Part 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canto IX. Sugríva’s Story.(562)

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

Canto X. Sugríva’s Story.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XI. Dundubhi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XII. The Palm Trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XIII. The Return To Kishkindhá.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XIV. The Challenge.

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

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

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

Canto XV. Tárá.

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

Canto XVI. The Fall Of Báli.

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

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

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

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

Canto XVII. Báli’s Speech.

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

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

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

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

Canto XVIII. Ráma’s Reply.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XIX. Tárá’s Grief.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XX. Tárá’s Lament.

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

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

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

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

Canto XXI. Hanumán’s Speech.

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

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

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

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

Canto XXII. Báli Dead.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XXIII. Tárá’s Lament.

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

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

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

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

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

Canto XXIV. Sugríva’s Lament.