His younger’s leavings will detest, Turning from tasted food away, As tigers scorn another’s prey. The sacred post is used not twice, Nor elements, in sacrifice. But once the sacred grass is spread, But once with oil the flame is fed: So Ráma’s pride will ne’er receive The royal power which others leave, Like wine when tasteless dregs are left, Or rites of Soma juice bereft. Be sure the pride of Raghu’s race Will never stoop to such disgrace: The lordly lion will not bear That man should beard him in his lair. Were all the worlds against him ranged His dauntless soul were still unchanged: He, dutiful, in duty strong, Would purge the impious world from wrong. Could not the hero, brave and bold, The archer, with his shafts of gold, Burn up the very seas, as doom Will in the end all life consume? Of lion’s might, eyed like a bull, A prince so brave and beautiful, Thou hast with wicked hate pursued, Like sea-born tribes who eat their brood. If thou, O Monarch, hadst but known The duty all the Twice-born own, If the good laws had touched thy mind, Which sages in the Scriptures find, Thou ne’er hadst driven forth to pine This brave, this duteous son of thine. First on her lord the wife depends, Next on her son and last on friends: These three supports in life has she, And not a fourth for her may be. Thy heart, O King, I have not won; In wild woods roams my banished son; Far are my friends: ah, hapless me, Quite ruined and destroyed by thee.”

LXII. Dasaratha Consoled

The queen’s stern speech the monarch heard, As rage and grief her bosom stirred, And by his anguish sore oppressed Reflected in his secret breast. Fainting and sad, with woe distraught, He wandered in a maze of thought; At length the queller of the foe Grew conscious, rallying from his woe. When consciousness returned anew Long burning sighs the monarch drew, Again immersed in thought he eyed Kauśalyá standing by his side. Back to his pondering soul was brought The direful deed his hand had wrought, When, guiltless of the wrong intent, His arrow at a sound was sent. Distracted by his memory’s sting, And mourning for his son, the king To two consuming griefs a prey, A miserable victim lay. The double woe devoured him fast, As on the ground his eyes he cast, Joined suppliant hands, her heart to touch, And spake in the answer, trembling much: “Kauśalyá, for thy grace I sue, Joining these hands as suppliants do. Thou e’en to foes hast ever been A gentle, good, and loving queen. Her lord, with noble virtues graced, Her lord, by lack of all debased, Is still a God in woman’s eyes, If duty’s law she hold and prize. Thou, who the right hast aye pursued, Life’s changes and its chances viewed, Shouldst never launch, though sorrow-stirred, At me distressed, one bitter word.”

She listened, as with sorrow faint He murmured forth his sad complaint: Her brimming eyes with tears ran o’er, As spouts the new fallen water pour; His suppliant hands, with fear dismayed She gently clasped in hers, and laid, Like a fair lotus, on her head, And faltering in her trouble said: “Forgive me; at thy feet I lie, With low bent head to thee I cry. By thee besought, thy guilty dame Pardon from thee can scarcely claim. She merits not the name of wife Who cherishes perpetual strife With her own husband good and wise, Her lord both here and in the skies. I know the claims of duty well, I know thy lips the truth must tell. All the wild words I rashly spoke, Forth from my heart, through anguish, broke; For sorrow bends the stoutest soul, And cancels Scripture’s high control. Yea, sorrow’s might all else o’erthrows The strongest and the worst of foes. ’Tis thus with all: we keenly feel, Yet bear the blows our foemen deal, But when a slender woe assails The manliest spirit bends and quails. The fifth long night has now begun Since the wild woods have lodged my son: To me whose joy is drowned in tears, Each day a dreary year appears. While all my thoughts on him are set Grief at my heart swells wilder yet: With doubled might thus Ocean raves When rushing floods increase his waves.”

As from Kauśalyá reasoning well The gentle words of wisdom fell, The sun went down with dying flame, And darkness o’er the landscape came. His lady’s soothing words in part Relieved the monarch’s aching heart, Who, wearied out by all his woes, Yielded to sleep and took repose.

LXIII. The Hermit’s Son

But soon by rankling grief oppressed The king awoke from troubled rest, And his sad heart was tried again With anxious thought where all was pain. Ráma and Lakshmaṇ’s mournful fate On Daśaratha, good and great As Indra, pressed with crushing weight, As when the demon’s might assails The Sun-God, and his glory pales. Ere yet the sixth long night was spent, Since Ráma to the woods was sent, The king at midnight sadly thought Of the old crime his hand had wrought, And thus to Queen Kauśalyá cried Who still for Ráma moaned and sighed: “If thou art waking, give, I pray, Attention to the words I say. Whate’er the conduct men pursue, Be good or ill the acts they do, Be sure, dear Queen, they find the meed Of wicked or of virtuous deed. A heedless child we call the man Whose feeble judgment fails to scan The weight of what his hands may do, Its lightness, fault, and merit too. One lays the Mango garden low, And bids the gay Paláśas grow: Longing for fruit their bloom he sees, But grieves when fruit should bend the trees. Cut by my hand, my fruit-trees fell, Paláśa trees I watered well. My hopes this foolish heart deceive, And for my banished son I grieve. Kauśalyá, in my youthful prime Armed with my bow I wrought the crime, Proud of my skill, my name renowned, An archer prince who shoots by sound. The deed this hand unwitting wrought This misery on my soul has brought, As children seize the deadly cup And blindly drink the poison up. As the unreasoning man may be Charmed with the gay Paláśa tree, I unaware have reaped the fruit Of joying at a sound to shoot. As regent prince I shared the throne, Thou wast a maid to me unknown, The early Rain-time duly came, And strengthened love’s delicious flame. The sun had drained the earth that lay All glowing ’neath the summer day, And to the gloomy clime had fled Where dwell the spirits of the dead.(335) The fervent heat that moment ceased, The darkening clouds each hour increased And frogs and deer and peacocks all Rejoiced to see the torrents fall. Their bright wings heavy from the shower, The birds, new-bathed, had scarce the power To reach the branches of the trees Whose high tops swayed beneath the breeze. The fallen rain, and falling still, Hung like a sheet on every hill, Till, with glad deer, each flooded steep Showed glorious as the mighty deep. The torrents down its wooded side Poured, some unstained, while others dyed Gold, ashy, silver, ochre, bore The tints of every mountain ore. In that sweet time, when all are pleased, My arrows and my bow I seized; Keen for the chase, in field or grove, Down Sarjú’s bank my car I drove. I longed with all my lawless will Some elephant by night to kill, Some buffalo that came to drink, Or tiger, at the river’s brink. When all around was dark and still, I heard a pitcher slowly fill, And thought, obscured in deepest shade, An elephant the sound had made. I drew a shaft that glittered bright, Fell as a serpent’s venomed bite; I longed to lay the monster dead, And to the mark my arrow sped. Then in the calm of morning, clear A hermit’s wailing smote my ear: “Ah me, ah me,” he cried, and sank, Pierced by my arrow, on the bank. E’en as the weapon smote his side, I heard a human voice that cried: “Why lights this shaft on one like me, A poor and harmless devotee? I came by night to fill my jar From this lone stream where no men are. Ah, who this deadly shaft has shot? Whom have I wronged, and knew it not? Why should a boy so harmless feel The vengeance of the winged steel? Or who should slay the guiltless son Of hermit sire who injures none, Who dwells retired in woods, and there Supports his life on woodland fare? Ah me, ah me, why am I slain, What booty will the murderer gain? In hermit coils I bind my hair, Coats made of skin and bark I wear. Ah, who the cruel deed can praise Whose idle toil no fruit repays, As impious as the wretch’s crime Who dares his master’s bed to climb? Nor does my parting spirit grieve But for the life which thus I leave: Alas, my mother and my sire,— I mourn for them when I expire. Ah me, that aged, helpless pair, Long cherished by my watchful care, How will it be with them this day When to the Five(336) I pass away? Pierced by the self-same dart we die, Mine aged mother, sire, and I. Whose mighty hand, whose lawless mind Has all the three to death consigned?”

