Part 12

“Canst thou, my brother, Indra’s peer, When I thy minister am near, Thus grieve like some forsaken thing, Thou, every creature’s lord and king? My vengeful shaft the fiend shall slay, And earth shall drink his blood to-day. The fury which my soul at first Upon usurping Bharat nursed, On this Virádha will I wreak As Indra splits the mountain peak. Winged by this arm’s impetuous might My shaft with deadly force The monster in the chest shall smite, And fell his shattered corse.”

Canto III. Virádha Attacked.

Virádha with a fearful shout That echoed through the wood, cried out:

“What men are ye, I bid you say, And whither would ye bend your way?”

To him whose mouth shot fiery flame The hero told his race and name: “Two Warriors, nobly bred, are we, And through this wood we wander free. But who art thou, how born and styled, Who roamest here in Daṇḍak’s wild?”

To Ráma, bravest of the brave, His answer thus Virádha gave: “Hear, Raghu’s son, and mark me well, And I my name and race will tell. Of Śatahradá born, I spring From Java as my sire, O King: Me, of this lofty lineage, all Giants on earth Virádha call. The rites austere I long maintained From Brahmá’s grace the boon have gained To bear a charmed frame which ne’er Weapon or shaft may pierce or tear. Go as ye came, untouched by fear, And leave with me this woman here: Go, swiftly from my presence fly, Or by this hand ye both shall die.”

Then Ráma with his fierce eyes red With fury to the giant said: “Woe to thee, sinner, fond and weak, Who madly thus thy death wilt seek! Stand, for it waits thee in the fray: With life thou ne’er shalt flee away.”

He spoke, and raised the cord whereon A pointed arrow flashed and shone, Then, wild with anger, from his bow, He launched the weapon on the foe. Seven times the fatal cord he drew, And forth seven rapid arrows flew, Shafts winged with gold that left the wind And e’en Suparṇa’s(406) self behind. Full on the giant’s breast they smote, And purpled like the peacock’s throat, Passed through his mighty bulk and came To earth again like flakes of flame. The fiend the Maithil dame unclasped; In his fierce hand his spear he grasped, And wild with rage, pierced through and through, At Ráma and his brother flew. So loud the roar which chilled with fear, So massy was the monster’s spear, He seemed, like Indra’s flagstaff, dread As the dark God who rules the dead. On huge Virádha fierce as He(407) Who smites, and worlds have ceased to be, The princely brothers poured amain Their fiery flood of arrowy rain. Unmoved he stood, and opening wide His dire mouth laughed unterrified, And ever as the monster gaped Those arrows from his jaws escaped. Preserving still his life unharmed, By Brahmá’s saving promise charmed, His mighty spear aloft in air He raised, and rushed upon the pair. From Ráma’s bow two arrows flew And cleft that massive spear in two, Dire as the flaming levin sent From out the cloudy firmament. Cut by the shafts he guided well To earth the giant’s weapon fell: As when from Meru’s summit, riven By fiery bolts, a rock is driven. Then swift his sword each warrior drew, Like a dread serpent black of hue, And gathering fury for the blow Rushed fiercely on the giant foe. Around each prince an arm he cast, And held the dauntless heroes fast: Then, though his gashes gaped and bled, Bearing the twain he turned and fled.

Then Ráma saw the giant’s plan, And to his brother thus began: “O Lakshmaṇ, let Virádha still Hurry us onward as he will, For look, Sumitrá’s son, he goes Along the path we freely chose.”

He spoke: the rover of the night Upraised them with terrific might, Till, to his lofty shoulders swung, Like children to his neck they clung. Then sending far his fearful roar, The princes through the wood he bore,— A wood like some vast cloud to view, Where birds of every plumage flew, And mighty trees o’erarching threw Dark shadows on the ground; Where snakes and silvan creatures made Their dwelling, and the jackal strayed Through tangled brakes around.

Canto IV. Virádha’s Death.

But Sítá viewed with wild affright The heroes hurried from her sight. She tossed her shapely arms on high, And shrieked aloud her bitter cry: “Ah, the dread giant bears away The princely Ráma as his prey, Truthful and pure, and good and great, And Lakshmaṇ shares his brother’s fate. The brindled tiger and the bear My mangled limbs for food will tear. Take me, O best of giants, me, And leave the sons of Raghu free.”

Then, by avenging fury spurred, Her mournful cry the heroes heard, And hastened, for the lady’s sake, The wicked monster’s life to take. Then Lakshmaṇ with resistless stroke The foe’s left arm that held him broke, And Ráma too, as swift to smite, Smashed with his heavy hand the right. With broken arms and tortured frame To earth the fainting giant came, Like a huge cloud, or mighty rock Rent, sundered by the levin’s shock. Then rushed they on, and crushed and beat Their foe with arms and fists and feet, And nerved each mighty limb to pound And bray him on the level ground. Keen arrows and each biting blade Wide rents in breast and side had made; But crushed and torn and mangled, still The monster lived they could not kill. When Ráma saw no arms might slay The fiend who like a mountain lay, The glorious hero, swift to save In danger, thus his counsel gave: “O Prince of men, his charmed life No arms may take in battle strife: Now dig we in this grove a pit His elephantine bulk to fit, And let the hollowed earth enfold The monster of gigantic mould.”

