Part 4

But Viśvámitra, at the threat Of that illustrious anchoret, Cried, as he launched with ready hand A fiery weapon, “Stand, O Stand!” Vaśishṭha, wild with rage and hate, Raising, as ’twere the Rod of Fate, His mighty Bráhman wand on high, To Viśvámitra made reply: “Nay, stand, O Warrior thou, and show What soldier can, ’gainst Bráhman foe. O Gádhi’s son, thy days are told; Thy pride is tamed, thy dart is cold. How shall a warrior’s puissance dare With Bráhman’s awful strength compare? To-day, base Warrior, shall thou feel That God-sent might is more than steel.” He raised his Bráhman staff, nor missed The fiery dart that near him hissed: And quenched the fearful weapon fell, As flame beneath the billow’s swell.

Then Gádhi’s son in fury threw Lord Varuṇ’s arm and Rudra’s too: Indra’s fierce bolt that all destroys; That which the Lord of Herds employs: The Human, that which minstrels keep, The deadly Lure, the endless Sleep: The Yawner, and the dart which charms; Lament and Torture, fearful arms: The Terrible, the dart which dries, The Thunderbolt which quenchless flies, And Fate’s dread net, and Brahmá’s noose, And that which waits for Varuṇ’s use: The dart he loves who wields the bow Pináka, and twin bolts that glow With fury as they flash and fly, The quenchless Liquid and the Dry: The dart of Vengeance, swift to kill: The Goblins’ dart, the Curlew’s Bill: The discus both of Fate and Right, And Vishṇu’s, of unerring flight: The Wind-God’s dart, the Troubler dread, The weapon named the Horse’s Head. From his fierce hand two spears were thrown, And the great mace that smashes bone; The dart of spirits of the air, And that which Fate exults to bear: The Trident dart which slaughters foes, And that which hanging skulls compose:(233) These fearful darts in fiery rain He hurled upon the saint amain, An awful miracle to view. But as the ceaseless tempest flew, The sage with wand of God-sent power Still swallowed up that fiery shower.

Then Gádhi’s son, when these had failed, With Brahmá’s dart his foe assailed. The Gods, with Indra at their head, And Nágas, quailed disquieted, And saints and minstrels, when they saw The king that awful weapon draw; And the three worlds were filled with dread, And trembled as the missile sped.

The saint, with Bráhman wand, empowered By lore divine that dart devoured. Nor could the triple world withdraw Rapt gazes from that sight of awe; For as he swallowed down the dart Of Brahmá, sparks from every part, From finest pore and hair-cell, broke Enveloped in a veil of smoke. The staff he waved was all aglow Like Yáma’s sceptre, King below, Or like the lurid fire of Fate Whose rage the worlds will desolate.

The hermits, whom that sight had awed, Extolled the saint, with hymn and laud: “Thy power, O Sage, is ne’er in vain: Now with thy might thy might restrain. Be gracious, Master, and allow The worlds to rest from trouble now; For Viśvámitra, strong and dread, By thee has been discomfited.”

Then, thus addressed, the saint, well pleased, The fury of his wrath appeased. The king, o’erpowered and ashamed, With many a deep-drawn sigh exclaimed: “Ah! Warriors’ strength is poor and slight; A Bráhman’s power is truly might. This Bráhman staff the hermit held The fury of my darts has quelled. This truth within my heart impressed, With senses ruled and tranquil breast My task austere will I begin, And Bráhmanhood will strive to win.”

Canto LVII. Trisanku.

Then with his heart consumed with woe, Still brooding on his overthrow By the great saint he had defied, At every breath the monarch sighed. Forth from his home his queen he led, And to a land far southward fled. There, fruit and roots his only food, He practised penance, sense-subdued, And in that solitary spot Four virtuous sons the king begot: Havishyand, from the offering named, And Madhushyand, for sweetness famed, Mahárath, chariot-borne in fight, And Driḍhanetra strong of sight.

A thousand years had passed away, When Brahmá, Sire whom all obey, Addressed in pleasant words like these Him rich in long austerities: “Thou by the penance, Kuśik’s son, A place ’mid royal saints hast won. Pleased with thy constant penance, we This lofty rank assign to thee.”

Thus spoke the glorious Lord most High Father of earth and air and sky, And with the Gods around him spread Home to his changeless sphere he sped. But Viśvámitra scorned the grace, And bent in shame his angry face. Burning with rage, o’erwhelmed with grief, Thus in his heart exclaimed the chief: “No fruit, I ween, have I secured By strictest penance long endured, If Gods and all the saints decree To make but royal saint of me.” Thus pondering, he with sense subdued, With sternest zeal his vows renewed. Then reigned a monarch, true of soul, Who kept each sense in firm control; Of old Ikshváku’s line he came, That glories in Triśanku’s(234) name. Within his breast, O Raghu’s child, Arose a longing, strong and wild, Great offerings to the Gods to pay, And win, alive, to heaven his way. His priest Vaśishṭha’s aid he sought, And told him of his secret thought. But wise Vaśishṭha showed the hope Was far beyond the monarch’s scope. Triśanku then, his suit denied, Far to the southern region hied, To beg Vaśishṭha’s sons to aid The mighty plan his soul had made. There King Triśanku, far renowned, Vaśishṭha’s hundred children found, Each on his fervent vows intent, For mind and fame preëminent. To these the famous king applied, Wise children of his holy guide. Saluting each in order due. His eyes, for shame, he downward threw, And reverent hands together pressed, The glorious company addressed: “I as a humble suppliant seek Succour of you who aid the weak. A mighty offering I would pay, But sage Vaśishṭha answered, Nay. Be yours permission to accord, And to my rites your help afford. Sons of my guide, to each of you With lowly reverence here I sue; To each, intent on penance-vow, O Bráhmans, low my head I bow, And pray you each with ready heart In my great rite to bear a part, That in the body I may rise And dwell with Gods within the skies. Sons of my guide, none else I see Can give what he refuses me. Ikshváku’s children still depend Upon their guide most reverend; And you, as nearest in degree To him, my deities shall be!”

Canto LVIII. Trisanku Cursed.

Triśanku’s speech the hundred heard, And thus replied, to anger stirred: “Why foolish King, by him denied, Whose truthful lips have never lied, Dost thou transgress his prudent rule, And seek, for aid, another school?(235) Ikshváku’s sons have aye relied Most surely on their holy guide: Then how dost thou, fond Monarch, dare Transgress the rule his lips declare? “Thy wish is vain,” the saint replied, And bade thee cast the plan aside. Then how can we, his sons, pretend In such a rite our aid to lend? O Monarch, of the childish heart, Home to thy royal town depart. That mighty saint, thy priest and guide, At noblest rites may well preside: The worlds for sacrifice combined A worthier priest could never find.”

Such speech of theirs the monarch heard, Though rage distorted every word, And to the hermits made reply: “You, like your sire, my suit deny. For other aid I turn from you: So, rich in penance, Saints, adieu!”

Vaśishṭha’s children heard, and guessed His evil purpose scarce expressed, And cried, while rage their bosoms burned, “Be to a vile Chaṇḍála(236) turned!” This said, with lofty thoughts inspired, Each to his own retreat retired.

That night Triśanku underwent Sad change in shape and lineament. Next morn, an outcast swart of hue, His dusky cloth he round him drew. His hair had fallen from his head, And roughness o’er his skin was spread. Such wreaths adorned him as are found To flourish on the funeral ground. Each armlet was an iron ring: Such was the figure of the king, That every counsellor and peer, And following townsman, fled in fear.

Alone, unyielding to dismay, Though burnt by anguish night and day, Great Viśvámitra’s side he sought, Whose treasures were by penance bought.

The hermit with his tender eyes Looked on Triśanku’s altered guise, And grieving at his ruined state Addressed him thus, compassionate: “Great King,” the pious hermit said, “What cause thy steps has hither led, Ayodhyá’s mighty Sovereign, whom A curse has plagued with outcast’s doom?” In vile Chaṇḍála(237) shape, the king Heard Viśvámitra’s questioning, And, suppliant palm to palm applied, With answering eloquence he cried: “My priest and all his sons refused To aid the plan on which I mused. Failing to win the boon I sought, To this condition I was brought. I, in the body, Saint, would fain A mansion in the skies obtain. I planned a hundred rites for this, But still was doomed the fruit to miss. Pure are my lips from falsehood’s stain, And pure they ever shall remain,— Yea, by a Warrior’s faith I swear,— Though I be tried with grief and care. Unnumbered rites to Heaven I paid, With righteous care the sceptre swayed; And holy priest and high-souled guide My modest conduct gratified. But, O thou best of hermits, they Oppose my wish these rites to pay; They one and all refuse consent, Nor aid me in my high intent. Fate is, I ween, the power supreme, Man’s effort but an idle dream, Fate whirls our plans, our all away; Fate is our only hope and stay; Now deign, O blessed Saint, to aid Me, even me by Fate betrayed, Who come, a suppliant, sore distressed, One grace, O Hermit, to request. No other hope or way I see: No other refuge waits for me. Oh, aid me in my fallen state, And human will shall conquer Fate.”

Canto LIX. The Sons Of Vasishtha.