When I, by love of duty stirred, That touching lamentation heard, Pierced to the heart by sudden woe, I threw to earth my shafts and bow. My heart was full of grief and dread As swiftly to the place I sped, Where, by my arrow wounded sore, A hermit lay on Sarjú’s shore. His matted hair was all unbound, His pitcher empty on the ground, And by the fatal arrow pained, He lay with dust and gore distained. I stood confounded and amazed: His dying eyes to mine he raised, And spoke this speech in accents stern, As though his light my soul would burn: “How have I wronged thee, King, that I Struck by thy mortal arrow die? The wood my home, this jar I brought, And water for my parents sought. This one keen shaft that strikes me through Slays sire and aged mother too. Feeble and blind, in helpless pain, They wait for me and thirst in vain. They with parched lips their pangs must bear, And hope will end in blank despair. Ah me, there seems no fruit in store For holy zeal or Scripture lore, Or else ere now my sire would know That his dear son is lying low. Yet, if my mournful fate he knew, What could his arm so feeble do? The tree, firm-rooted, ne’er may be The guardian of a stricken tree. Haste to my father, and relate While time allows, my sudden fate, Lest he consume thee as the fire Burns up the forest, in his ire. This little path, O King, pursue: My father’s cot thou soon wilt view. There sue for pardon to the sage, Lest he should curse thee in his rage. First from the wound extract the dart That kills me with its deadly smart, E’en as the flushed impetuous tide Eats through the river’s yielding side.”

I feared to draw the arrow out, And pondered thus in painful doubt: “Now tortured by the shaft he lies, But if I draw it forth he dies.” Helpless I stood, faint, sorely grieved: The hermit’s son my thought perceived; As one o’ercome by direst pain He scarce had strength to speak again. With writhing limb and struggling breath, Nearer and ever nearer death “My senses undisturbed remain, And fortitude has conquered pain: Now from one tear thy soul be freed. Thy hand has made a Bráhman bleed. Let not this pang thy bosom wring: No twice-born youth am I, O King, For of a Vaiśya sire I came, Who wedded with a Śúdra dame.”

These words the boy could scarcely say, As tortured by the shaft he lay, Twisting his helpless body round, Then trembling senseless on the ground. Then from his bleeding side I drew The rankling shaft that pierced him through. With death’s last fear my face he eyed, And, rich in store of penance, died.”

LXIV. Dasaratha’s Death

The son of Raghu to his queen Thus far described the unequalled scene, And, as the hermit’s death he rued, The mournful story thus renewed: “The deed my heedless hand had wrought Perplexed me with remorseful thought, And all alone I pondered still How kindly deed might salve the ill. The pitcher from the ground I took, And filled it from that fairest brook, Then, by the path the hermit showed, I reached his sainted sire’s abode. I came, I saw: the aged pair, Feeble and blind, were sitting there, Like birds with clipped wings, side by side, With none their helpless steps to guide. Their idle hours the twain beguiled With talk of their returning child, And still the cheering hope enjoyed, The hope, alas, by me destroyed. Then spoke the sage, as drawing near The sound of footsteps reached his ear: “Dear son, the water quickly bring; Why hast thou made this tarrying? Thy mother thirsts, and thou hast played, And bathing in the brook delayed. She weeps because thou camest not; Haste, O my son, within the cot. If she or I have ever done A thing to pain thee, dearest son, Dismiss the memory from thy mind: A hermit thou, be good and kind. On thee our lives, our all, depend: Thou art thy friendless parents’ friend. The eyeless couple’s eye art thou: Then why so cold and silent now?”

With sobbing voice and bosom wrung I scarce could move my faltering tongue, And with my spirit filled with dread I looked upon the sage, and said, While mind, and sense, and nerve I strung To fortify my trembling tongue, And let the aged hermit know His son’s sad fate, my fear and woe: “High-minded Saint, not I thy child, A warrior, Daśaratha styled. I bear a grievous sorrow’s weight Born of a deed which good men hate. My lord, I came to Sarjú’s shore, And in my hand my bow I bore For elephant or beast of chase That seeks by night his drinking place. There from the stream a sound I heard As if a jar the water stirred. An elephant, I thought, was nigh: I aimed, and let an arrow fly. Swift to the place I made my way, And there a wounded hermit lay Gasping for breath: the deadly dart Stood quivering in his youthful heart. I hastened near with pain oppressed; He faltered out his last behest. And quickly, as he bade me do, From his pierced side the shaft I drew. I drew the arrow from the rent, And up to heaven the hermit went, Lamenting, as from earth he passed, His aged parents to the last. Thus, unaware, the deed was done: My hand, unwitting, killed thy son. For what remains, O, let me win Thy pardon for my heedless sin.”