This said, the son of Raghu pressed His foot upon the giant’s breast. With joy the prostrate monster heard Victorious Ráma’s welcome word, And straight Kakutstha’s son, the best Of men, in words like these addressed: “I yield, O chieftain, overthrown By might that vies with Indra’s own. Till now my folly-blinded eyes Thee, hero, failed to recognize. Happy Kauśalyá! blest to be The mother of a son like thee! I know thee well, O chieftain, now: Ráma, the prince of men, art thou. There stands the high-born Maithil dame, There Lakshmaṇ, lord of mighty fame. My name was Tumburu,(408) for song Renowned among the minstrel throng: Cursed by Kuvera’s stern decree I wear the hideous shape you see. But when I sued, his grace to crave, The glorious God this answer gave: “When Ráma, Daśaratha’s son, Destroys thee and the fight is won, Thy proper shape once more assume, And heaven again shall give thee room.” When thus the angry God replied, No prayers could turn his wrath aside, And thus on me his fury fell For loving Rambhá’s(409) charms too well. Now through thy favour am I freed From the stern fate the God decreed, And saved, O tamer of the foe, By thee, to heaven again shall go. A league, O Prince, beyond this spot Stands holy Śarabhanga’s cot: The very sun is not more bright Than that most glorious anchorite: To him, O Ráma, quickly turn, And blessings from the hermit earn. First under earth my body throw, Then on thy way rejoicing go. Such is the law ordained of old For giants when their days are told: Their bodies laid in earth, they rise To homes eternal in the skies.”

Thus, by the rankling dart oppressed, Kakutstha’s offspring he addressed: In earth his mighty body lay, His spirit fled to heaven away.

Thus spake Virádha ere he died; And Ráma to his brother cried: “Now dig we in this grove a pit His elephantine bulk to fit. And let the hollowed earth enfold This mighty giant fierce and bold.”

This said, the valiant hero put Upon the giant’s neck his foot. His spade obedient Lakshmaṇ plied, And dug a pit both deep and wide By lofty souled Virádha’s side. Then Raghu’s son his foot withdrew, And down the mighty form they threw; One awful shout of joy he gave And sank into the open grave. The heroes, to their purpose true, In fight the cruel demon slew, And radiant with delight Deep in the hollowed earth they cast The monster roaring to the last, In their resistless might. Thus when they saw the warrior’s steel No life-destroying blow might deal, The pair, for lore renowned, Deep in the pit their hands had made The unresisting giant laid, And killed him neath the ground. Upon himself the monster brought From Ráma’s hand the death he sought With strong desire to gain: And thus the rover of the night Told Ráma, as they strove in fight, That swords might rend and arrows smite Upon his breast in vain. Thus Ráma, when his speech he heard, The giant’s mighty form interred, Which mortal arms defied. With thundering crash the giant fell, And rock and cave and forest dell With echoing roar replied. The princes, when their task was done And freedom from the peril won, Rejoiced to see him die. Then in the boundless wood they strayed, Like the great sun and moon displayed Triumphant in the sky.(410)

Canto V. Sarabhanga.

Then Ráma, having slain in fight Virádha of terrific might, With gentle words his spouse consoled, And clasped her in his loving hold. Then to his brother nobly brave The valiant prince his counsel gave: “Wild are these woods around us spread; And hard and rough the ground to tread: We, O my brother, ne’er have viewed So dark and drear a solitude: To Śarabhanga let us haste, Whom wealth of holy works has graced.”

Thus Ráma spoke, and took the road To Śarabhanga’s pure abode. But near that saint whose lustre vied With Gods, by penance purified, With startled eyes the prince beheld A wondrous sight unparalleled. In splendour like the fire and sun He saw a great and glorious one. Upon a noble car he rode, And many a God behind him glowed: And earth beneath his feet unpressed(411) The monarch of the skies confessed. Ablaze with gems, no dust might dim The bright attire that covered him. Arrayed like him, on every side High saints their master glorified. Near, borne in air, appeared in view His car which tawny coursers drew, Like silver cloud, the moon, or sun Ere yet the day is well begun. Wreathed with gay garlands, o’er his head A pure white canopy was spread, And lovely nymphs stood nigh to hold Fair chouris with their sticks of gold, Which, waving in each gentle hand, The forehead of their monarch fanned. God, saint, and bard, a radiant ring, Sang glory to their heavenly King: Forth into joyful lauds they burst As Indra with the sage conversed. Then Ráma, when his wondering eyes Beheld the monarch of the skies, To Lakshmaṇ quickly called, and showed The car wherein Lord Indra rode: “See, brother, see that air-borne car, Whose wondrous glory shines afar: Wherefrom so bright a lustre streams That like a falling sun it seems: These are the steeds whose fame we know, Of heavenly race through heaven they go: These are the steeds who bear the yoke Of Śakra,(412) Him whom all invoke. Behold these youths, a glorious band, Toward every wind a hundred stand: A sword in each right hand is borne, And rings of gold their arms adorn. What might in every broad deep chest And club-like arm is manifest! Clothed in attire of crimson hue They show like tigers fierce to view. Great chains of gold each warder deck, Gleaming like fire beneath his neck. The age of each fair youth appears Some score and five of human years: The ever-blooming prime which they Who live in heaven retain for aye: Such mien these lordly beings wear, Heroic youths, most bright and fair. Now, brother, in this spot, I pray, With the Videhan lady stay, Till I have certain knowledge who This being is, so bright to view.”

He spoke, and turning from the spot Sought Śarabhanga’s hermit cot. But when the lord of Śachí(413) saw The son of Raghu near him draw, He hastened of the sage to take His leave, and to his followers spake:

“See, Ráma bends his steps this way, But ere he yet a word can say, Come, fly to our celestial sphere; It is not meet he see me here. Soon victor and triumphant he In fitter time shall look on me. Before him still a great emprise, A task too hard for others, lies.”

Then with all marks of honour high The Thunderer bade the saint good-bye, And in his car which coursers drew Away to heaven the conqueror flew. Then Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and the dame, To Śarabhanga nearer came, Who sat beside the holy flame. Before the ancient sage they bent, And clasped his feet most reverent; Then at his invitation found A seat beside him on the ground. Then Ráma prayed the sage would deign Lord Indra’s visit to explain; And thus at length the holy man In answer to his prayer began:

“This Lord of boons has sought me here To waft me hence to Brahmá’s sphere, Won by my penance long and stern,— A home the lawless ne’er can earn. But when I knew that thou wast nigh, To Brahmá’s world I could not fly Until these longing eyes were blest With seeing thee, mine honoured guest. Since thou, O Prince, hast cheered my sight, Great-hearted lover of the right, To heavenly spheres will I repair And bliss supreme that waits me there. For I have won, dear Prince, my way To those fair worlds which ne’er decay, Celestial seat of Brahmá’s reign: Be thine, with me, those worlds to gain.”