Then Kuśik’s son, by pity warmed, Spoke sweetly to the king transformed: “Hail! glory of Ikshváku’s line: I know how bright thy virtues shine. Dismiss thy fear, O noblest Chief, For I myself will bring relief. The holiest saints will I invite To celebrate thy purposed rite: So shall thy vow, O King, succeed, And from thy cares shalt thou be freed. Thou in the form which now thou hast, Transfigured by the curse they cast,— Yea, in the body, King, shalt flee, Transported, where thou fain wouldst be. O Lord of men, I ween that thou Hast heaven within thy hand e’en now, For very wisely hast thou done, And refuge sought with Kuśik’s son.”

Thus having said, the sage addressed His sons, of men the holiest, And bade the prudent saints whate’er Was needed for the rite prepare. The pupils he was wont to teach He summoned next, and spoke this speech: “Go bid Vaśishṭha’a sons appear, And all the saints be gathered here. And what they one and all reply When summoned by this mandate high, To me with faithful care report, Omit no word and none distort.”

The pupils heard, and prompt obeyed, To every side their way they made. Then swift from every quarter sped The sages in the Vedas read. Back to that saint the envoys came, Whose glory shone like burning flame, And told him in their faithful speech The answer that they bore from each: “Submissive to thy word, O Seer, The holy men are gathering here. By all was meet obedience shown: Mahodaya(238) refused alone. And now, O Chief of hermits, hear What answer, chilling us with fear, Vaśishṭha’s hundred sons returned, Thick-speaking as with rage they burned: “How will the Gods and saints partake The offerings that the prince would make, And he a vile and outcast thing, His ministrant one born a king? Can we, great Bráhmans, eat his food, And think to win beatitude, By Viśvámitra purified?” Thus sire and sons in scorn replied, And as these bitter words they said, Wild fury made their eyeballs red.

Their answer when the arch-hermit heard, His tranquil eyes with rage were blurred; Great fury in his bosom woke, And thus unto the youths he spoke: “Me, blameless me they dare to blame, And disallow the righteous claim My fierce austerities have earned: To ashes be the sinners turned. Caught in the noose of Fate shall they To Yáma’s kingdom sink to-day. Seven hundred times shall they be born To wear the clothes the dead have worn. Dregs of the dregs, too vile to hate, The flesh of dogs their maws shall sate. In hideous form, in loathsome weed, A sad existence each shall lead. Mahodaya too, the fool who fain My stainless life would try to stain, Stained in the world with long disgrace Shall sink into a fowler’s place. Rejoicing guiltless blood to spill, No pity through his breast shall thrill. Cursed by my wrath for many a day, His wretched life for sin shall pay.”

Thus, girt with hermit, saint, and priest, Great Viśvámitra spoke—and ceased.

Canto LX. Trisanku’s Ascension.

So with ascetic might, in ire, He smote the children and the sire. Then Viśvámitra, far-renowned, Addressed the saints who gathered round: “See by my side Triśanku stand, Ikshváku’s son, of liberal hand. Most virtuous and gentle, he Seeks refuge in his woe with me. Now, holy men, with me unite, And order so his purposed rite That in the body he may rise And win a mansion in the skies.”

They heard his speech with ready ear And, every bosom filled with fear Of Viśvámitra, wise and great, Spoke each to each in brief debate: “The breast of Kuśik’s son, we know, With furious wrath is quick to glow. Whate’er the words he wills to say, We must, be very sure, obey. Fierce is our lord as fire, and straight May curse us all infuriate. So let us in these rites engage, As ordered by the holy sage. And with our best endeavour strive That King Ikshváku’s son, alive, In body to the skies may go By his great might who wills it so.”

Then was the rite begun with care: All requisites and means were there: And glorious Viśvámitra lent His willing aid as president. And all the sacred rites were done By rule and use, omitting none. By chaplain-priest, the hymns who knew, In decent form and order due. Some time in sacrifice had past, And Viśvámitra made, at last, The solemn offering with the prayer That all the Gods might come and share. But the Immortals, one and all, Refused to hear the hermit’s call.

Then red with rage his eyeballs blazed: The sacred ladle high he raised, And cried to King Ikshváku’s son: “Behold my power, by penance won: Now by the might my merits lend, Ikshváku’s child, to heaven ascend. In living frame the skies attain, Which mortals thus can scarcely gain. My vows austere, so long endured, Have, as I ween, some fruit assured. Upon its virtue, King, rely, And in thy body reach the sky.”

His speech had scarcely reached its close, When, as he stood, the sovereign rose, And mounted swiftly to the skies Before the wondering hermits’ eyes.

But Indra, when he saw the king His blissful regions entering, With all the army of the Blest Thus cried unto the unbidden guest: “With thy best speed, Triśanku, flee: Here is no home prepared for thee. By thy great master’s curse brought low, Go, falling headlong, earthward go.”

Thus by the Lord of Gods addressed, Triśanku fell from fancied rest, And screaming in his swift descent, “O, save me, Hermit!” down he went. And Viśvámitra heard his cry, And marked him falling from the sky, And giving all his passion sway, Cried out in fury, “Stay, O stay!” By penance-power and holy lore, Like Him who framed the worlds of yore, Seven other saints he fixed on high To star with light the southern sky. Girt with his sages forth he went, And southward in the firmament New wreathed stars prepared to set In many a sparkling coronet. He threatened, blind with rage and hate, Another Indra to create, Or, from his throne the ruler hurled, All Indraless to leave the world. Yea, borne away by passion’s storm, The sage began new Gods to form. But then each Titan, God, and saint, Confused with terror, sick and faint, To high souled Viśvámitra hied, And with soft words to soothe him tried: “Lord of high destiny, this king, To whom his master’s curses cling, No heavenly home deserves to gain, Unpurified from curse and stain.”

The son of Kuśik, undeterred, The pleading of the Immortals heard, And thus in haughty words expressed The changeless purpose of his breast: “Content ye, Gods: I soothly sware Triśanku to the skies to bear Clothed in his body, nor can I My promise cancel or deny. Embodied let the king ascend To life in heaven that ne’er shall end. And let these new-made stars of mine Firm and secure for ever shine. Let these, my work, remain secure Long as the earth and heaven endure. This, all ye Gods, I crave: do you Allow the boon for which I sue.” Then all the Gods their answer made: “So be it, Saint, as thou hast prayed. Beyond the sun’s diurnal way Thy countless stars in heaven shall stay: And ’mid them hung, as one divine, Head downward shall Triśanku shine; And all thy stars shall ever fling Their rays attendant on the king.”(239)

The mighty saint, with glory crowned, With all the sages compassed round, Praised by the Gods, gave full assent, And Gods and sages homeward went.

Canto LXI. Sunahsepha.

Then Viśvámitra, when the Blest Had sought their homes of heavenly rest, Thus, mighty Prince, his counsel laid Before the dwellers of the shade: “The southern land where now we are Offers this check our rites to bar:(240) To other regions let us speed, And ply our tasks from trouble freed. Now turn we to the distant west. To Pushkar’s(241) wood where hermits rest, And there to rites austere apply, For not a grove with that can vie.”

The saint, in glory’s light arrayed, In Pushkar’s wood his dwelling made, And living there on roots and fruit Did penance stern and resolute.

The king who filled Ayodhyá’s throne, By Ambarísha’s name far known, At that same time, it chanced, began A sacrificial rite to plan. But Indra took by force away The charger that the king would slay. The victim lost, the Bráhman sped To Ambarísha’s side, and said: “Gone is the steed, O King, and this Is due to thee, in care remiss. Such heedless faults will kings destroy Who fail to guard what they enjoy. The flaw is desperate: we need The charger, or a man to bleed. Quick! bring a man if not the horse, That so the rite may have its course.”

The glory of Ikshváku’s line Made offer of a thousand kine, And sought to buy at lordly price A victim for the sacrifice. To many a distant land he drove, To many a people, town, and grove, And holy shades where hermits rest, Pursuing still his eager quest. At length on Bhrigu’s sacred height The saint Richíka met his sight Sitting beneath the holy boughs. His children near him, and his spouse.

The mighty lord drew near, assayed To win his grace, and reverence paid; And then the sainted king addressed The Bráhman saint with this request: “Bought with a hundred thousand kine, Give me, O Sage, a son of thine To be a victim in the rite, And thanks the favour shall requite. For I have roamed all countries round, Nor sacrificial victim found. Then, gentle Hermit, deign to spare One child amid the number there.”

Then to the monarch’s speech replied The hermit, penance-glorified: “For countless kine, for hills of gold, Mine eldest son shall ne’er be sold.” But, when she heard the saint’s reply, The children’s mother, standing nigh, Words such as these in answer said To Ambarísha, monarch dread: “My lord, the saint, has spoken well: His eldest child he will not sell. And know, great Monarch, that above The rest my youngest born I love. ’Tis ever thus: the father’s joy Is centred in his eldest boy. The mother loves her darling best Whom last she rocked upon her breast: My youngest I will ne’er forsake.”

As thus the sire and mother spake, Young Śunahśepha, of the three The midmost, cried unurged and free: “My sire withholds his eldest son, My mother keeps her youngest one: Then take me with thee, King: I ween The son is sold who comes between.” The king with joy his home resought, And took the prize his kine had bought. He bade the youth his car ascend, And hastened back the rites to end.(242)

Canto LXII. Ambarísha’s Sacrifice.