As the sad tale of sin I told The hermit’s grief was uncontrolled. With flooded eyes, and sorrow-faint, Thus spake the venerable saint: I stood with hand to hand applied, And listened as he spoke and sighed: “If thou, O King, hadst left unsaid By thine own tongue this tale of dread, Thy head for hideous guilt accursed Had in a thousand pieces burst. A hermit’s blood by warrior spilt, In such a case, with purposed guilt, Down from his high estate would bring Even the thunder’s mighty King. And he a dart who conscious sends Against the devotee who spends His pure life by the law of Heaven— That sinner’s head will split in seven. Thou livest, for thy heedless hand Has wrought a deed thou hast not planned, Else thou and all of Raghu’s line Had perished by this act of thine. Now guide us,” thus the hermit said, “Forth to the spot where he lies dead. Guide us, this day, O Monarch, we For the last time our son would see: The hermit dress of skin he wore Rent from his limbs distained with gore; His senseless body lying slain, His soul in Yama’s dark domain.”

Alone the mourning pair I led, Their souls with woe disquieted, And let the dame and hermit lay Their hands upon the breathless clay. The father touched his son, and pressed The body to his aged breast; Then falling by the dead boy’s side, He lifted up his voice, and cried:

“Hast thou no word, my child, to say? No greeting for thy sire to-day? Why art thou angry, darling? why Wilt thou upon the cold earth lie? If thou, my son, art wroth with me, Here, duteous child, thy mother see. What! no embrace for me, my son? No word of tender love—not one? Whose gentle voice, so soft and clear, Soothing my spirit, shall I hear When evening comes, with accents sweet Scripture or ancient lore repeat? Who, having fed the sacred fire, And duly bathed, as texts require, Will cheer, when evening rites are done, The father mourning for his son? Who will the daily meal provide For the poor wretch who lacks a guide, Feeding the helpless with the best Berries and roots, like some dear guest? How can these hands subsistence find For thy poor mother, old and blind? The wretched votaress how sustain, Who mourns her child in ceaseless pain? Stay yet a while, my darling, stay, Nor fly to Yama’s realm to-day. To-morrow I thy sire and she Who bare thee, child, will go with, thee.(337) Then when I look on Yama, I To great Vivasvat’s son will cry: “Hear, King of justice, and restore Our child to feed us, I implore. Lord of the world, of mighty fame, Faithful and just, admit my claim, And grant this single boon to free My soul from fear, to one like me.” Because, my son, untouched by stain, By sinful hands thou fallest slain, Win, through thy truth, the sphere where those Who die by hostile darts repose. Seek the blest home prepared for all The valiant who in battle fall, Who face the foe and scorn to yield, In glory dying on the field. Rise to the heaven where Dhundhumár And Nahush, mighty heroes, are, Where Janamejay and the blest Dilípa, Sagar, Saivya, rest: Home of all virtuous spirits, earned By fervent rites and Scripture learned: By those whose sacred fires have glowed, Whose liberal hands have fields bestowed: By givers of a thousand cows, By lovers of one faithful spouse: By those who serve their masters well, And cast away this earthly shell. None of my race can ever know The bitter pain of lasting woe. But doomed to that dire fate is he Whose guilty hand has slaughtered thee.”

Thus with wild tears the aged saint Made many a time his piteous plaint, Then with his wife began to shed The funeral water for the dead. But in a shape celestial clad, Won by the merits of the lad, The spirit from the body brake And to the mourning parents spake: “A glorious home in realms above Rewards my care and filial love. You, honoured parents, soon shall be Partakers of that home with me.”

He spake, and swiftly mounting high, With Indra near him, to the sky On a bright car, with flame that glowed, Sublime the duteous hermit rode.

The father, with his consort’s aid, The funeral rites with water paid, And thus his speech to me renewed Who stood in suppliant attitude: “Slay me this day, O, slay me, King, For death no longer has a sting. Childless am I: thy dart has done To death my dear, my only son. Because the boy I loved so well Slain by thy heedless arrow fell, My curse upon thy soul shall press With bitter woe and heaviness. I mourn a slaughtered child, and thou Shalt feel the pangs that kill me now. Bereft and suffering e’en as I, So shalt thou mourn thy son, and die. Thy hand unwitting dealt the blow That laid a holy hermit low, And distant, therefore, is the time When thou shalt suffer for the crime. The hour shall come when, crushed by woes Like these I feel, thy life shall close: A debt to pay in after days Like his the priestly fee who pays.”

This curse on me the hermit laid, Nor yet his tears and groans were stayed. Then on the pyre their bodies cast The pair; and straight to heaven they passed. As in sad thought I pondered long Back to my memory came the wrong Done in wild youth, O lady dear, When ’twas my boast to shoot by ear. The deed has borne the fruit, which now Hangs ripe upon the bending bough: Thus dainty meats the palate please, And lure the weak to swift disease. Now on my soul return with dread The words that noble hermit said, That I for a dear son should grieve, And of the woe my life should leave.”

Thus spake the king with many a tear; Then to his wife he cried in fear: “I cannot see thee, love; but lay Thy gentle hand in mine, I pray. Ah me, if Ráma touched me thus, If once, returning home to us, He bade me wealth and lordship give, Then, so I think, my soul would live. Unlike myself, unjust and mean Have been my ways with him, my Queen, But like himself is all that he, My noble son, has done to me. His son, though far from right he stray, What prudent sire would cast away? What banished son would check his ire, Nor speak reproaches of his sire? I see thee not: these eyes grow blind, And memory quits my troubled mind. Angels of Death are round me: they Summon my soul with speed away. What woe more grievous can there be, That, when from light and life I flee, I may not, ere I part, behold My virtuous Ráma, true and bold? Grief for my son, the brave and true, Whose joy it was my will to do, Dries up my breath, as summer dries The last drop in the pool that lies. Not men, but blessed Gods, are they Whose eyes shall see his face that day; See him, when fourteen years are past, With earrings decked return at last. My fainting mind forgets to think: Low and more low my spirits sink. Each from its seat, my senses steal: I cannot hear, or taste, or feel. This lethargy of soul o’ercomes Each organ, and its function numbs: So when the oil begins to fail, The torch’s rays grow faint and pale. This flood of woe caused by this hand Destroys me helpless and unmanned, Resistless as the floods that bore A passage through the river shore. Ah Raghu’s son, ah mighty-armed, By whom my cares were soothed and charmed, My son in whom I took delight, Now vanished from thy father’s sight! Kauśalyá, ah, I cannot see; Sumitrá, gentle devotee! Alas, Kaikeyí, cruel dame, My bitter foe, thy father’s shame!”

Kauśalyá and Sumitrá kept Their watch beside him as he wept. And Daśaratha moaned and sighed, And grieving for his darling died.