Then master of all sacred lore, Spake Ráma to the saint once more:

“I, even I, illustrious sage, Will make those worlds mine heritage: But now, I pray, some home assign Within this holy grove of thine.”

Thus Ráma, Indra’s peer in might, Addressed the aged anchorite: And he, with wisdom well endued, To Raghu’s son his speech renewed:

“Sutíkshṇa’s woodland home is near, A glorious saint of life austere, True to the path of duty; he With highest bliss will prosper thee. Against the stream thy course must be Of this fair brook Mandákiní, Whereon light rafts like blossoms glide; Then to his cottage turn aside. There lies thy path: but ere thou go, Look on me, dear one, till I throw Aside this mould that girds me in, As casts the snake his withered skin.”

He spoke, the fire in order laid With holy oil due offerings made, And Śarabhanga, glorious sire, Laid down his body in the fire. Then rose the flame above his head, On skin, blood, flesh, and bones it fed, Till forth, transformed, with radiant hue Of tender youth, he rose anew, Far-shining in his bright attire Came Śarabhanga from the pyre: Above the home of saints, and those Who feed the quenchless flame,(414) he rose: Beyond the seat of Gods he passed, And Brahmá’s sphere was gained at last. The noblest of the twice-born race, For holy works supreme in place, The Mighty Father there beheld Girt round by hosts unparalleled; And Brahmá joying at the sight Welcomed the glorious anchorite.

Canto VI. Ráma’s Promise.

When he his heavenly home had found, The holy men who dwelt around To Ráma flocked, whose martial fame Shone glorious as the kindled flame: Vaikhánasas(415) who love the wild, Pure hermits Bálakhilyas(416) styled, Good Samprakshálas,(417) saints who live On rays which moon and daystar give: Those who with leaves their lives sustain And those who pound with stones their grain: And they who lie in pools, and those Whose corn, save teeth, no winnow knows: Those who for beds the cold earth use, And those who every couch refuse: And those condemned to ceaseless pains, Whose single foot their weight sustains: And those who sleep neath open skies, Whose food the wave or air supplies, And hermits pure who spend their nights On ground prepared for sacred rites; Those who on hills their vigil hold, Or dripping clothes around them fold: The devotees who live for prayer, Or the five fires(418) unflinching bear. On contemplation all intent, With light that heavenly knowledge lent, They came to Ráma, saint and sage, In Śarabhanga’s hermitage. The hermit crowd around him pressed, And thus the virtuous chief addressed: “The lordship of the earth is thine, O Prince of old Ikshváku’s line. Lord of the Gods is Indra, so Thou art our lord and guide below. Thy name, the glory of thy might, Throughout the triple world are bright: Thy filial love so nobly shown, Thy truth and virtue well are known. To thee, O lord, for help we fly, And on thy love of right rely: With kindly patience hear us speak, And grant the boon we humbly seek. That lord of earth were most unjust, Foul traitor to his solemn trust, Who should a sixth of all(419) require, Nor guard his people like a sire. But he who ever watchful strives To guard his subjects’ wealth and lives, Dear as himself or, dearer still, His sons, with earnest heart and will,— That king, O Raghu’s son, secures High fame that endless years endures, And he to Brahmá’s world shall rise, Made glorious in the eternal skies. Whate’er, by duty won, the meed Of saints whom roots and berries feed, One fourth thereof, for tender care Of subjects, is the monarch’s share. These, mostly of the Bráhman race, Who make the wood their dwelling-place, Although a friend in thee they view, Fall friendless neath the giant crew. Come, Ráma, come, and see hard by The holy hermits’ corpses lie, Where many a tangled pathway shows The murderous work of cruel foes. These wicked fiends the hermits kill— Who live on Chitrakúṭa’s hill, And blood of slaughtered saints has dyed Mandákiní and Pampá’s side. No longer can we bear to see The death of saint and devotee Whom through the forest day by day These Rákshasas unpitying slay. To thee, O Prince, we flee, and crave Thy guardian help our lives to save. From these fierce rovers of the night Defend each stricken anchorite. Throughout the world ’twere vain to seek An arm like thine to aid the weak. O Prince, we pray thee hear our call, And from these fiends preserve us all.”

The son of Raghu heard the plaint Of penance-loving sage and saint, And the good prince his speech renewed To all the hermit multitude:

“To me, O saints, ye need not sue: I wait the hests of all of you. I by mine own occasion led This mighty forest needs must tread, And while I keep my sire’s decree Your lives from threatening foes will free. I hither came of free accord To lend the aid by you implored, And richest meed my toil shall pay, While here in forest shades I stay. I long in battle strife to close. And slay these fiends, the hermits’ foes, That saint and sage may learn aright My prowess and my brother’s might.”

Thus to the saints his promise gave That prince who still to virtue clave With never-wandering thought: And then with Lakshmaṇ by his side, With penance-wealthy men to guide, Sutíkshṇa’s home he sought.

Canto VII. Sutíkshna.

So Raghu’s son, his foemen’s dread, With Sítá and his brother sped, Girt round by many a twice-born sage, To good Sutíkshṇa’s hermitage.(420) Through woods for many a league he passed, O’er rushing rivers full and fast, Until a mountain fair and bright As lofty Meru rose in sight. Within its belt of varied wood Ikshváku’s sons and Sítá stood, Where trees of every foliage bore Blossom and fruit in endless store. There coats of bark, like garlands strung, Before a lonely cottage hung, And there a hermit, dust-besmeared, A lotus on his breast, appeared. Then Ráma with obeisance due Addressed the sage, as near he drew: “My name is Ráma, lord; I seek Thy presence, saint, with thee to speak. O sage, whose merits ne’er decay, Some word unto thy servant say.”