As thus the king that youth conveyed, His weary steeds at length he stayed At height of noon their rest to take Upon the bank of Pushkar’s lake. There while the king enjoyed repose The captive Śunahśepha rose, And hasting to the water’s side His uncle Viśvámitra spied, With many a hermit ’neath the trees Engaged in stern austerities.

Distracted with the toil and thirst, With woeful mien, away he burst, Swift to the hermit’s breast he flew, And weeping thus began to sue: “No sire have I, no mother dear, No kith or kin my heart to cheer: As justice bids, O Hermit, deign To save me from the threatened pain. O thou to whom the wretched flee, And find a saviour, Saint, in thee, Now let the king obtain his will, And me my length of days fulfil, That rites austere I too may share, May rise to heaven and rest me there. With tender soul and gentle brow Be guardian of the orphan thou, And as a father pities, so Preserve me from my fear and woe.”

When Viśvámitra, glorious saint, Had heard the boy’s heart-rending plaint. He soothed his grief, his tears he dried, Then called his sons to him, and cried: “The time is come for you to show The duty and the aid bestow For which, regarding future life, A man gives children to his wife. This hermit’s son, whom here you see A suppliant, refuge seeks with me. O sons, the friendless youth befriend, And, pleasing me, his life defend. For holy works you all have wrought, True to the virtuous life I taught. Go, and as victims doomed to bleed, Die, and Lord Agni’s hunger feed. So shall the rite completed end, This orphan gain a saving friend, Due offerings to the Gods be paid, And your own father’s voice obeyed.”

Then Madhushyand and all the rest Answered their sire with scorn and jest: “What! aid to others’ sons afford, And leave thine own to die, my lord! To us it seems a horrid deed, As ’twere on one’s own flesh to feed.”

The hermit heard his sons’ reply, And burning rage inflamed his eye. Then forth his words of fury burst: “Audacious speech, by virtue cursed! It lifts on end each shuddering hair— My charge to scorn! my wrath to dare! You, like Vaśishṭha’s evil brood, Shall make the flesh of dogs your food A thousand years in many a birth, And punished thus shall dwell on earth.”

Thus on his sons his curse he laid. Then calmed again that youth dismayed, And blessed him with his saving aid: “When in the sacred fetters bound, And with a purple garland crowned, At Vishṇu’s post thou standest tied, With lauds be Agni glorified. And these two hymns of holy praise Forget not, Hermit’s son, to raise In the king’s rite, and thou shalt be Lord of thy wish, preserved, and free.”

He learnt the hymns with mind intent, And from the hermit’s presence went. To Ambarísha thus he spake: “Let us our onward journey take. Haste to thy home, O King, nor stay The lustral rites with slow delay.”

The boy’s address the monarch cheered, And soon the sacred ground he neared. The convocation’s high decree Declared the youth from blemish free; Clothed in red raiment he was tied A victim at the pillar’s side. There bound, the Fire-God’s hymn he raised, And Indra and Upendra praised. Thousand-eyed Vishṇu, pleased to hear The mystic laud, inclined his ear, And won by worship, swift to save, Long life to Śunahśepha gave. The king in bounteous measure gained The fruit of sacrifice ordained, By grace of Him who rules the skies, Lord Indra of the thousand eyes.

And Viśvámitra evermore. Pursued his task on Pushkar’s shore Until a thousand years had past In fierce austerity and fast.

Canto LXIII. Menaká.

A thousand years had thus flown by When all the Gods within the sky, Eager that he the fruit might gain Of fervent rite and holy pain, Approached the great ascetic, now Bathed after toil and ended vow. Then Brahmá speaking for the rest With sweetest words the sage addressed: “Hail, Saint! This high and holy name Thy rites have won, thy merits claim.”

Thus spoke the Lord whom Gods revere, And sought again his heavenly sphere. But Viśvámitra, more intent, His mind to sterner penance bent. So many a season rolled away, When Menaká, fair nymph, one day Came down from Paradise to lave Her perfect limbs in Pushkar’s wave, The glorious son of Kuśik saw That peerless shape without a flaw Flash through the flood’s translucent shroud Like lightning gleaming through a cloud. He saw her in that lone retreat, Most beautiful from head to feet, And by Kandarpa’s(243) might subdued He thus addressed her as he viewed: “Welcome, sweet nymph! O deign, I pray, In these calm shades awhile to stay. To me some gracious favour show, For love has set my breast aglow.”

He spoke. The fairest of the fair Made for awhile her dwelling there, While day by day the wild delight Stayed vow austere and fervent rite There as the winsome charmer wove Her spells around him in the grove, And bound him in a golden chain, Five sweet years fled, and five again. Then Viśvámitra woke to shame, And, fraught with anguish, memory came For quick he knew, with anger fired, That all the Immortals had conspired To lap his careless soul in ease, And mar his long austerities. “Ten years have past, each day and night Unheeded in delusive flight. So long my fervent rites were stayed, While thus I lay by love betrayed.” As thus long sighs the hermit heaved, And, touched with deep repentance, grieved, He saw the fair one standing nigh With suppliant hands and trembling eye. With gentle words he bade her go, Then sought the northern hills of snow. With firm resolve he vowed to beat The might of love beneath his feet. Still northward to the distant side Of Kauśikí(244), the hermit hide, And gave his life to penance there With rites austere most hard to bear. A thousand years went by, and still He laboured on the northern hill With pains so terrible and drear That all the Gods were chilled with fear, And Gods and saints, for swift advice, Met in the halls of Paradise. “Let Kuśik’s son,” they counselled, “be A Mighty saint by just decree.” His ear to hear their counsel lent The Sire of worlds, omnipotent. To him enriched by rites severe He spoke in accents sweet to hear: “Hail, Mighty Saint! dear son, all hail! Thy fervour wins, thy toils prevail. Won by thy vows and zeal intense I give this high preëminence.” He to the General Sire replied, Not sad, nor wholly satisfied: “When thou, O Brahmá, shalt declare The title, great beyond compare, Of Bráhman saint my worthy meed, Hard earned by many a holy deed, Then may I deem in sooth I hold Each sense of body well controlled.” Then Brahmá cried, “Not yet, not yet: Toil on awhile O Anchoret!”

Thus having said to heaven he went, The saint, upon his task intent, Began his labours to renew, Which sterner yet and fiercer grew. His arms upraised, without a rest, With but one foot the earth he pressed; The air his food, the hermit stood Still as a pillar hewn from wood. Around him in the summer days Five mighty fires combined to blaze. In floods of rain no veil was spread Save clouds, to canopy his head. In the dank dews both night and day Couched in the stream the hermit lay. Thus, till a thousand years had fled, He plied his task of penance dread. Then Vishṇu and the Gods with awe The labours of the hermit saw, And Śakra, in his troubled breast, Lord of the skies, his fear confessed. And brooded on a plan to spoil The merits of the hermit’s toil. Encompassed by his Gods of Storm He summoned Rambhá, fair of form, And spoke a speech for woe and weal, The saint to mar, the God to heal.

Canto LXIV. Rambhá.

“A great emprise, O lovely maid, To save the Gods, awaits thine aid: To bind the son of Kuśik sure, And take his soul with love’s sweet lure.” Thus order’d by the Thousand-eyed The suppliant nymph in fear replied: “O Lord of Gods, this mighty sage Is very fierce and swift to rage. I doubt not, he so dread and stern On me his scorching wrath will turn. Of this, my lord, am I afraid: Have mercy on a timid maid.” Her suppliant hands began to shake, When thus again Lord Indra spake: “O Rambhá, drive thy fears away, And as I bid do thou obey. In Koïl’s form, who takes the heart When trees in spring to blossom start, I, with Kandarpa for my friend, Close to thy side mine aid will lend. Do thou thy beauteous splendour arm With every grace and winsome charm, And from his awful rites seduce This Kuśik’s son, the stern recluse.”

Lord Indra ceased. The nymph obeyed: In all her loveliest charms arrayed, With winning ways and witching smile She sought the hermit to beguile. The sweet note of that tuneful bird The saint with ravished bosom heard, And on his heart a rapture passed As on the nymph a look he cast. But when he heard the bird prolong His sweet incomparable song, And saw the nymph with winning smile, The hermit’s heart perceived the wile. And straight he knew the Thousand-eyed A plot against his peace had tried. Then Kuśik’s son indignant laid His curse upon the heavenly maid: “Because thou wouldst my soul engage Who fight to conquer love and rage, Stand, till ten thousand years have flown, Ill-fated maid, transformed to stone. A Bráhman then, in glory strong, Mighty through penance stern and long, Shall free thee from thine altered shape; Thou from my curse shalt then escape.” But when the saint had cursed her so, His breast was burnt with fires of woe, Grieved that long effort to restrain His mighty wrath was all in vain. Cursed by the angry sage’s power, She stood in stone that selfsame hour. Kandarpa heard the words he said, And quickly from his presence fled. His fall beneath his passion’s sway Had reft the hermit’s meed away. Unconquered yet his secret foes, The humbled saint refused repose: “No more shall rage my bosom till, Sealed be my lips, my tongue be still. My very breath henceforth I hold Until a thousand years are told: Victorious o’er each erring sense, I’ll dry my frame with abstinence, Until by penance duly done A Bráhman’s rank be bought and won. For countless years, as still as death, I taste no food, I draw no breath, And as I toil my frame shall stand Unharmed by time’s destroying hand.”