LXV. The Women’s Lament

And now the night had past away, And brightly dawned another day; The minstrels, trained to play and sing, Flocked to the chamber of the king: Bards, who their gayest raiment wore, And heralds famed for ancient lore: And singers, with their songs of praise, Made music in their several ways. There as they poured their blessings choice And hailed their king with hand and voice, Their praises with a swelling roar Echoed through court and corridor. Then as the bards his glory sang, From beaten palms loud answer rang, As glad applauders clapped their hands, And told his deeds in distant lands. The swelling concert woke a throng Of sleeping birds to life and song: Some in the branches of the trees, Some caged in halls and galleries. Nor was the soft string music mute; The gentle whisper of the lute, And blessings sung by singers skilled The palace of the monarch filled. Eunuchs and dames of life unstained, Each in the arts of waiting trained, Drew near attentive as before, And crowded to the chamber door: These skilful when and how to shed The lustral stream o’er limb and head, Others with golden ewers stood Of water stained with sandal wood. And many a maid, pure, young, and fair, Her load of early offerings bare, Cups of the flood which all revere, And sacred things, and toilet gear. Each several thing was duly brought As rule of old observance taught, And lucky signs on each impressed Stamped it the fairest and the best. There anxious, in their long array, All waited till the shine of day: But when the king nor rose nor spoke, Doubt and alarm within them woke. Forthwith the dames, by duty led, Attendants on the monarch’s bed, Within the royal chamber pressed To wake their master from his rest. Skilled in the lore of dreaming, they First touched the bed on which he lay. But none replied; no sound was heard, Nor hand, nor head, nor body stirred. They trembled, and their dread increased, Fearing his breath of life had ceased, And bending low their heads, they shook Like the tall reeds that fringe the brook. In doubt and terror down they knelt, Looked on his face, his cold hand felt, And then the gloomy truth appeared Of all their hearts had darkly feared. Kauśalyá and Sumitrá, worn With weeping for their sons, forlorn, Woke not, but lay in slumber deep And still as death’s unending sleep. Bowed down by grief, her colour fled, Her wonted lustre dull and dead, Kauśalyá shone not, like a star Obscured behind a cloudy bar. Beside the king’s her couch was spread, And next was Queen Sumitrá’s bed, Who shone no more with beauty’s glow, Her face bedewed with tears of woe. There lapped in sleep each wearied queen, There as in sleep, the king was seen; And swift the troubling thought came o’er Their spirits that he breathed no more. At once with wailing loud and high The matrons shrieked a bitter cry, As widowed elephants bewail Their dead lord in the woody vale. At the loud shriek that round them rang, Kauśalyá and Sumitrá sprang Awakened from their beds, with eyes Wide open in their first surprise. Quick to the monarch’s side they came, And saw and touched his lifeless frame; One cry, O husband! forth they sent, And prostrate to the ground they went. The king of Kośal’s daughter(338) there Writhed, with the dust on limb and hair Lustreless, as a star might lie Hurled downward from the glorious sky. When the king’s voice in death was stilled, The women who the chamber filled Saw, like a widow elephant slain, Kauśalyá prostrate in her pain. Then all the monarch’s ladies led By Queen Kaikeyí at their head, Poured forth their tears, and weeping so, Sank on the ground, consumed by woe. The cry of grief so long and loud Went up from all the royal crowd, That, doubled by the matron train, It made the palace ring again. Filled with dark fear and eager eyes, Anxiety and wild surmise; Echoing with the cries of grief Of sorrowing friends who mourned their chief, Dejected, pale with deep distress, Hurled from their height of happiness: Such was the look the palace wore Where lay the king who breathed no more.

LXVI. The Embalming

Kauśalyá’s eyes with tears o’erflowed, Weighed down by varied sorrows’ load; On her dead lord her gaze she bent, Who lay like fire whose might is spent, Like the great deep with waters dry, Or like the clouded sun on high. Then on her lap she laid his head. And on Kaikeyí looked and said: “Triumphant now enjoy thy reign Without a thorn thy side to pain. Thou hast pursued thy single aim, And killed the king, O wicked dame. Far from my sight my Ráma flies, My perished lord has sought the skies. No friend, no hope my life to cheer, I cannot tread the dark path here. Who would forsake her husband, who That God to whom her love is due, And wish to live one hour, but she Whose heart no duty owns, like thee? The ravenous sees no fault: his greed Will e’en on poison blindly feed. Kaikeyí, through a hump-back maid, This royal house in death has laid. King Janak, with his queen, will hear Heart rent like me the tidings drear Of Ráma banished by the king, Urged by her impious counselling. No son has he, his age is great, And sinking with the double weight, He for his darling child will pine, And pierced with woe his life resign. Sprung from Videha’s monarch, she A sad and lovely devotee, Roaming the wood, unmeet for woe, Will toil and trouble undergo. She in the gloomy night with fear The cries of beast and bird will hear, And trembling in her wild alarm Will cling to Ráma’s sheltering arm. Ah, little knows my duteous son That I am widowed and undone— My Ráma of the lotus eye, Gone hence, gone hence, alas, to die. Now, as a living wife and true, I, e’en this day, will perish too: Around his form these arms will throw And to the fire with him will go.”

Clasping her husband’s lifeless clay A while the weeping votaress lay, Till chamberlains removed her thence O’ercome by sorrow’s violence. Then in a cask of oil they laid Him who in life the world had swayed, And finished, as the lords desired, All rites for parted souls required. The lords, all-wise, refused to burn The monarch ere his son’s return; So for a while the corpse they set Embalmed in oil, and waited yet. The women heard: no doubt remained, And wildly for the king they plained. With gushing tears that drowned each eye Wildly they waved their arms on high, And each her mangling nails impressed Deep in her head and knee and breast: “Of Ráma reft,—who ever spake The sweetest words the heart to take, Who firmly to the truth would cling,— Why dost thou leave us, mighty King? How can the consorts thou hast left Widowed, of Raghu’s son bereft, Live with our foe Kaikeyí near, The wicked queen we hate and fear? She threw away the king, her spite Drove Ráma forth and Lakshmaṇ’s might, And gentle Sítá: how will she Spare any, whosoe’er it be?”

Oppressed with sorrow, tear-distained, The royal women thus complained. Like night when not a star appears, Like a sad widow drowned in tears, Ayodhyá’s city, dark and dim, Reft of her lord was sad for him. When thus for woe the king to heaven had fled, And still on earth his lovely wives remained. With dying light the sun to rest had sped, And night triumphant o’er the landscape reigned.