The sage his eyes on Ráma bent, Of virtue’s friends preëminent; Then words like these he spoke, and pressed The son of Raghu to his breast: “Welcome to thee, illustrious youth, Best champion of the rights of truth! By thine approach this holy ground A worthy lord this day has found. I could not quit this mortal frame Till thou shouldst come, O dear to fame: To heavenly spheres I would not rise, Expecting thee with eager eyes. I knew that thou, unkinged, hadst made Thy home in Chitrakúṭa’s shade. E’en now, O Ráma, Indra, lord Supreme by all the Gods adored, King of the Hundred Offerings,(421) said, When he my dwelling visited, That the good works that I have done My choice of all the worlds have won. Accept this meed of holy vows, And with thy brother and thy spouse, Roam, through my favour, in the sky Which saints celestial glorify.”

To that bright sage, of penance stern, The high-souled Ráma spake in turn, As Vásava(422) who rules the skies To Brahmá’s gracious speech replies: “I of myself those worlds will win, O mighty hermit pure from sin: But now, O saint, I pray thee tell Where I within this wood may dwell: For I by Śarabhanga old, The son of Gautama, was told That thou in every lore art wise, And seest all with loving eyes.”

Thus to the saint, whose glories high Filled all the world, he made reply: And thus again the holy man His pleasant speech with joy began: “This calm retreat, O Prince, is blest With many a charm: here take thy rest. Here roots and kindly fruits abound, And hermits love the holy ground. Fair silvan beasts and gentle deer In herds unnumbered wander here: And as they roam, secure from harm, Our eyes with grace and beauty charm: Except the beasts in thickets bred, This grove of ours has naught to dread.”

The hermit’s speech when Ráma heard,— The hero ne’er by terror stirred,— On his great bow his hand he laid, And thus in turn his answer made: “O saint, my darts of keenest steel, Armed with their murderous barbs, would deal Destruction mid the silvan race That flocks around thy dwelling-place. Most wretched then my fate would be For such dishonour shown to thee: And only for the briefest stay Would I within this grove delay.”

He spoke and ceased. With pious care He turned him to his evening prayer, Performed each customary rite, And sought his lodging for the night, With Sítá and his brother laid Beneath the grove’s delightful shade, First good Sutíkshṇa, as elsewhere, when he saw The shades of night around them draw, With hospitable care The princely chieftains entertained With store of choicest food ordained For holy hermit’s fare.

Canto VIII. The Hermitage.

So Ráma and Sumitrá’s son, When every honour due was done, Slept through the night. When morning broke, The heroes from their rest awoke. Betimes the son of Raghu rose, With gentle Sítá, from repose, And sipped the cool delicious wave Sweet with the scent the lotus gave, Then to the Gods and sacred flame The heroes and the lady came, And bent their heads in honour meet Within the hermit’s pure retreat. When every stain was purged away, They saw the rising Lord of Day: Then to Sutíkshṇa’s side they went, And softly spoke, most reverent:

“Well have we slept, O holy lord, Honoured of thee by all adored: Now leave to journey forth we pray: These hermits urge us on our way. We haste to visit, wandering by, The ascetics’ homes that round you lie, And roaming Daṇḍak’s mighty wood To view each saintly brotherhood, For thy permission now we sue, With these high saints to duty true, By penance taught each sense to tame,— In lustre like the smokeless flame. Ere on our brows the sun can beat With fierce intolerable heat. Like some unworthy lord who wins His power by tyranny and sins, O saint, we fain would part.” The three Bent humbly to the devotee. He raised the princes as they pressed His feet, and strained them to his breast; And then the chief of devotees Bespake them both in words like these: “Go with thy brother, Ráma, go, Pursue thy path untouched by woe: Go with thy faithful Sítá, she Still like a shadow follows thee. Roam Daṇḍak wood observing well The pleasant homes where hermits dwell,— Pure saints whose ordered souls adhere To penance rites and vows austere. There plenteous roots and berries grow, And noble trees their blossoms show, And gentle deer and birds of air In peaceful troops are gathered there. There see the full-blown lotus stud The bosom of the lucid flood, And watch the joyous mallard shake The reeds that fringe the pool and lake. See with delighted eye the rill Leap sparkling from her parent hill, And hear the woods that round thee lie Reëcho to the peacock’s cry. And as I bid thy brother, so, Sumitrá’s child, I bid thee go. Go forth, these varied beauties see, And then once more return to me.”

Thus spake the sage Sutíkshṇa: both The chiefs assented, nothing loth, Round him with circling steps they paced, Then for the road prepared with haste. There Sítá stood, the dame long-eyed, Fair quivers round their waists she tied, And gave each prince his trusty bow, And sword which ne’er a spot might know. Each took his quiver from her hand. And clanging bow and gleaming brand: Then from the hermits’ home the two Went forth each woodland scene to view. Each beauteous in the bloom of age, Dismissed by that illustrious sage, With bow and sword accoutred, hied Away, and Sítá by their side.

Canto IX. Sítá’s Speech.