Canto LXV. Visvámitra’s Triumph

Then from Himálaya’s heights of snow, The glorious saint prepared to go, And dwelling in the distant east His penance and his toil increased. A thousand years his lips he held Closed by a vow unparalleled, And other marvels passing thought, Unrivalled in the world, he wrought. In all the thousand years his frame Dry as a log of wood became. By many a cross and check beset, Rage had not stormed his bosom yet. With iron will that naught could bend He plied his labour till the end. So when the weary years were o’er, Freed from his vow so stern and sore, The hermit, all his penance sped, Sate down to eat his meal of bread. Then Indra, clad in Bráhman guise, Asked him for food with hungry eyes. The mighty saint, with steadfast soul, To the false Bráhman gave the whole, And when no scrap for him remained, Fasting and faint, from speech refrained. His silent vow he would not break: No breath he heaved, no word he spake, Then as he checked his breath, behold! Around his brow thick smoke-clouds rolled And the three worlds, as if o’erspread With ravening flames, were filled with dread. Then God and saint and bard, convened, And Nága lord, and snake, and fiend, Thus to the General Father cried, Distracted, sad, and terrified: “Against the hermit, sore assailed, Lure, scathe, and scorn have naught availed, Proof against rage and treacherous art He keeps his vow with constant heart. Now if his toils assist him naught To gain the boon his soul has sought, He through the worlds will ruin send That fixt and moving things shall end, The regions now are dark with doom, No friendly ray relieves the gloom. Each ocean foams with maddened tide, The shrinking hills in fear subside. Trembles the earth with feverous throe The wind in fitful tempest blows. No cure we see with troubled eyes: And atheist brood on earth may rise. The triple world is wild with care, Or spiritless in dull despair. Before that saint the sun is dim, His blessed light eclipsed by him. Now ere the saint resolve to bring Destruction on each living thing, Let us appease, while yet we may, Him bright as fire, like fire to slay. Yea, as the fiery flood of Fate Lays all creation desolate, He o’er the conquered Gods may reign: O, grant him what he longs to gain.”

Then all the Blest, by Brahmá led, Approached the saint and sweetly said: “Hail, Bráhman Saint! for such thy place: Thy vows austere have won our grace. A Bráhman’s rank thy penance stern And ceaseless labour richly earn. I with the Gods of Storm decree Long life, O Bráhman Saint, to thee. May peace and joy thy soul possess: Go where thou wilt in happiness.”

Thus by the General Sire addressed, Joy and high triumph filled his breast. His head in adoration bowed, Thus spoke he to the Immortal crowd: “If I, ye Gods, have gained at last Both length of days and Bráhman caste, Grant that the high mysterious name, And holy Vedas, own my claim, And that the formula to bless The sacrifice, its lord confess. And let Vaśishṭha, who excels In Warriors’ art and mystic spells, In love of God without a peer, Confirm the boon you promise here.”

With Brahmá’s son Vaśishṭha, best Of those who pray with voice repressed, The Gods by earnest prayer prevailed, And thus his new-made friend he hailed: “Thy title now is sure and good To rights of saintly Bráhmanhood.” Thus spake the sage. The Gods, content, Back to their heavenly mansions went. And Viśvámitra, pious-souled, Among the Bráhman saints enrolled, On reverend Vaśishṭha pressed The honours due to holy guest. Successful in his high pursuit, The sage, in penance resolute, Walked in his pilgrim wanderings o’er The whole broad land from shore to shore. ’Twas thus the saint, O Raghu’s son, His rank among the Bráhmans won. Best of all hermits, Prince, is he; In him incarnate Penance see. Friend of the right, who shrinks from ill, Heroic powers attend him still.”

The Bráhman, versed in ancient lore, Thus closed his tale, and said no more, To Śatánanda Kuśik’s son Cried in delight, Well done! well done! Then Janak, at the tale amazed, Spoke thus with suppliant hands upraised: “High fate is mine, O Sage, I deem, And thanks I owe for bliss supreme, That thou and Raghu’s children too Have come my sacrifice to view. To look on thee with blessed eyes Exalts my soul and purifies. Yea, thus to see thee face to face Enriches me with store of grace. Thy holy labours wrought of old, And mighty penance, fully told, Ráma and I with great delight Have heard, O glorious Anchorite. Unrivalled thine ascetic deeds: Thy might, O Saint, all might exceeds. No thought may scan, no limit bound The virtues that in thee are found. The story of thy wondrous fate My thirsty ears can never sate. The hour of evening rites is near: The sun declines in swift career. At early dawn, O Hermit, deign To let me see thy face again. Best of ascetics, part in bliss: Do thou thy servant now dismiss.”

The saint approved, and glad and kind Dismissed the king with joyful mind Around the sage King Janak went With priests and kinsmen reverent. Then Viśvámitra, honoured so, By those high-minded, rose to go, And with the princes took his way To seek the lodging where they lay.

Canto LXVI. Janak’s Speech.

With cloudless lustre rose the sun; The king, his morning worship done, Ordered his heralds to invite The princes and the anchorite. With honour, as the laws decree, The monarch entertained the three. Then to the youths and saintly man Videha’s lord this speech began: “O blameless Saint, most welcome thou! If I may please thee tell me how. Speak, mighty lord, whom all revere, ’Tis thine to order, mine to hear.”

Thus he on mighty thoughts intent; Then thus the sage most eloquent: “King Daśaratha’s sons, this pair Of warriors famous everywhere, Are come that best of bows to see That lies a treasure stored by thee. This, mighty Janak, deign to show, That they may look upon the bow, And then, contented, homeward go.” Then royal Janak spoke in turn: “O best of Saints, the story learn Why this famed bow, a noble prize, A treasure in my palace lies. A monarch, Devarát by name, Who sixth from ancient Nimi came, Held it as ruler of the land, A pledge in his successive hand. This bow the mighty Rudra bore At Daksha’s(245) sacrifice of yore, When carnage of the Immortals stained The rite that Daksha had ordained. Then as the Gods sore wounded fled, Victorious Rudra, mocking, said: “Because, O Gods, ye gave me naught When I my rightful portion sought, Your dearest parts I will not spare, But with my bow your frames will tear.”

The Sons of Heaven, in wild alarm, Soft flatteries tried his rage to charm. Then Bhava, Lord whom Gods adore, Grew kind and friendly as before, And every torn and mangled limb Was safe and sound restored by him. Thenceforth this bow, the gem of bows, That freed the God of Gods from foes, Stored by our great forefathers lay A treasure and a pride for aye. Once, as it chanced, I ploughed the ground, When sudden, ’neath the share was found An infant springing from the earth, Named Sítá from her secret birth.(246) In strength and grace the maiden grew, My cherished daughter, fair to view. I vowed her, of no mortal birth, Meet prize for noblest hero’s worth. In strength and grace the maiden grew, And many a monarch came to woo. To all the princely suitors I Gave, mighty Saint, the same reply: “I give not thus my daughter, she Prize of heroic worth shall be.(247) To Míthilá the suitors pressed Their power and might to manifest. To all who came with hearts aglow I offered Śiva’s wondrous bow. Not one of all the royal band Could raise or take the bow in hand. The suitors’ puny might I spurned, And back the feeble princes turned. Enraged thereat, the warriors met, With force combined my town beset. Stung to the heart with scorn and shame, With war and threats they madly came, Besieged my peaceful walls, and long To Míthilá did grievous wrong. There, wasting all, a year they lay, And brought my treasures to decay, Filling my soul, O Hermit chief, With bitter woe and hopeless grief. At last by long-wrought penance I Won favour with the Gods on high, Who with my labours well content A four-fold host to aid me sent. Then swift the baffled heroes fled To all the winds discomfited— Wrong-doers, with their lords and host, And all their valour’s idle boast. This heavenly bow, exceeding bright, These youths shall see, O Anchorite. Then if young Ráma’s hand can string The bow that baffled lord and king, To him I give, as I have sworn, My Sítá, not of woman born.”

Canto LXVII. The Breaking Of The Bow.

Then spoke again the great recluse: “This mighty bow, O King, produce.” King Janak, at the saint’s request, This order to his train addressed: “Let the great bow be hither borne, Which flowery wreaths and scents adorn.” Soon as the monarch’s words were said, His servants to the city sped, Five thousand youths in number, all Of manly strength and stature tall, The ponderous eight-wheeled chest that held The heavenly bow, with toil propelled. At length they brought that iron chest, And thus the godlike king addressed: “This best of bows, O lord, we bring, Respected by each chief and king, And place it for these youths to see, If, Sovereign, such thy pleasure be.”

With suppliant palm to palm applied King Janak to the strangers cried: “This gem of bows, O Bráhman Sage, Our race has prized from age to age, Too strong for those who yet have reigned, Though great in might each nerve they strained. Titan and fiend its strength defies, God, spirit, minstrel of the skies. And bard above and snake below Are baffled by this glorious bow. Then how may human prowess hope With such a bow as this to cope? What man with valour’s choicest gift This bow can draw, or string, or lift? Yet let the princes, holy Seer, Behold it: it is present here.”