LXVII. The Praise Of Kings

That night of sorrow passed away, And rose again the God of Day. Then all the twice-born peers of state Together met for high debate. Jáválí, lord of mighty fame. And Gautam, and Kátyáyan came, And Márkandeya’s reverend age, And Vámadeva, glorious sage: Sprung from Mudgalya’s seed the one, The other ancient Kaśyap’s son. With lesser lords these Bráhmans each Spoke in his turn his several speech, And turning to Vaśishṭha, best Of household priests him thus addressed: “The night of bitter woe has past, Which seemed a hundred years to last, Our king, in sorrow for his son, Reunion with the Five has won. His soul is where the blessed are, While Ráma roams in woods afar, And Lakshmaṇ, bright in glorious deeds, Goes where his well-loved brother leads. And Bharat and Śatrughna, they Who smite their foes in battle fray, Far in the realm of Kekaya stay, Where their maternal grandsire’s care Keeps Rájagriha’s city fair. Let one of old Ikshváku’s race Obtain this day the sovereign’s place, Or havoc and destruction straight Our kingless land will devastate. In kingless lands no thunder’s voice, No lightning wreaths the heart rejoice, Nor does Parjanya’s heavenly rain Descend upon the burning plain. Where none is king, the sower’s hand Casts not the seed upon the land; The son against the father strives. And husbands fail to rule their wives. In kingless realms no princes call Their friends to meet in crowded hall; No joyful citizens resort To garden trim or sacred court. In kingless realms no Twice-born care To sacrifice with text and prayer, Nor Bráhmans, who their vows maintain, The great solemnities ordain. The joys of happier days have ceased: No gathering, festival, or feast Together calls the merry throng Delighted with the play and song. In kingless lands it ne’er is well With sons of trade who buy and sell: No men who pleasant tales repeat Delight the crowd with stories sweet. In kingless realms we ne’er behold Young maidens decked with gems and gold, Flock to the gardens blithe and gay To spend their evening hours in play. No lover in the flying car Rides with his love to woods afar. In kingless lands no wealthy swain Who keeps the herd and reaps the grain, Lies sleeping, blest with ample store, Securely near his open door. Upon the royal roads we see No tusked elephant roaming free, Of three-score years, whose head and neck Sweet tinkling bells of silver deck. We hear no more the glad applause When his strong bow each rival draws, No clap of hands, no eager cries That cheer each martial exercise. In kingless realms no merchant bands Who travel forth to distant lands, With precious wares their wagons load, And fear no danger on the road. No sage secure in self-control, Brooding on God with mind and soul, In lonely wanderings finds his home Where’er at eve his feet may roam. In kingless realms no man is sure He holds his life and wealth secure. In kingless lands no warriors smite The foeman’s host in glorious fight. In kingless lands the wise no more, Well trained in Scripture’s holy lore, In shady groves and gardens meet To argue in their calm retreat. No longer, in religious fear, Do they who pious vows revere, Bring dainty cates and wreaths of flowers As offerings to the heavenly powers. No longer, bright as trees in spring, Shine forth the children of the king Resplendent in the people’s eyes With aloe wood and sandal dyes. A brook where water once has been, A grove where grass no more is green, Kine with no herdsman’s guiding hand— So wretched is a kingless land. The car its waving banner rears, Banner of fire the smoke appears: Our king, the banner of our pride, A God with Gods is glorified. In kingless lands no law is known, And none may call his wealth his own, Each preys on each from hour to hour, As fish the weaker fish devour. Then fearless, atheists overleap The bounds of right the godly keep, And when no royal powers restrain, Preëminence and lordship gain. As in the frame of man the eye Keeps watch and ward, a careful spy, The monarch in his wide domains Protects the truth, the right maintains. He is the right, the truth is he, Their hopes in him the well-born see. On him his people’s lives depend, Mother is he, and sire, and friend. The world were veiled in blinding night, And none could see or know aright, Ruled there no king in any state The good and ill to separate. We will obey thy word and will As if our king were living still: As keeps his bounds the faithful sea, So we observe thy high decree. O best of Bráhmans, first in place, Our kingless land lies desolate: Some scion of Ikshváku’s race Do thou as monarch consecrate.”

LXVIII. The Envoys

Vaśishṭha heard their speech and prayer, And thus addressed the concourse there, Friends, Bráhmans, counsellors, and all Assembled in the palace hall: “Ye know that Bharat, free from care, Still lives in Rájagriha(339) where The father of his mother reigns: Śatrughna by his side remains. Let active envoys, good at need, Thither on fleetest horses speed, To bring the hero youths away: Why waste the time in dull delay?”

Quick came from all the glad reply: “Vaśishṭha, let the envoys fly!” He heard their speech, and thus renewed His charge before the multitude: “Nandan, Aśok, Siddhárth, attend, Your ears, Jayanta, Vijay, lend: Be yours, what need requires, to do: I speak these words to all of you. With coursers of the fleetest breed To Rájagriha’s city speed. Then rid your bosoms of distress, And Bharat thus from me address: “The household priest and peers by us Send health to thee and greet thee thus: Come to thy father’s home with haste: Thine absent time no longer waste.” But speak no word of Ráma fled, Tell not the prince his sire is dead, Nor to the royal youth the fate That ruins Raghu’s race relate. Go quickly hence, and with you bear Fine silken vestures rich and rare, And gems and many a precious thing As gifts to Bharat and the king.”

With ample stores of food supplied, Each to his home the envoys hied, Prepared, with steeds of swiftest race, To Kekaya’s land(340) their way to trace. They made all due provision there, And every need arranged with care, Then ordered by Vaśishṭha, they Went forth with speed upon their way. Then northward of Pralamba, west Of Apartála, on they pressed, Crossing the Máliní that flowed With gentle stream athwart the road. They traversed Gangá’s holy waves Where she Hástinapura(341) laves, Thence to Panchála(342) westward fast Through Kurujángal’s land(343) they passed. On, on their course the envoys held By urgency of task impelled. Quick glancing at each lucid flood And sweet lake gay with flower and bud. Beyond, they passed unwearied o’er, Where glad birds fill the flood and shore Of Śaradaṇḍá racing fleet With heavenly water clear and sweet, Thereby a tree celestial grows Which every boon on prayer bestows: To its blest shade they humbly bent, Then to Kulingá’s town they went. Then, having passed the Warrior’s Wood, In Abhikála next they stood, O’er sacred Ikshumatí(344) came, Their ancient kings’ ancestral claim. They saw the learned Bráhmans stand, Each drinking from his hollowed hand, And through Báhíka(345) journeying still They reached at length Sudáman’s hill: There Vishṇu’s footstep turned to see, Vipáśá(346) viewed, and Śálmalí, And many a lake and river met, Tank, pool, and pond, and rivulet. And lions saw, and tigers near, And elephants and herds of deer, And still, by prompt obedience led, Along the ample road they sped. Then when their course so swift and long, Had worn their steeds though fleet and strong, To Girivraja’s splendid town They came by night, and lighted down. To please their master, and to guard The royal race, the lineal right, The envoys, spent with riding hard, To that fair city came by night.(347)