Blest by the sage, when Raghu’s son His onward journey had begun, Thus in her soft tone Sítá, meek With modest fear, began to speak: “One little slip the great may lead To shame that follows lawless deed: Such shame, my lord, as still must cling To faults from low desire that spring. Three several sins defile the soul, Born of desire that spurns control: First, utterance of a lying word, Then, viler both, the next, and third: The lawless love of other’s wife, The thirst of blood uncaused by strife. The first, O Raghu’s son, in thee None yet has found, none e’er shall see. Love of another’s dame destroys All merit, lost for guilty joys: Ráma, such crime in thee, I ween, Has ne’er been found, shall ne’er be seen: The very thought, my princely lord, Is in thy secret soul abhorred. For thou hast ever been the same Fond lover of thine own dear dame, Content with faithful heart to do Thy father’s will, most just and true: Justice, and faith, and many a grace In thee have found a resting-place. Such virtues, Prince, the good may gain Who empire o’er each sense retain; And well canst thou, with loving view Regarding all, each sense subdue. But for the third, the lust that strives, Insatiate still, for others’ lives,— Fond thirst of blood where hate is none,— This, O my lord, thou wilt not shun. Thou hast but now a promise made, The saints of Daṇḍak wood to aid: And to protect their lives from ill The giants’ blood in tight wilt spill: And from thy promise lasting fame Will glorify the forest’s name. Armed with thy bow and arrows thou Forth with thy brother journeyest now, While as I think how true thou art Fears for thy bliss assail my heart, And all my spirit at the sight Is troubled with a strange affright. I like it not—it seems not good— Thy going thus to Daṇḍak wood: And I, if thou wilt mark me well, The reason of my fear will tell. Thou with thy brother, bow in hand, Beneath those ancient trees wilt stand, And thy keen arrows will not spare Wood-rovers who will meet thee there. For as the fuel food supplies That bids the dormant flame arise, Thus when the warrior grasps his bow He feels his breast with ardour glow. Deep in a holy grove, of yore, Where bird and beast from strife forbore, Śuchi beneath the sheltering boughs, A truthful hermit kept his vows. Then Indra, Śachí’s heavenly lord, Armed like a warrior with a sword, Came to his tranquil home to spoil The hermit of his holy toil, And left the glorious weapon there Entrusted to the hermit’s care, A pledge for him to keep, whose mind To fervent zeal was all resigned. He took the brand: with utmost heed He kept it for the warrior’s need: To keep his trust he fondly strove When roaming in the neighbouring grove: Whene’er for roots and fruit he strayed Still by his side he bore the blade: Still on his sacred charge intent, He took his treasure when he went. As day by day that brand he wore, The hermit, rich in merit’s store From penance rites each thought withdrew, And fierce and wild his spirit grew. With heedless soul he spurned the right, And found in cruel deeds delight. So, living with the sword, he fell, A ruined hermit, down to hell. This tale applies to those who deal Too closely with the warrior’s steel: The steel to warriors is the same As fuel to the smouldering flame. Sincere affection prompts my speech: I honour where I fain would teach. Mayst thou, thus armed with shaft and bow, So dire a longing never know As, when no hatred prompts the fray, These giants of the wood to slay: For he who kills without offence Shall win but little glory thence. The bow the warrior joys to bend Is lent him for a nobler end, That he may save and succour those Who watch in woods when pressed by foes. What, matched with woods, is bow or steel? What, warrior’s arm with hermit’s zeal? We with such might have naught to do: The forest rule should guide us too. But when Ayodhyá hails thee lord, Be then thy warrior life restored: So shall thy sire(423) and mother joy In bliss that naught may e’er destroy. And if, resigning empire, thou Submit thee to the hermit’s vow, The noblest gain from virtue springs, And virtue joy unending brings. All earthly blessings virtue sends: On virtue all the world depends. Those who with vow and fasting tame To due restraint the mind and frame, Win by their labour, nobly wise, The highest virtue for their prize. Pure in the hermit’s grove remain, True to thy duty, free from stain. But the three worlds are open thrown To thee, by whom all things are known. Who gave me power that I should dare His duty to my lord declare? ’Tis woman’s fancy, light as air, That moves my foolish breast. Now with thy brother counsel take, Reflect, thy choice with judgment make, And do what seems the best.”

Canto X. Ráma’s Reply.

The words that Sítá uttered, spurred By truest love, the hero heard: Then he who ne’er from virtue strayed To Janak’s child his answer made: “In thy wise speech, sweet love, I find True impress of thy gentle mind, Well skilled the warrior’s path to trace, Thou pride of Janak’s ancient race. What fitting answer shall I frame To thy good words, my honoured dame? Thou sayst the warrior bears the bow That misery’s tears may cease to flow; And those pure saints who love the shade Of Daṇḍak wood are sore dismayed. They sought me of their own accord, With suppliant prayers my aid implored: They, fed on roots and fruit, who spend Their lives where bosky wilds extend, My timid love, enjoy no rest By these malignant fiends distressed. These make the flesh of man their meat: The helpless saints they kill and eat. The hermits sought my side, the chief Of Bráhman race declared their grief. I heard, and from my lips there fell The words which thou rememberest well: I listened as the hermits cried, And to their prayers I thus replied:

“Your favour, gracious lords, I claim, O’erwhelmed with this enormous shame That Bráhmans, great and pure as you, Who should be sought, to me should sue.” And then before the saintly crowd, “What can I do?” I cried aloud. Then from the trembling hermits broke One long sad cry, and thus they spoke: “Fiends of the wood, who wear at will Each varied shape, afflict us still. To thee in our distress we fly: O help us, Ráma, or we die. When sacred rites of fire are due, When changing moons are full or new, These fiends who bleeding flesh devour Assail us with resistless power. They with their cruel might torment The hermits on their vows intent: We look around for help and see Our surest refuge, Prince, in thee. We, armed with powers of penance, might Destroy the rovers of the night: But loth were we to bring to naught The merit years of toil have bought. Our penance rites are grown too hard, By many a check and trouble barred, But though our saints for food are slain The withering curse we yet restrain. Thus many a weary day distressed By giants who this wood infest, We see at length deliverance, thou With Lakshmaṇ art our guardian now.”

As thus the troubled hermits prayed, I promised, dame, my ready aid, And now—for truth I hold most dear— Still to my word must I adhere. My love, I might endure to be Deprived of Lakshmaṇ, life, and thee, But ne’er deny my promise, ne’er To Bráhmans break the oath I sware. I must, enforced by high constraint, Protect them all. Each suffering saint In me, unasked, his help had found; Still more in one by promise bound. I know thy words, mine own dear dame, From thy sweet heart’s affection came: I thank thee for thy gentle speech, For those we love are those we teach. ’Tis like thyself, O fair of face, ’Tis worthy of thy noble race: Dearer than life, thy feet are set In righteous paths they ne’er forget.”

Thus to the Maithil monarch’s child, His own dear wife, in accents mild The high-souled hero said: Then to the holy groves which lay Beyond them fair to see, their way The bow-armed chieftain led.