Then spoke the hermit pious-souled: “Ráma, dear son, the bow behold.” Then Ráma at his word unclosed The chest wherein its might reposed, Thus crying, as he viewed it: “Lo! I lay mine hand upon the bow: May happy luck my hope attend Its heavenly strength to lift or bend.” “Good luck be thine,” the hermit cried: “Assay the task!” the king replied. Then Raghu’s son, as if in sport, Before the thousands of the court, The weapon by the middle raised That all the crowd in wonder gazed. With steady arm the string he drew Till burst the mighty bow in two. As snapped the bow, an awful clang, Loud as the shriek of tempests, rang. The earth, affrighted, shook amain As when a hill is rent in twain. Then, senseless at the fearful sound, The people fell upon the ground: None save the king, the princely pair, And the great saint, the shock could bear.

When woke to sense the stricken train, And Janak’s soul was calm again, With suppliant hands and reverent head, These words, most eloquent, he said: “O Saint, Prince Ráma stands alone: His peerless might he well has shown. A marvel has the hero wrought Beyond belief, surpassing thought. My child, to royal Ráma wed, New glory on our line will shed: And true my promise will remain That hero’s worth the bride should gain. Dearer to me than light and life, My Sítá shall be Ráma’s wife. If thou, O Bráhman, leave concede, My counsellors, with eager speed, Borne in their flying cars, to fair Ayodhyá’s town the news shall bear, With courteous message to entreat The king to grace my royal seat. This to the monarch shall they tell, The bride is his who won her well: And his two sons are resting here Protected by the holy seer. So, at his pleasure, let them lead The sovereign to my town with speed.”

The hermit to his prayer inclined And Janak, lord of virtuous mind, With charges, to Ayodhyá sent His ministers: and forth they went.

Canto LXVIII. The Envoys’ Speech.

Three nights upon the road they passed To rest the steeds that bore them fast, And reached Ayodhyá’s town at last. Then straight at Daśaratha’s call They stood within the royal hall, Where, like a God, inspiring awe, The venerable king they saw. With suppliant palm to palm applied, And all their terror laid aside, They spoke to him upon the throne With modest words, in gentle tone: “Janak, Videha’s king, O Sire, Has sent us hither to inquire The health of thee his friend most dear, Of all thy priests and every peer. Next Kuśik’s son consenting, thus King Janak speaks, dread liege, by us: “I made a promise and decree That valour’s prize my child should be. Kings, worthless found in worth’s assay, With mien dejected turned away. Thy sons, by Viśvámitra led, Unurged, my city visited, And peerless in their might have gained My daughter, as my vow ordained. Full in a vast assembly’s view Thy hero Ráma broke in two The gem of bows, of monstrous size, That came a treasure from the skies. Ordained the prize of hero’s might, Sítá my child is his by right. Fain would I keep my promise made, If thou, O King, approve and aid. Come to my town thy son to see: Bring holy guide and priest with thee. O lord of kings, my suit allow, And let me keep my promised vow. So joying for thy children’s sake Their triumph too shalt thou partake, With Viśvámitra’s high consent.” Such words with friendship eloquent Spoke Janak, fair Videha’s king, By Śatánanda’s counselling.”

The envoys thus the king addressed, And mighty joy his heart possessed. To Vámadeva quick he cried, Vaśishṭha, and his lords beside: “Lakshmaṇ, and he, my princely boy Who fills Kauśalyá’s soul with joy, By Viśvámitra guarded well Among the good Videhans dwell. Their ruler Janak, prompt to own The peerless might my child has shown, To him would knit in holy ties His daughter, valour’s lovely prize. If Janak’s plan seem good to you, Come, speed we to his city too, Nor let occasion idly by.”

He ceased. There came a glad reply From priest and mighty saint and all The councillors who thronged the hall. Then cried the king with joyous heart: “To-morrow let us all depart.”

That night the envoys entertained With honour and all care remained.

Canto LXIX. Dasaratha’s Visit.

Soon as the shades of night had fled, Thus to the wise Sumantra said The happy king, while priest and peer, Each in his place, were standing near: “Let all my treasurers to-day, Set foremost in the long array, With gold and precious gems supplied In bounteous store, together ride. And send you out a mighty force, Foot, chariot, elephant, and horse. Besides, let many a car of state, And noblest steeds, my will await. Vaśishṭha, Vámadeva sage, And Márkaṇdeya’s reverend age, Jáváli, Kaśyap’s godlike seed, And wise Kátyáyana, shall lead. Thy care, Sumantra, let it be To yoke a chariot now for me, That so we part without delay: These envoys hasten me away.”

So fared he forth. That host, with speed, Quadruple, as the king decreed, With priests to head the bright array, Followed the monarch on his way. Four days they travelled on the road, And eve Videha’s kingdom showed. Janak had left his royal seat The venerable king to greet, And, noblest, with these words addressed That noblest lord, his happy guest: “Hail, best of kings: a blessed fate Has led thee, Monarch, to my state. Thy sons, supreme in high emprise, Will gladden now their father’s eyes. And high my fate, that hither leads Vaśishṭha, bright with holy deeds, Girt with these sages far-renowned, Like Indra with the Gods around. Joy! joy! for vanquished are my foes: Joy! for my house in glory grows, With Raghu’s noblest sons allied, Supreme in strength and valour’s pride. To-morrow with its early light Will shine on my completed rite. Then, sanctioned by the saints and thee, The marriage of thy Ráma see.”

Then Daśaratha, best of those Whose speech in graceful order flows, With gathered saints on every side, Thus to the lord of earth replied: “A truth is this I long have known, A favour is the giver’s own. What thou shalt bid, O good and true, We, as our power permits, will do.”

That answer of the truthful lord, With virtuous worth and honour stored, Janak, Videha’s noble king, Heard gladly, greatly marvelling. With bosoms filled with pleasure met Long-parted saint and anchoret, And linked in friendship’s tie they spent The peaceful night in great content.

Ráma and Lakshmaṇ thither sped, By sainted Viśvámitra led, And bent in filial love to greet Their father, and embraced his feet. The aged king, rejoiced to hear And see again his children dear, Honoured by Janak’s thoughtful care, With great enjoyment rested there. King Janak, with attentive heed, Consulted first his daughters’ need, And ordered all to speed the rite; Then rested also for the night.

Canto LXX. The Maidens Sought.

Then with the morn’s returning sun. King Janak, when his rites were done, Skilled all the charms of speech to know, Spoke to wise Śatánanda so: “My brother, lord of glorious fame, My younger, Kuśadhwaj by name, Whose virtuous life has won renown, Has settled in a lovely town, Sánkáśyá, decked with grace divine, Whose glories bright as Pushpak’s shine, While Ikshumatí rolls her wave Her lofty rampart’s foot to lave. Him, holy priest, I long to see: The guardian of my rite is he: That my dear brother may not miss A share of mine expected bliss.”

Thus in the presence of the priest The royal Janak spoke, and ceased. Then came his henchmen, prompt and brave, To whom his charge the monarch gave. Soon as they heard his will, in haste With fleetest steeds away they raced, To lead with them that lord of kings, As Indra’s call Lord Vishṇu brings. Sánkáśyá’s walls they duly gained, And audience of the king obtained. To him they told the news they brought Of marvels past and Janak’s thought. Soon as the king the story knew From those good envoys swift and true, To Janak’s wish he gave assent, And swift to Míthilá he went. He paid to Janak reverence due, And holy Śatánanda too, Then sate him on a glorious seat For kings or Gods celestial meet. Soon as the brothers, noble pair Peerless in might, were seated there, They gave the wise Sudáman, best Of councillors, their high behest: “Go, noble councillor,” they cried, “And hither to our presence guide Ikshváku’s son, Ayodhyá’s lord, Invincible by foeman’s sword, With both his sons, each holy seer, And every minister and peer.” Sudáman to the palace flew, And saw the mighty king who threw Splendour on Raghu’s splendid race, Then bowed his head with seemly grace: “O King, whose hand Ayodhyá sways, My lord, whom Míthilá obeys, Yearns with desire, if thou agree, Thee with thy guide and priest to see.” Soon as the councillor had ceased, The king, with saint and peer and priest, Sought, speeding through the palace gate, The hall where Janak held his state. There, with his nobles round him spread, Thus to Videha’s lord be said: “Thou knowest, King, whose aid divine Protects Ikshváku’s royal line. In every need, whate’er befall, The saint Vaśishṭha speaks for all. If Viśvámitra so allow, And all the saints around me now, The sage will speak, at my desire, As order and the truth require.”