LXIX. Bharat’s Dream

The night those messengers of state Had past within the city’s gate, In dreams the slumbering Bharat saw A sight that chilled his soul with awe. The dream that dire events foretold Left Bharat’s heart with horror cold, And with consuming woes distraught, Upon his aged sire he thought. His dear companions, swift to trace The signs of anguish on his face, Drew near, his sorrow to expel, And pleasant tales began to tell. Some woke sweet music’s cheering sound, And others danced in lively round. With joke and jest they strove to raise His spirits, quoting ancient plays; But Bharat still, the lofty-souled, Deaf to sweet tales his fellows told, Unmoved by music, dance, and jest, Sat silent, by his woe oppressed. To him, begirt by comrades near, Thus spoke the friend he held most dear: “Why ringed around by friends, art thou So silent and so mournful now?” “Hear thou,” thus Bharat made reply, “What chills my heart and dims mine eye. I dreamt I saw the king my sire Sink headlong in a lake of mire Down from a mountain high in air, His body soiled, and loose his hair. Upon the miry lake he seemed To lie and welter, as I dreamed; With hollowed hands full many a draught Of oil he took, and loudly laughed. With head cast down I saw him make A meal on sesamum and cake; The oil from every member dripped, And in its clammy flood he dipped. The ocean’s bed was bare and dry, The moon had fallen from the sky, And all the world lay still and dead, With whelming darkness overspread. The earth was rent and opened wide, The leafy trees were scorched, and died; I saw the seated mountains split, And wreaths of rising smoke emit. The stately beast the monarch rode His long tusks rent and splintered showed; And flames that quenched and cold had lain Blazed forth with kindled light again. I looked, and many a handsome dame, Arrayed in brown and sable came And bore about the monarch, dressed, On iron stool, in sable vest. And then the king, of virtuous mind, A blood-red wreath around him twined, Forth on an ass-drawn chariot sped, As southward still he bent his head. Then, crimson-clad, a dame appeared Who at the monarch laughed and jeered; And a she-monster, dire to view, Her hand upon his body threw. Such is the dream I dreamt by night, Which chills me yet with wild affright: Either the king or Ráma, I Or Lakshmaṇ now must surely die. For when an ass-drawn chariot seems To bear away a man in dreams, Be sure above his funeral pyre The smoke soon rears its cloudy spire. This makes my spirit low and weak, My tongue is slow and loth to speak: My lips and throat are dry for dread, And all my soul disquieted. My lips, relaxed, can hardly speak, And chilling dread has changed my cheek I blame myself in aimless fears, And still no cause of blame appears. I dwell upon this dream of ill Whose changing scenes I viewed, And on the startling horror still My troubled thoughts will brood. Still to my soul these terrors cling, Reluctant to depart, And the strange vision of the king Still weighs upon my heart.”

LXX. Bharat’s Departure

While thus he spoke, the envoys borne On horses faint and travel-worn Had gained the city fenced around With a deep moat’s protecting bound. An audience of the king they gained, And honours from the prince obtained; The monarch’s feet they humbly pressed, To Bharat next these words addressed: “The household priest and peers by us Send health to thee and greet thee thus: “Come to thy father’s house with haste: Thine absent time no longer waste.” Receive these vestures rich and rare, These costly gems and jewels fair, And to thy uncle here present Each precious robe and ornament. These for the king and him suffice— Two hundred millions is their price— These, worth a hundred millions, be Reserved, O large-eyed Prince, for thee.”

Loving his friends with heart and soul, The joyful prince received the whole, Due honour to the envoys paid, And thus in turn his answer made: “Of Daśaratha tidings tell: Is the old king my father well? Is Ráma, and is Lakshmaṇ, he Of the high-soul, from sickness free? And she who walks where duty leads, Kauśalyá, known for gracious deeds, Mother of Ráma, loving spouse, Bound to her lord by well kept vows? And Lakshmaṇ’s mother too, the dame Sumitrá skilled in duty’s claim, Who brave Śatrughna also bare, Second in age,—her health declare. And she, in self-conceit most sage, With selfish heart most prone to rage, My mother, fares she well? has she Sent message or command to me?”

Thus Bharat spake, the mighty-souled, And they in brief their tidings told: “All they of whom thou askest dwell, O lion lord, secure and well: Thine all the smiles of fortune are: Make ready; let them yoke the car.”

Thus by the royal envoys pressed, Bharat again the band addressed: “I go with you: no long delay, A single hour I bid you stay.” Thus Bharat, son of him who swayed Ayodhyás realm, his answer made, And then bespoke, his heart to please, His mother’s sire in words like these: “I go to see my father, King, Urged by the envoys’ summoning; And when thy soul desires to see Thy grandson, will return to thee.”

The king his grandsire kissed his head, And in reply to Bharat said: “Go forth, dear child: how blest is she, The mother of a son like thee! Greet well thy sire, thy mother greet, O thou whose arms the foe defeat; The household priest, and all the rest Amid the Twice-born chief and best; And Ráma and brave Lakshmaṇ, who Shoot the long shaft with aim so true.”