Canto XI. Agastya.

Ráma went foremost of the three, Next Sítá, followed, fair to see, And Lakshmaṇ with his bow in hand Walked hindmost of the little band. As onward through the wood they went, With great delight their eyes were bent On rocky heights beside the way And lofty trees with blossoms gay; And streamlets running fair and fast The royal youths with Sítá passed. They watched the sáras and the drake On islets of the stream and lake, And gazed delighted on the floods Bright with gay birds and lotus buds. They saw in startled herds the roes, The passion-frenzied buffaloes, Wild elephants who fiercely tore The tender trees, and many a boar. A length of woodland way they passed, And when the sun was low at last A lovely stream-fed lake they spied, Two leagues across from side to side. Tall elephants fresh beauty gave To grassy bank and lilied wave, By many a swan and sáras stirred, Mallard, and gay-winged water-bird. From those sweet waters, loud and long, Though none was seen to wake the song, Swelled high the singer’s music blent With each melodious instrument. Ráma and car-borne Lakshmaṇ heard The charming strain, with wonder stirred, Turned on the margent of the lake To Dharmabhrit(424) the sage, and spake:

“Our longing souls, O hermit, burn This music of the lake to learn: We pray thee, noblest sage, explain The cause of the mysterious strain.” He, as the son of Raghu prayed, With swift accord his answer made, And thus the hermit, virtuous-souled, The story of the fair lake told:

“Through every age ’tis known to fame, Panchápsaras(425) its glorious name, By holy Máṇḍakarṇi wrought With power his rites austere had bought. For he, great votarist, intent On strictest rule his stern life spent. Ten thousand years the stream his bed, Ten thousand years on air he fed. Then on the blessed Gods who dwell In heavenly homes great terror fell: They gathered all, by Agni led, And counselled thus disquieted: “The hermit by ascetic pain The seat of one of us would gain.” Thus with their hearts by fear oppressed In full assembly spoke the Blest, And bade five loveliest nymphs, as fair As lightning in the evening air, Armed with their winning wiles, seduce From his stern vows the great recluse. Though lore of earth and heaven he knew, The hermit from his task they drew, And made the great ascetic slave To conquering love, the Gods to save. Each of the heavenly five became, Bound to the sage, his wedded dame; And he, for his beloved’s sake, Formed a fair palace neath the lake. Under the flood the ladies live, To joy and ease their days they give, And lap in bliss the hermit wooed From penance rites to youth renewed. So when the sportive nymphs within Those secret bowers their play begin, You hear the singers’ dulcet tones Blend sweetly with their tinkling zones.”

“How wondrous are these words of thine!” Cried the famed chiefs of Raghu’s line, As thus they heard the sage unfold The marvels of the tale he told.

As Ráma spake, his eyes were bent Upon a hermit settlement With light of heavenly lore endued, With sacred grass and vesture strewed. His wife and brother by his side, Within the holy bounds he hied, And there, with honour entertained By all the saints, a while remained. In time, by due succession led, Each votary’s cot he visited, And then the lord of martial lore, Returned where he had lodged before. Here for the months, content, he stayed, There for a year his visit paid: Here for four months his home would fix, There, as it chanced, for five or six. Here for eight months and there for three The son of Raghu’s stay would be: Here weeks, there fortnights, more or less, He spent in tranquil happiness. As there the hero dwelt at ease Among those holy devotees, In days untroubled o’er his head Ten circling years of pleasure fled. So Raghu’s son in duty trained A while in every cot remained, Then with his dame retraced the road To good Sutíkshṇa’s calm abode. Hailed by the saints with honours due Near to the hermit’s home he drew, And there the tamer of his foes Dwelt for a time in sweet repose. One day within that holy wood By saint Sutíkshṇa Ráma stood, And thus the prince with reverence meek To that high sage began to speak:

“In the wide woodlands that extend Around us, lord most reverend, As frequent voice of rumour tells, Agastya, saintliest hermit, dwells. So vast the wood, I cannot trace The path to reach his dwelling place, Nor, searching unassisted, find That hermit of the thoughtful mind. I with my wife and brother fain Would go, his favour to obtain, Would seek him in his lone retreat And the great saint with reverence greet. This one desire, O Master, long Cherished within my heart, is strong, That I may pay of free accord My duty to that hermit lord.”

As thus the prince whose heart was bent On virtue told his firm intent, The good Sutíkshṇa’s joy rose high, And thus in turn he made reply: “The very thing, O Prince, which thou Hast sought, I wished to urge but now, Bid thee with wife and brother see Agastya, glorious devotee. I count this thing an omen fair That thou shouldst thus thy wish declare, And I, my Prince, will gladly teach The way Agastya’s home to reach. Southward, dear son, direct thy feet Eight leagues beyond this still retreat: Agastya’s hermit brother there Dwells in a home most bright and fair. ’Tis on a knoll of woody ground, With many a branching Pippal(426) crowned: There sweet birds’ voices ne’er are mute, And trees are gay with flower and fruit. There many a lake gleams bright and cool, And lilies deck each pleasant pool, While swan, and crane, and mallard’s wings Are lovely in the water-springs. There for one night, O Ráma, stay, And with the dawn pursue thy way. Still farther, bending southward, by The thicket’s edge the course must lie, And thou wilt see, two leagues from thence Agastya’s lovely residence, Set in the woodland’s fairest spot, All varied foliage decks the cot: There Sítá, Lakshmaṇ thou, at ease May spend sweet hours neath shady trees, For all of noblest growth are found Luxuriant on that bosky ground. If it be still thy firm intent To see that saint preëminent, O mighty counsellor, this day Depart upon thine onward way.”