Soon as the king his lips had stilled, Up rose Vaśishṭha, speaker skilled. And to Videha’s lord began In flowing words that holy man: “From viewless Nature Brahmá rose, No change, no end, no waste he knows. A son had he Maríchi styled, And Kaśyap was Maríchi’s child. From him Vivasvat sprang: from him Manu whose fame shall ne’er be dim. Manu, who life to mortals gave, Begot Ikshváku good and brave. First of Ayodhyá’s kings was he, Pride of her famous dynasty. From him the glorious Kukshi sprang, Whose fame through all the regions rang. Rival of Kukshi’s ancient fame, His heir, the great Vikukshi, came, His son was Váṇa, lord of might; His Anaraṇya, strong to fight. His son was Prithu, glorious name; From him the good Triśanku came. He left a son renowned afar, Known by the name of Dhundhumár. His son, who drove the mighty car, Was Yuvanáśva, feared in war. He passed away. Him followed then His son Mándhátá, king of men. His son was blest in high emprise, Susandhi, fortunate and wise. Two noble sons had he, to wit Dhruvasandhi and Prasenajit. Bharat was Dhruvasandhi’s son, And glorious fame that monarch won. The warrior Asit he begot. Asit had warfare, fierce and hot, With rival kings in many a spot, Haihayas, Tálajanghas styled, And Śaśivindus, strong and wild. Long time he strove, but forced to yield Fled from his kingdom and the field. With his two wives away he fled Where high Himálaya lifts his head, And, all his wealth and glory past, He paid the dues of Fate at last. The wives he left had both conceived— So is the ancient tale believed— One, of her rival’s hopes afraid Fell poison in her viands laid. It chanced that Chyavan, Bhrigu’s child, Had wandered to that pathless wild, And there Himálaya’s lovely height Detained him with a strange delight. There came the other widowed queen, With lotus eyes and beauteous mien, Longing a noble son to bear, And wooed the saint with earnest prayer. When thus Kálindi,(248) fairest dame, With reverent supplication came, To her the holy sage replied: “Born with the poison from thy side, O happy Queen, shall spring ere long An infant fortunate and strong. Then weep no more, and check thy sighs, Sweet lady of the lotus eyes.” The queen, who loved her perished lord, For meet reply, the saint adored, And, of her husband long bereaved, She bore a son by him conceived. Because her rival mixed the bane To render her conception vain, And fruit unripened to destroy, Sagar(249) she called her darling boy. To Sagar Asamanj was heir: Bright Anśumán his consort bare. Anśumán’s son, Dilípa famed, Begot a son Bhagírath named. From him the great Kakutstha rose: From him came Raghu, feared by foes, Of him sprang Purushádak bold, Fierce hero of gigantic mould: Kalmáshapáda’s name he bore, Because his feet were spotted o’er.(250) From him came Śankaṇ, and from him Sudarśan, fair in face and limb. From beautiful Sudarśan came Prince Agnivarṇa, bright as flame. His son was Śíghraga, for speed Unmatched; and Maru was his seed. Praśuśruka was Maru’s child; His son was Ambarísha styled. Nahush was Ambarísha’s heir, The mighty lord of regions fair: Nahush begot Yayáti: he, Nábhág of happy destiny. Son of Nábhág was Aja: his, The glorious Daśaratha is, Whose noble children boast to be Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, whom we see. Thus do those kings of purest race Their lineage from Ikshváku trace: Their hero lives the right maintained, Their lips with falsehood ne’er were stained. In Ráma’s and in Lakshmaṇ’s name Thy daughters as their wives I claim, So shall in equal bands be tied Each peerless youth with peerless bride.”

Canto LXXI. Janak’s Pedigree.

Then to the saint supremely wise King Janak spoke in suppliant guise: “Deign, Hermit, with attentive ear, Mv race’s origin to hear. When kings a daughter’s hand bestow, ’Tis right their line and fame to show. There was a king whose deeds and worth Spread wide his name through heaven and earth, Nimi, most virtuous e’en from youth, The best of all who love the truth. His son and heir was Mithi, and His Janak, first who ruled this land. He left a son Udávasu, Blest with all virtues, good and true. His son was Nandivardhan, dear For pious heart and worth sincere. His son Suketu, hero brave, To Devarát, existence gave. King Devarát, a royal sage, For virtue, glory of the age, Begot Vrihadratha; and he Begot, his worthy heir to be, The splendid hero Mahábír Who long in glory governed here. His son was Sudhriti, a youth Firm in his purpose, brave in sooth, His son was Dhrisṭaketu, blest With pious will and holy breast. The fame of royal saint he won: Haryaśva was his princely son. Haryaśva’s son was Maru, who Begot Pratíndhak, wise and true. Next Kírtiratha held the throne, His son, for gentle virtues known. Then followed Devamidha, then Vibudh, Mahándhrak, kings of men. Mahándhrak’s son, of boundless might, Was Kírtirát, who loved the right. He passed away, a sainted king, And Maháromá following To Swarṇaromá left the state. Then Hraśvaromá, good and great, Succeeded, and to him a pair Of sons his royal consort bare, Elder of these I boast to be: Brave Kuśadhwaj is next to me.(251) Me then, the elder of the twain, My sire anointed here to reign. He bade me tend my brother well, Then to the forest went to dwell. He sought the heavens, and I sustained The burden as by law ordained, And noble Kuśadhwaj, the peer Of Gods, I ever held most dear. Then came Sánkáśyá’s mighty lord, Sudhanvá, threatening siege and sword, And bade me swift on him bestow Śiva’s incomparable bow, And Sítá of the lotus eyes: But I refused each peerless prize. Then, host to host, we met the foes, And fierce the din of battle rose, Sudhanvá, foremost of his band, Fell smitten by my single hand. When thus Sánkáśyá’s lord was slain, I sanctified, as laws ordain, My brother in his stead to reign, Thus are we brothers, Saint most high The younger he, the elder I. Now, mighty Sage, my spirit joys To give these maidens to the boys. Let Sítá be to Ráma tied. And Urmilá be Lakshmaṇ’s bride. First give, O King, the gift of cows, As dowry of each royal spouse, Due offerings to the spirits pay, And solemnize the wedding-day. The moon tonight, O royal Sage, In Maghá’s(252) House takes harbourage; On the third night his rays benign In second Phálguni(253) will shine: Be that the day, with prosperous fate, The nuptial rites to celebrate.”

Canto LXXII. The Gift Of Kine.

When royal Janak’s words were done, Joined with Vaśishṭha Kuśik’s son, The mighty sage began his speech: “No mind may soar, no thought can reach The glories of Ikshváku’s line, Or, great Videha’s King, of thine: None in the whole wide world may vie With them in fame and honours high. Well matched, I ween, in holy bands, These peerless pairs will join their hands. But hear me as I speak once more; Thy brother, skilled in duty’s lore, Has at his home a royal pair Of daughters most divinely fair. I for the hands of these sweet two For Bharat and Śatrughna sue, Both princes of heroic mould, Wise, fair of form, and lofty-souled. All Daśaratha’s sons, I ween, Own each young grace of form and mien: Brave as the Gods are they, nor yield To the great Lords the worlds who shield. By these, good Prince of merits high, Ikshváku’s house with thine ally.”

The suit the holy sage preferred, With willing ear the monarch heard: Vaśishṭha’s lips the counsel praised: Then spake the king with hands upraised: “Now blest indeed my race I deem, Which your high will, O Saints supreme, With Daśaratha’s house unites In bonds of love and marriage rites. So be it done. My nieces twain Let Bharat and Śatrughna gain, And the four youths the selfsame day Four maiden hands in theirs shall lay. No day so lucky may compare, For marriage—so the wise declare— With the last day of Phálguni Ruled by the genial deity.” Then with raised hands in reverence due To those arch-saints he spoke anew: “I am your pupil, ever true: To me high favour have ye shown; Come, sit ye on my royal throne, For Daśaratha rules these towers E’en as Ayodhyá now is ours. Do with your own whate’er ye choose: Your lordship here will none refuse.”

He spoke, and to Videha’s king Thus Daśaratha, answering: “Boundless your virtues, lords, whose sway The realms of Mithilá obey. With honouring care you entertain. Both holy sage and royal train. Now to my house my steps I bend— May blessings still on you at end— Due offerings to the shades to pay.” Thus spoke the king, and turned away: To Janak first he bade adieu, Then followed fast those holy two. The monarch reached his palace where The rites were paid with solemn care. When the next sun began to shine He rose and made his gift of kine. A hundred thousand cows prepared For each young prince the Bráhmans shared. Each had her horns adorned with gold; And duly was the number told, Four hundred thousand perfect tale: Each brought a calf, each filled a pail. And when that glorious task was o’er, The monarch with his children four, Showed like the Lord of Life divine When the worlds’ guardians round him shine.

Canto LXXIII. The Nuptials.

On that same day that saw the king His gift of kine distributing, The lord of Kekaya’s son, by name Yudhájit, Bharat’s uncle, came, Asked of the monarch’s health, and then Addressed the reverend king of men: “The lord of Kekaya’s realm by me Sends greeting, noble King, to thee: Asks if the friends thy prayers would bless Uninterrupted health possess. Right anxious, mighty King, is he My sister’s princely boy to see. For this I sought Ayodhyá fair The message of my sire to bear. There learning, O my liege, that thou With sons and noble kinsmen now Wast resting here, I sought the place Longing to see my nephew’s face.” The king with kind observance cheered His friend by tender ties endeared, And every choicest honour pressed Upon his honourable guest.

That night with all his children spent, At morn King Daśaratha went, Behind Vaśishṭha and the rest, To the fair ground for rites addressed. Then when the lucky hour was nigh Called Victory, of omen high, Came Ráma, after vow and prayer For nuptial bliss and fortune fair, With the three youths in bright attire, And stood beside his royal sire. To Janak then Vaśishṭha sped, And to Videha’s monarch said: “O King, Ayodhyá’s ruler now Has breathed the prayer and vowed the vow, And with his sons expecting stands The giver of the maidens’ hands. The giver and the taker both Must ratify a mutual oath. Perform the part for which we wait, And rites of marriage celebrate.”