To him the king high honour showed, And store of wealth and gifts bestowed, The choicest elephants to ride, And skins and blankets deftly dyed, A thousand strings of golden beads, And sixteen hundred mettled steeds: And boundless wealth before him piled Gave Kekaya to Kaikeyí’s child. And men of counsel, good and tried, On whose firm truth he aye relied, King Aśvapati gave with speed Prince Bharat on his way to lead. And noble elephants, strong and young, From sires of Indraśira sprung, And others tall and fair to view Of great Airávat’s lineage true: And well yoked asses fleet of limb The prince his uncle gave to him. And dogs within the palace bred, Of body vast and massive head, With mighty fangs for battle, brave, The tiger’s match in strength, he gave. Yet Bharat’s bosom hardly glowed To see the wealth the king bestowed; For he would speed that hour away, Such care upon his bosom lay: Those eager envoys urged him thence, And that sad vision’s influence. He left his court-yard, crowded then With elephants and steeds and men, And, peerless in immortal fame, To the great royal street he came. He saw, as farther still he went, The inner rooms most excellent, And passed the doors, to him unclosed, Where check nor bar his way oppossd. There Bharat stayed to bid adieu To grandsire and to uncle too, Then, with Śatrughna by his side, Mounting his car, away he hied. The strong-wheeled cars were yoked, and they More than a hundred, rolled away: Servants, with horses, asses, kine, Followed their lord in endless line. So, guarded by his own right hand, Forth high-souled Bharat hied, Surrounded by a lordly band On whom the king relied. Beside him sat Śatrughna dear, The scourge of trembling foes: Thus from the light of Indra’s sphere A saint made perfect goes.

LXXI. Bharat’s Return

Then Bharat’s face was eastward bent As from the royal town he went. He reached Sudámá’s farther side, And glorious, gazed upon the tide; Passed Hládiní, and saw her toss Her westering billows hard to cross. Then old Ikshváku’s famous son O’er Śatadrú(348) his passage won, Near Ailadhána on the strand, And came to Aparparyat’s land. O’er Śilá’s flood he hurried fast, Akurvatí’s fair stream he passed, Crossed o’er Ágneya’s rapid rill, And Śalyakartan onward still. Śilávahá’s swift stream he eyed, True to his vows and purified, Then crossed the lofty hills, and stood In Chaitraratha’s mighty wood. He reached the confluence where meet Sarasvatí(349) and Gangá fleet, And through Bháruṇḍa forest, spread Northward of Viramatsya, sped. He sought Kálinda’s child, who fills The soul with joy, begirt by hills, Reached Yamuná, and passing o’er, Rested his army on the shore: He gave his horses food and rest, Bathed reeking limb and drooping crest. They drank their fill and bathed them there, And water for their journey bare. Thence through a mighty wood he sped All wild and uninhabited, As in fair chariot through the skies, Most fair in shape a Storm-God flies. At Anśudhána Gangá, hard To cross, his onward journey barred, So turning quickly thence he came To Prágvaṭ’s city dear to fame. There having gained the farther side To Kuṭikoshṭiká he hied: The stream he crossed, and onward then To Dharmavardhan brought his men. Thence, leaving Toraṇ on the north, To Jambuprastha journeyed forth. Then onward to a pleasant grove By fair Varútha’s town he drove, And when a while he there had stayed, Went eastward from the friendly shade. Eastward of Ujjiháná where The Priyak trees are tall and fair, He passed, and rested there each steed Exhausted with the journey’s speed. There orders to his men addressed, With quickened pace he onward pressed, A while at Sarvatírtha spent, Then o’er Uttániká he went. O’er many a stream beside he sped With coursers on the mountains bred, And passing Hastiprishṭhak, took The road o’er Kuṭiká’s fair brook. Then, at Lohitya’s village, he Crossed o’er the swift Kapívatí, Then passed, where Ekaśála stands, The Stháṇumatí’s flood and sands, And Gomatí of fair renown By Vinata’s delightful town. When to Kalinga near he drew, A wood of Sal trees charmed the view; That passed, the sun began to rise, And Bharat saw with happy eyes, Ayodhyá’s city, built and planned By ancient Manu’s royal hand. Seven nights upon the road had passed, And when he saw the town at last Before him in her beauty spread, Thus Bharat to the driver said: “This glorious city from afar, Wherein pure groves and gardens are, Seems to my eager eyes to-day A lifeless pile of yellow clay. Through all her streets where erst a throng Of men and women streamed along, Uprose the multitudinous roar: To-day I hear that sound no more. No longer do mine eyes behold The leading people, as of old, On elephants, cars, horses, go Abroad and homeward, to and fro. The brilliant gardens, where we heard The wild note of each rapturous bird, Where men and women loved to meet, In pleasant shades, for pastime sweet,— These to my eyes this day appear Joyless, and desolate, and drear: Each tree that graced the garden grieves, And every path is spread with leaves. The merry cry of bird and beast, That spake aloud their joy, has ceased: Still is the long melodious note That charmed us from each warbling throat. Why blows the blessed air no more, The incense-breathing air that bore Its sweet incomparable scent Of sandal and of aloe blent? Why are the drum and tabour mute? Why is the music of the lute That woke responsive to the quill, Loved by the happy, hushed and still? My boding spirit gathers hence Dire sins of awful consequence, And omens, crowding on my sight, Weigh down my soul with wild affright. Scarce shall I find my friends who dwell Here in Ayodhyá safe and well: For surely not without a cause This crushing dread my soul o’erawes.”

Heart sick, dejected, every sense Confused by terror’s influence, On to the town he quickly swept Which King Ikshváku’s children kept. He passed through Vaijayanta’s gate, With weary steeds, disconsolate, And all who near their station held, His escort, crying Victory, swelled, With heart distracted still he bowed Farewell to all the following crowd, Turned to the driver and began To question thus the weary man: “Why was I brought, O free from blame, So fast, unknown for what I came? Yet fear of ill my heart appals, And all my wonted courage falls. For I have heard in days gone by The changes seen when monarchs die; And all those signs, O charioteer, I see to-day surround me here: Each kinsman’s house looks dark and grim, No hand delights to keep it trim: The beauty vanished, and the pride, The doors, unkept, stand open wide. No morning rites are offered there, No grateful incense loads the air, And all therein, with brows o’ercast, Sit joyless on the ground and fast. Their lovely chaplets dry and dead, Their courts unswept, with dust o’erspread, The temples of the Gods to-day No more look beautiful and gay. Neglected stands each holy shrine, Each image of a Lord divine. No shop where flowery wreaths are sold Is bright and busy as of old. The women and the men I mark Absorbed in fancies dull and dark, Their gloomy eyes with tears bedewed, A poor afflicted multitude.”

His mind oppressed with woe and dread, Thus Bharat to his driver said, Viewed the dire signs Ayodhyá showed, And onward to the palace rode.

LXXII. Bharat’s Inquiry

He entered in, he looked around, Nor in the house his father found; Then to his mother’s dwelling, bent To see her face, he quickly went. She saw her son, so long away, Returning after many a day, And from her golden seat in joy Sprung forward to her darling boy. Within the bower, no longer bright, Came Bharat lover of the right, And bending with observance sweet Clasped his dear mother’s lovely feet. Long kisses on his brow she pressed, And held her hero to her breast, Then fondly drew him to her knees, And questioned him in words like these: “How many nights have fled, since thou Leftest thy grandsire’s home, till now? By flying steeds so swiftly borne, Art thou not weak and travel-worn? How fares the king my father, tell: Is Yudhájit thine uncle well? And now, my son, at length declare The pleasure of the visit there.”