The hermit spake, and Ráma bent His head, with Lakshmaṇ, reverent, And then with him and Janak’s child Set out to trace the forest wild. He saw dark woods that fringed the road, And distant hills like clouds that showed, And, as the way he followed, met With many a lake and rivulet. So passing on with ease where led The path Sutíkshṇa bade him tread, The hero with exulting breast His brother in these words addressed:

“Here, surely, is the home, in sight, Of that illustrious anchorite: Here great Agastya’s brother leads A life intent on holy deeds. Warned of each guiding mark and sign, I see them all herein combine: I see the branches bending low Beneath the flowers and fruit they show. A soft air from the forest springs, Fresh from the odorous grass, and brings A spicy fragrance as it flees O’er the ripe fruit of Pippal trees. See, here and there around us high Piled up in heaps cleft billets lie, And holy grass is gathered, bright As strips of shining lazulite. Full in the centre of the shade The hermits’ holy fire is laid: I see its smoke the pure heaven streak Dense as a big cloud’s dusky peak. The twice-born men their steps retrace From each sequestered bathing-place, And each his sacred gift has brought Of blossoms which his hands have sought. Of all these signs, dear brother, each Agrees with good Sutíkshṇa’s speech, And doubtless in this holy bound Agastya’s brother will be found. Agastya once, the worlds who viewed With love, a Deathlike fiend subdued, And armed with mighty power, obtained By holy works, this grove ordained To be a refuge and defence From all oppressors’ violence. In days of yore within this place Two brothers fierce of demon race, Vátápi dire and Ilval, dwelt, And slaughter mid the Bráhmans dealt. A Bráhman’s form, the fiend to cloak, Fierce Ilval wore, and Sanskrit spoke, And twice-born sages would invite To solemnize some funeral rite. His brother’s flesh, concealed within A ram’s false shape and borrowed skin,— As men are wont at funeral feasts,— He dressed and fed those gathered priests. The holy men, unweeting ill, Took of the food and ate their fill. Then Ilval with a mighty shout Exclaimed “Vátápi, issue out.” Soon as his brother’s voice he heard, The fiend with ram-like bleating stirred: Rending in pieces every frame, Forth from the dying priests he came. So they who changed their forms at will Thousands of Bráhmans dared to kill,— Fierce fiends who loved each cruel deed, And joyed on bleeding flesh to feed. Agastya, mighty hermit, pressed To funeral banquet like the rest, Obedient to the Gods’ appeal Ate up the monster at a meal. “’Tis done, ’tis done,” fierce Ilval cried, And water for his hands supplied: Then lifting up his voice he spake: “Forth, brother, from thy prison break.” Then him who called the fiend, who long Had wrought the suffering Bráhmans wrong, Thus thoughtful-souled Agastya, best Of hermits, with a smile addressed: “How, Rákshas, is the fiend empowered To issue forth whom I devoured? Thy brother in a ram’s disguise Is gone where Yáma’s kingdom lies.” When from the words Agastya said He knew his brother fiend was dead, His soul on fire with vengeful rage, Rushed the night-rover at the sage. One lightning glance of fury, hot As fire, the glorious hermit shot, As the fiend neared him in his stride, And straight, consumed to dust, he died. In pity for the Bráhmans’ plight Agastya wrought this deed of might: This grove which lakes and fair trees grace In his great brother’s dwelling place.”

As Ráma thus the tale rehearsed, And with Sumitrá’s son conversed, The setting sun his last rays shed, And evening o’er the land was spread. A while the princely brothers stayed And even rites in order paid, Then to the holy grove they drew And hailed the saint with honour due. With courtesy was Ráma met By that illustrious anchoret, And for one night he rested there Regaled with fruit and hermit fare. But when the night had reached its close, And the sun’s glorious circle rose, The son of Raghu left his bed And to the hermit’s brother said: “Well rested in thy hermit cell, I stand, O saint, to bid farewell; For with thy leave I journey hence Thy brother saint to reverence.” “Go, Ráma go,” the sage replied: Then from the cot the chieftain hied. And while the pleasant grove he viewed, The path the hermit showed, pursued. Of every leaf, of changing hue. Plants, trees by hundreds round him grew, With joyous eyes he looked on all, Then Jak,(427) the wild rice, and Sál;(428) He saw the red Hibiscus glow, He saw the flower-tipped creeper throw The glory of her clusters o’er Tall trees that loads of blossom bore. Some, elephants had prostrate laid, In some the monkeys leapt and played, And through the whole wide forest rang The charm of gay birds as they sang. Then Ráma of the lotus eye To Lakshmaṇ turned who followed nigh, And thus the hero youth impressed With Fortune’s favouring signs, addressed:

“How soft the leaves of every tree, How tame each bird and beast we see! Soon the fair home shall we behold Of that great hermit tranquil-souled. The deed the good Agastya wrought High fame throughout the world has bought: I see, I see his calm retreat That balms the pain of weary feet. Where white clouds rise from flames beneath, Where bark-coats lie with many a wreath, Where silvan things, made gentle, throng, And every bird is loud in song. With ruth for suffering creatures filled, A deathlike fiend with might he killed, And gave this southern realm to be A refuge, from oppression free. There stands his home, whose dreaded might Has put the giant crew to flight, Who view with envious eyes afar The peaceful shades they cannot mar. Since that most holy saint has made His dwelling in this lovely shade, Checked by his might the giant brood Have dwelt in peace with souls subdued. And all this southern realm, within Whose bounds no fiend may entrance win, Now bears a name which naught may dim, Made glorious through the worlds by him. When Vindhya, best of hills, would stay The journey of the Lord of Day, Obedient to the saint’s behest He bowed for aye his humbled crest. That hoary hermit, world-renowned For holy deeds, within this ground Has set his pure and blessed home, Where gentle silvan creatures roam. Agastya, whom the worlds revere, Pure saint to whom the good are dear, To us his guests all grace will show, Enriched with blessings ere we go. I to this aim each thought will turn, The favour of the saint to earn, That here in comfort may be spent The last years of our banishment. Here sanctities and high saints stand, Gods, minstrels of the heavenly band; Upon Agastya’s will they wait, And serve him, pure and temperate. The liar’s tongue, the tyrant’s mind Within these bounds no home may find: No cheat, no sinner here can be: So holy and so good is he. Here birds and lords of serpent race, Spirits and Gods who haunt the place, Content with scanty fare remain, As merit’s meed they strive to gain. Made perfect here, the saints supreme, On cars that mock the Day-God’s gleam,— Their mortal bodies cast aside,— Sought heaven transformed and glorified, Here Gods to living things, who win Their favour, pure from cruel sin, Give royal rule and many a good, Immortal life and spirithood. Now, Lakshmaṇ, we are near the place: Do thou precede a little space, And tell the mighty saint that I With Sítá at my side am nigh.”