Skilled in the laws which Scriptures teach, He answered thus Vaśishṭha’s speech: “O Saint, what warder bars the gate? Whose bidding can the king await? In one’s own house what doubt is shown? This kingdom, Sage, is all thine own. E’en now the maidens may be found Within the sacrificial ground: Each vow is vowed and prayed each prayer, And they, like fire, are shining there. Here by the shrine my place I took Expecting thee with eager look, No bar the nuptial rites should stay: What cause have we for more delay?” When Janak’s speech the monarch heard, To sons and saints he gave the word, And set them in the holy ring, Then to Vaśishṭha spoke the king Of Mithilá: “O mighty Sage, Now let this task thy care engage, And lend thine aid and counsel wise The nuptial rites to solemnize.”

The saint Vaśishṭha gave assent, And quickly to the task he went, With Viśvámitra, nothing loth, And Śatánanda aiding both. Then, as the rules prescribe, they made An altar in the midst, and laid Fresh wreaths of fragrant flowers thereon. The golden ladles round it shone; And many a vase, which branches hid Fixed in the perforated lid, And sprays, and cups, and censers there Stood filled with incense rich and rare; Shell-bowls, and spoons, and salvers dressed With gifts that greet the honoured guest; Piles of parched rice some dishes bore, Others with corn prepared ran o’er; And holy grass was duly spread In equal lengths, while prayers were said. Next chief of saints, Vaśishṭha came And laid the offering in the flame. Then by the hand King Janak drew His Sítá, beautiful to view, And placed her, bright in rich attire, Ráma to face, before the fire, Thus speaking to the royal boy Who filled Kauśalyá’s heart with joy: “Here Sítá stands, my daughter fair, The duties of thy life to share. Take from her father, take thy bride; Join hand to hand, and bliss betide! A faithful wife, most blest is she, And as thy shade will follow thee.”

Thus as he spoke the monarch threw O’er her young limbs the holy dew, While Gods and saints were heard to swell The joyous cry, ’Tis well! ’Tis well! His daughter Sítá thus bestowed, O’er whom the sacred drops had flowed. King Janak’s heart with rapture glowed. Then to Prince Lakshmaṇ thus he cried: “Take Urmilá thine offered bride, And clasp her hand within thine own Ere yet the lucky hour be flown.” Then to Prince Bharat thus cried he; “Come, take the hand of Mándavi.” Then to Śatrughna: “In thy grasp The hand of Srutakírti clasp. Now, Raghu’s sons, may all of you Be gentle to your wives and true; Keep well the vows you make to-day, Nor let occasion slip away.”

King Janak’s word the youths obeyed; The maidens’ hands in theirs they laid. Then with their brides the princes went With ordered steps and reverent Round both the fire and Janak, round The sages and the sacred ground.

A flowery flood of lucid dyes In rain descended from the skies, While with celestial voices blent Sweet strains from many an instrument, And the nymphs danced in joyous throng Responsive to the minstrel’s song. Such signs of exultation they Saw on the princes’ wedding day. Still rang the heavenly music’s sound When Raghu’s sons thrice circled round The fire, each one with reverent head, And homeward then their brides they led. They to the sumptuous palace hied That Janak’s care had seen supplied. The monarch girt with saint and peer Still fondly gazing followed near.

Canto LXXIV. Ráma With The Axe.(254)

Soon as the night had reached its close The hermit Viśvámitra rose; To both the kings he bade adieu And to the northern hill withdrew. Ayodhyá’s lord of high renown Received farewell, and sought his town. Then as each daughter left her bower King Janak gave a splendid dower, Rugs, precious silks, a warrior force, Cars, elephants, and foot, and horse, Divine to see and well arrayed; And many a skilful tiring-maid, And many a young and trusty slave The father of the ladies gave. Silver and coral, gold and pearls He gave to his beloved girls. These precious gifts the king bestowed And sped his guest upon his road. The lord of Mithilá’s sweet town Rode to his court and lighted down. Ayodhyá’s monarch, glad and gay, Led by the seers pursued his way With his dear sons of lofty mind: The royal army marched behind. As on he fared the voice he heard Around of many a dismal bird, And every beast in wild affright Began to hurry to the right. The monarch to Vaśishṭha cried: “What strange misfortune will betide? Why do the beasts in terror fly, And birds of evil omen cry? What is it shakes my heart with dread? Why is my soul disquieted?”

Soon as he heard, the mighty saint Thus answered Daśaratha’s plaint In sweetest tone: “Now, Monarch, mark, And learn from me the meaning dark. The voices of the birds of air Great peril to the host declare: The moving beasts the dread allay, So drive thy whelming fear away,”

As he and Daśaratha spoke A tempest from the welkin broke, That shook the spacious earth amain And hurled high trees upon the plain. The sun grew dark with murky cloud, And o’er the skies was cast a shroud, While o’er the army, faint with dread, A veil of dust and ashes spread. King, princes, saints their sense retained, Fear-stupefied the rest remained. At length, their wits returning, all Beneath the gloom and ashy pall Saw Jamadagni’s son with dread, His long hair twisted round his head, Who, sprung from Bhrigu, loved to beat The proudest kings beneath his feet. Firm as Kailása’s hill he showed, Fierce as the fire of doom he glowed. His axe upon his shoulder lay, His bow was ready for the fray, With thirsty arrows wont to fly Like Lightnings from the angry sky. A long keen arrow forth he drew, Invincible like those which flew From Śiva’s ever-conquering bow And Tripura in death laid low.

When his wild form, that struck with awe, Fearful as ravening flame, they saw, Vaśishṭha and the saints whose care Was sacrifice and muttered prayer, Drew close together, each to each, And questioned thus with bated speech: “Indignant at his father’s fate Will he on warriors vent his hate, The slayers of his father slay, And sweep the loathed race away? But when of old his fury raged Seas of their blood his wrath assuaged: So doubtless now he has not planned To slay all warriors in the land.”

Then with a gift the saints drew near To Bhrigu’s son whose look was fear, And Ráma! Ráma! soft they cried. The gift he took, no word replied. Then Bhrigu’s son his silence broke And thus to Ráma Ráma spoke:

Canto LXXV. The Parle.

“Heroic Ráma, men proclaim The marvels of thy matchless fame, And I from loud-voiced rumour know The exploit of the broken bow, Yea, bent and broken, mighty Chief, A feat most wondrous, past belief. Stirred by thy fame thy face I sought: A peerless bow I too have brought. This mighty weapon, strong and dire, Great Jamadagni owned, my sire. Draw with its shaft my father’s bow, And thus thy might, O Ráma, show. This proof of prowess let me see— The weapon bent and drawn by thee; Then single fight our strength shall try, And this shall raise thy glory high.”

King Daśaratha heard with dread The boastful speech, and thus he said; Raising his hands in suppliant guise, With pallid cheek and timid eyes: “Forgetful of the bloody feud Ascetic toils hast thou pursued; Then, Bráhman, let thy children be Untroubled and from danger free. Sprung of the race of Bhrigu, who Read holy lore, to vows most true, Thou swarest to the Thousand-eyed And thy fierce axe was cast aside. Thou turnedst to thy rites away Leaving the earth to Kaśyap’s sway, And wentest far a grove to seek Beneath Mahendra’s(255) mountain peak. Now, mighty Hermit, art thou here To slay us all with doom severe? For if alone my Ráma fall, We share his fate and perish all.”

As thus the aged sire complained The mighty chief no answer deigned. To Ráma only thus he cried: “Two bows, the Heavenly Artist’s pride, Celestial, peerless, vast, and strong, By all the worlds were honoured long. One to the Three-eyed God(256) was given, By glory to the conflict driven, Thus armed fierce Tripura he slew: And then by thee ’twas burst in two. The second bow, which few may brave, The highest Gods to Vishṇu gave. This bow I hold; before it fall The foeman’s fenced tower and wall. Then prayed the Gods the Sire Most High By some unerring proof to try Were praise for might Lord Vishṇu’s due, Or his whose Neck is stained with Blue.(257) The mighty Sire their wishes knew, And he whose lips are ever true Caused the two Gods to meet as foes. Then fierce the rage of battle rose: Bristled in dread each starting hair As Śiva strove with Vishṇu there. But Vishṇu raised his voice amain. And Śiva’s bowstring twanged in vain; Its master of the Three bright Eyes Stood fixt in fury and surprise. Then all the dwellers in the sky, Minstrel, and saint, and God drew nigh, And prayed them that the strife might cease, And the great rivals met in peace. ’Twas seen how Śiva’s bow has failed Unnerved, when Vishṇu’s might assailed, And Gods and heavenly sages thence To Vishnu gave preëminence. Then glorious Śiva in his rage Gave it to Devarát the sage Who ruled Videha’s fertile land, To pass it down from hand to hand. But this my bow, whose shafts smite down The foeman’s fenced tower and town, To great Richíka Vishṇu lent To be a pledge and ornament, Then Jamadagni, Bráhman dread, My sire, the bow inherited. But Arjun stooped to treachery vile And slew my noble sire by guile, Whose penance awful strength had gained, Whose hand the God-given bow retained. I heard indignant how he fell By mournful fate, too sad to tell. My vengeful fury since that time Scourges all Warriors for the crime. As generations spring to life I war them down in endless strife. All earth I brought beneath my sway, And gave it for his meed and pay To holy Kaśyap, when of yore The rites performed by him were o’er. Then to Mahendra’s hill I turned Strong in the strength that penance earned, And toiled upon his lofty head By Gods immortal visited. The breaking of the bow I knew From startled Gods conversing, through The airy regions, of thy deed, And hither came with swiftest speed. Now, for thy Warrior’s honour sake, This best of bows, O Ráma, take: This, owned by Vishṇu’s self of old, My sire and grandsire loved to hold. Drawn to its head upon the string, One town-destroying arrow bring; If this thou can, O hero, I In single fight thy strength will try.”