Thus to the offspring of the king She spake with tender questioning, And to his mother made reply Young Bharat of the lotus eye: “The seventh night has come and fled Since from my grandsire’s home I sped: My mother’s sire is well, and he, Yudhájit, from all trouble free. The gold and every precious thing Presented by the conqueror king, The slower guards behind convey: I left them weary on the way. Urged by the men my father sent, My hasty course I hither bent: Now, I implore, an answer deign, And all I wish to know, explain. Unoccupied I now behold This couch of thine adorned with gold, And each of King Ikshváku’s race Appears with dark and gloomy face. The king is aye, my mother dear, Most constant in his visits here. To meet my sire I sought this spot: How is it that I find him not? I long to clasp my father’s feet: Say where he lingers, I entreat. Perchance the monarch may be seen Where dwells Kauśalyá, eldest queen.”

His father’s fate, from him concealed, Kaikeyí to her son revealed: Told as glad news the story sad, For lust of sway had made her mad: “Thy father, O my darling, know, Has gone the way all life must go: Devout and famed, of lofty thought, In whom the good their refuge sought.”

When Bharat pious, pure, and true, Heard the sad words which pierced him through, Grieved for the sire he loved so well Prostrate upon the ground he fell: Down fell the strong-armed hero, high Tossing his arms, and a sad cry, “Ah, woe is me, unhappy, slain!” Burst from his lips again, again, Afflicted for his father’s fate By grief’s intolerable weight, With every sense amazed and cowed The splendid hero wailed aloud: “Ah me, my royal father’s bed Of old a gentle radiance shed, Like the pure sky when clouds are past, And the moon’s light is o’er it cast: Ah, of its wisest lord bereft, It shows to-day faint radiance left, As when the moon has left the sky. Or mighty Ocean’s depths are dry.”

With choking sobs, with many a tear, Pierced to the heart with grief sincere, The best of conquerors poured his sighs, And with his robe veiled face and eyes. Kaikeyí saw him fallen there, Godlike, afflicted, in despair, Used every art to move him thence, And tried him thus with eloquence: “Arise, arise, my dearest; why Wilt thou, famed Prince, so lowly lie? Not by such grief as this are moved Good men like thee, by all approved. The earth thy father nobly swayed, And rites to Heaven he duly paid. At length his race of life was run: Thou shouldst not mourn for him, my son.”

Long on the ground he wept, and rolled From side to side, still unconsoled, And then, with bitter grief oppressed, His mother with these words addressed: “This joyful hope my bosom fed When from my grandsire’s halls I sped— “The king will throne his eldest son, And sacrifice, as should be done.” But all is changed, my hope was vain, And this sad heart is rent in twain, For my dear father’s face I miss, Who ever sought his loved ones’ bliss. But in my absence, mother, say, What sickness took my sire away? Ah, happy Ráma, happy they Allowed his funeral rites to pay! The glorious monarch has not learned That I his darling have returned, Or quickly had he hither sped, And pressed his kisses on my head. Where is that hand whose gentle touch, Most soft and kind I loved so much, The hand that loved to brush away The dust that on his darling lay? Quick, bear the news to Ráma’s ear; Tell the great chief that I am here: Brother, and sire, and friend, and all Is he, and I his trusty thrall. For noble hearts, to virtue true, Their sires in elder brothers view. To clasp his feet I fain would bow: He is my hope and refuge now. What said my glorious sire, who knew Virtue and vice, so brave and true? Firm in his vows, dear lady, say, What said he ere he passed away? What was his rede to me? I crave To hear the last advice he gave.”

Thus closely questioned by the youth, Kaikeyí spoke the mournful truth: “The high-souled monarch wept and sighed, For Ráma, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ, cried, Then, best of all who go to bliss, Passed to the world which follows this. “Ah, blessed are the people who Shall Ráma and his Sítá view, And Lakshmaṇ of the mighty arm, Returning free from scathe and harm.” Such were the words, the last of all, Thy father, ere he died, let fall, By Fate and Death’s dread coils enwound, As some great elephant is bound.”

He heard, yet deeper in despair, Her lips this double woe declare, And with sad brow that showed his pain Questioned his mother thus again: “But where is he, of virtue tried, Who fills Kauśalyá’s heart with pride, Where is the noble Ráma? where Is Lakshmaṇ brave, and Sítá fair?”

Thus pressed, the queen began to tell The story as each thing befell, And gave her son in words like these, The mournful news she meant to please: “The prince is gone in hermit dress To Daṇḍak’s mighty wilderness, And Lakshmaṇ brave and Sítá share The wanderings of the exile there.”

Then Bharat’s soul with fear was stirred Lest Ráma from the right had erred, And jealous for ancestral fame, He put this question to the dame: “Has Ráma grasped with lawless hold A Bráhman’s house, or land, or gold? Has Ráma harmed with ill intent Some poor or wealthy innocent? Was Ráma, faithless to his vows, Enamoured of anothers spouse? Why was he sent to Daṇḍak’s wild, Like one who kills an unborn child?”

He questioned thus: and she began To tell her deeds and crafty plan. Deceitful-hearted, fond, and blind As is the way of womankind: “No Bráhman’s wealth has Ráma seized, No dame his wandering fancy pleased; His very eyes he ne’er allows To gaze upon a neighbour’s spouse. But when I heard the monarch planned To give the realm to Ráma’s hand, I prayed that Ráma hence might flee, And claimed the throne, my son, for thee. The king maintained the name he bare, And did according to my prayer, And Ráma, with his brother, sent, And Sítá, forth to banishment. When his dear son was seen no more, The lord of earth was troubled sore: Too feeble with his grief to strive, He joined the elemental Five. Up then, most dutiful! maintain The royal state, arise, and reign. For thee, my darling son, for thee All this was planned and wrought by me. Come, cast thy grief and pain aside, With manly courage fortified. This town and realm are all thine own, And fear and grief are here unknown. Come, with Vaśishṭha’s guiding aid, And priests in ritual skilled Let the king’s funeral dues be paid, And every claim fulfilled. Perform his obsequies with all That suits his rank and worth, Then give the mandate to install Thyself as lord of earth.”