Canto LXXVI. Debarred From Heaven.

The haughty challenge, undeterred The son of Daśaratha heard, And cried, while reverence for his sire Checked the full torrent of his ire: “Before this day have I been told The deed that stained thy hands of old. But pity bids my soul forget: Thy father, murdered, claimed the debt. My strength, O Chief, thou deemest slight, Too feeble for a Warrior’s might. Now will I show thy wondering eyes The prowess which they dare despise.”

He hastened then with graceful ease That mighty bow and shaft to seize. His hand the weapon strung and swayed: The arrow on the string was laid. Then Jamadagni’s son he eyed, And thus in words of fury cried: “Thou art a Bráhman, still to be Most highly honoured, Chief, by me. For Viśvámitra’s sake beside Shall reverence due be ne’er denied. Though mine the power, I would not send A dart at thee thy life to end. But thy great power to wander free, Which penance-rites have won for thee, Or glorious worlds from thee to wrest, Is the firm purpose of my breast, And Vishṇu’s dart which now I strain Can ne’er be shot to fall in vain: It strikes the mighty, and it stuns The madness of the haughty ones.”

Then Gods, and saints and heavenly choir Preceded by the General Sire, Met in the air and gazed below On Ráma with that wondrous bow. Nymph, minstrel, angel, all were there, Snake-God, and spirit of the air, Giant, and bard, and gryphon, met, Their eyes upon the marvel set. In senseless hush the world was chained While Ráma’s hand the bow retained, And Jamadagni’s son amazed And powerless on the hero gazed. Then when his swelling heart had shrunk, And his proud strength in torpor sunk, Scarce his voice ventured, low and weak, To Ráma lotus-eyed, to speak: “When long ago I gave away The whole broad land to Kaśyap’s sway He charged me never to remain Within the limits of his reign. Obedient to my guide’s behest On earth by night I never rest. My choice is made, I will not dim Mine honour and be false to him. So, son of Raghu, leave me still The power to wander where I will, And swifter than the thought my flight Shall place me on Mahendra’s height. My mansions of eternal joy, By penance won, thou mayst destroy, My path to these thy shaft may stay. Now to the work! No more delay! I know thee Lord of Gods; I know Thy changeless might laid Madhu low. All other hands would surely fail To bend this bow. All hail! all hail! See! all the Gods have left the skies To bend on thee their eager eyes, With whose achievements none compete, Whose arm in war no God can meet. No shame is mine, I ween, for thou, Lord of the Worlds, hast dimmed my brow. Now, pious Ráma, ’tis thy part To shoot afar that glorious dart: I, when the fatal shaft is shot, Will seek that hill and tarry not.”

He ceased. The wondrous arrow flew, And Jamadagni’s offspring knew Those glorious worlds to him were barred, Once gained by penance long and hard. Then straight the airy quarters cleared, And the mid regions bright appeared, While Gods and saints unnumbered praised Ráma, the mighty bow who raised. And Jamadagni’s son, o’erawed. Extolled his name with highest laud, With reverent steps around him strode, Then hastened on his airy road. Far from the sight of all he fled, And rested on Mahendra’s head.

Canto LXXVII. Bharat’s Departure.

Then Ráma with a cheerful mind The bow to Varuṇ’s hand resigned. Due reverence to the saints he paid, And thus addressed his sire dismayed: “As Bhrigu’s son is far from view, Now let the host its march pursue, And to Ayodhyá’s town proceed In four-fold bands, with thee to lead.”

King Daśaratha thus addressed His lips to Ráma’s forehead pressed, And held him to his aged breast. Rejoiced in sooth was he to know That Bhrigu’s son had parted so, And hailed a second life begun For him and his victorious son. He urged the host to speed renewed, And soon Ayodhyá’s gates he viewed. High o’er the roofs gay pennons played; Tabour and drum loud music made; Fresh water cooled the royal road, And flowers in bright profusion glowed. Glad crowds with garlands thronged the ways Rejoicing on their king to gaze And all the town was bright and gay Exalting in the festive day. People and Bráhmans flocked to meet Their monarch ere he gained the street. The glorious king amid the throng Rode with his glorious sons along, And passed within his dear abode That like Himálaya’s mountain showed. And there Kauśalyá, noble queen, Sumitrá with her lovely mien, Kaikeyí of the dainty waist, And other dames his bowers who graced, Stood in the palace side by side And welcomed home each youthful bride: Fair Sítá, lofty-fated dame, Urmilá of the glorious fame, And Kuśadhwaj’s children fair, With joyous greeting and with prayer, As all in linen robes arrayed With offerings at the altars prayed. Due reverence paid to God above, Each princess gave her soul to love, And hidden in her inmost bower Passed with her lord each blissful hour. The royal youths, of spirit high, With whom in valor none could vie, Lived each within his palace bounds Bright as Kuvera’s pleasure-grounds, With riches, troops of faithful friends, And bliss that wedded life attends: Brave princes trained in warlike skill, And duteous to their father’s will. At length the monarch called one morn Prince Bharat, of Kaikeyí born, And cried: “My son, within our gates Lord Yudhájit thine uncle waits. The son of Kekaya’s king is he, And came, my child, to summon thee.”

Then Bharat for the road prepared, And with Śatrughna forth he fared. First to his sire he bade adieu, Brave Ráma, and his mothers too. Lord Yudhájit with joyful pride Went forth, the brothers by his side, And reached the city where he dwelt: And mighty joy his father felt.

Ráma and Lakshmaṇ honoured still Their godlike sire with duteous will. Two constant guides for Ráma stood, His father’s wish, the people’s good. Attentive to the general weal He thought and wrought to please and heal. His mothers too he strove to please With love and sonly courtesies. At every time, in every spot, His holy guides he ne’er forgot. So for his virtues kind and true Dearer and dearer Ráma grew To Daśaratha, Bráhmans, all In town and country, great and small. And Ráma by his darling’s side Saw many a blissful season glide, Lodged in her soul, each thought on her, Lover, and friend, and worshipper. He loved her for his father’s voice Had given her and approved the choice: He loved her for each charm she wore And her sweet virtues more and more. So he her lord and second life Dwelt in the bosom of his wife, In double form, that, e’en apart, Each heart could commune free with heart.

Still grew that child of Janak’s race, More goddess-fair in form and face, The loveliest wife that e’er was seen, In mortal mould sweet Beauty’s Queen. Then shone the son Kauśalyá bore, With this bright dame allied, Like Vishṇu whom the Gods adore, With Lakshmi by his side.

BOOK II.

Canto I. The Heir Apparent.

So Bharat to his grandsire went Obedient to the message sent, And for his fond companion chose Śatrughna slayer of his foes.(258) There Bharat for a time remained With love and honour entertained, King Aśvapati’s constant care, Beloved as a son and heir. Yet ever, as they lived at ease, While all around combined to please, The aged sire they left behind Was present to each hero’s mind. Nor could the king’s fond memory stray From his brave children far away, Dear Bharat and Śatrughna dear, Each Varuṇ’s match or Indra’s peer.

To all the princes, young and brave, His soul with fond affection clave; Around his loving heart they clung Like arms from his own body sprung.(259) But best and noblest of the four, Good as the God whom all adore, Lord of all virtues, undefiled, His darling was his eldest child. For he was beautiful and strong, From envy free, the foe of wrong, With all his father’s virtues blest, And peerless in the world confessed. With placid soul he softly spoke: No harsh reply could taunts provoke. He ever loved the good and sage Revered for virtue and for age, And when his martial tasks were o’er Sate listening to their peaceful lore. Wise, modest, pure, he honoured eld, His lips from lying tales withheld; Due reverence to the Bráhmans gave, And ruled each passion like a slave. Most tender, prompt at duty’s call, Loved by all men he loved them all. Proud of the duties of his race, With spirit meet for Warrior’s place. He strove to win by glorious deed, Throned with the Gods, a priceless meed. With him in speech and quick reply Vrihaspati might hardly vie, But never would his accents flow For evil or for empty show. In art and science duly trained, His student vow he well maintained; He learnt the lore for princes fit, The Vedas and their Holy Writ, And with his well-drawn bow at last His mighty father’s fame surpassed. Of birth exalted, truthful, just, With vigorous hand, with noble trust, Well taught by aged twice-born men Who gain and right could clearly ken, Full well the claims and bounds he knew Of duty, gain, and pleasure too: Of memory keen, of ready tact, In civil business prompt to act. Reserved, his features ne’er disclosed What counsel in his heart reposed. All idle rage and mirth controlled, He knew the times to give and hold, Firm in his faith, of steadfast will, He sought no wrong, he spoke no ill: Not rashly swift, not idly slow, His faults and others’ keen to know. Each merit, by his subtle sense; He matched with proper recompense. He knew the means that wealth provide, And with keen eye expense could guide. Wild elephants could he reclaim, And mettled steeds could mount and tame. No arm like his the bow could wield, Or drive the chariot to the field. Skilled to attack, to deal the blow, Or lead a host against the foe: Yea, e’en infuriate Gods would fear To meet his arm in full career. As the great sun in noontide blaze Is glorious with his world of rays, So Ráma with these virtues shone Which all men loved to gaze upon.