Canto XII. The Heavenly Bow.

He spoke: the younger prince obeyed: Within the bounds his way he made, And thus addressed, whom first he met, A pupil of the anchoret:

“Brave Ráma, eldest born, who springs, From Daśaratha, hither brings His wife the lady Sítá: he Would fain the holy hermit see. Lakshmaṇ am I—if happy fame E’er to thine ears has brought the name— His younger brother, prompt to do His will, devoted, fond, and true. We, through our royal sire’s decree, To the dread woods were forced to flee. Tell the great Master, I entreat, Our earnest wish our lord to greet.”

He spoke: the hermit rich in store Of fervid zeal and sacred lore, Sought the pure shrine which held the fire, To bear his message to the sire. Soon as he reached the saint most bright In sanctity’s surpassing might, He cried, uplifting reverent hands: “Lord Ráma near thy cottage stands.” Then spoke Agastya’s pupil dear The message for his lord to hear: “Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, chiefs who spring From Daśaratha, glorious king, Thy hermitage e’en now have sought, And lady Sítá with them brought. The tamers of the foe are here To see thee, Master, and revere. ’Tis thine thy further will to say: Deign to command, and we obey.”

When from his pupil’s lips he knew The presence of the princely two, And Sítá born to fortune high. The glorious hermit made reply: “Great joy at last is mine this day That Ráma hither finds his way, For long my soul has yearned to see The prince who comes to visit me. Go forth, go forth, and hither bring The royal three with welcoming: Lead Ráma in and place him near: Why stands he not already here?”

Thus ordered by the hermit, who, Lord of his thought, all duty knew, His reverent hands together laid, The pupil answered and obeyed. Forth from the place with speed he ran, To Lakshmaṇ came and thus began: “Where is he? let not Ráma wait, But speed, the sage to venerate.”

Then with the pupil Lakshmaṇ went Across the hermit settlement, And showed him Ráma where he stood With Janak’s daughter in the wood. The pupil then his message spake Which the kind hermit bade him take; Then led the honoured Ráma thence And brought him in with reverence. As nigh the royal Ráma came With Lakshmaṇ and the Maithil dame, He viewed the herds of gentle deer Roaming the garden free from fear. As through the sacred grove he trod He viewed the seat of many a God, Brahmá and Agni,(429) Sun and Moon, And His who sends each golden boon;(430) Here Vishṇu’s stood, there Bhaga’s(431) shrine, And there Mahendra’s, Lord divine; Here His who formed this earthly frame,(432) His there from whom all beings came.(433) Váyu’s,(434) and His who loves to hold The great noose, Varuṇ(435) mighty-souled: Here was the Vasus’(436) shrine to see, Here that of sacred Gáyatrí,(437) The king of serpents(438) here had place, And he who rules the feathered race.(439) Here Kártikeya,(440) warrior lord, And there was Justice King adored. Then with disciples girt about The mighty saint himself came out: Through fierce devotion bright as flame Before the rest the Master came: And then to Lakshmaṇ, fortune blest, Ráma these hasty words addressed: “Behold, Agastya’s self draws near, The mighty saint, whom all revere: With spirit raised I meet my lord With richest wealth of penance stored.”

The strong-armed hero spake, and ran Forward to meet the sunbright man. Before him, as he came, he bent And clasped his feet most reverent, Then rearing up his stately height Stood suppliant by the anchorite, While Lakshmaṇ’s strength and Sítá’s grace Stood by the pride of Raghu’s race. The sage his arms round Ráma threw And welcomed him with honours due, Asked, was all well, with question sweet, And bade the hero to a seat. With holy oil he fed the flame, He brought the gifts which strangers claim, And kindly waiting on the three With honours due to high degree, He gave with hospitable care A simple hermit’s woodland fare. Then sat the reverend father, first Of hermits, deep in duty versed. And thus to suppliant Ráma, bred In all the lore of virtue, said: “Did the false hermit, Prince, neglect To hail his guest with due respect, He must,—the doom the perjured meet,— His proper flesh hereafter eat. A car-borne king, a lord who sways The earth, and virtue’s law obeys, Worthy of highest honour, thou Hast sought, dear guest, my cottage now.” He spoke: with fruit and hermit fare, With every bloom the branches bare, Agastya graced his honoured guest, And thus with gentle words addressed: “Accept this mighty bow, divine, Whereon red gold and diamonds shine; ’Twas by the Heavenly Artist planned For Vishṇu’s own almighty hand; This God-sent shaft of sunbright hue, Whose deadly flight is ever true, By Lord Mahendra given of yore: This quiver with its endless store. Keen arrows hurtling to their aim Like kindled fires that flash and flame: Accept, in golden sheath encased, This sword with hilt of rich gold graced. Armed with this best of bows Lord Vishṇu slew his demon foes, And mid the dwellers in the skies Won brilliant glory for his prize. The bow, the quivers, shaft, and sword Received from me, O glorious lord: These conquest to thine arm shall bring, As thunder to the thunder’s King.”

The splendid hermit bade him take The noble weapons as he spake, And as the prince accepted each In words like these renewed his speech:

Canto XIII. Agastya’s Counsel.

“O Ráma, great delight I feel, Pleased, Lakshmaṇ, with thy faithful zeal, That you within these shades I see With Sítá come to honour me. But wandering through the rough rude wild Has wearied Janak’s gentle child: With labours of the way oppressed The Maithil lady longs for rest. Young, delicate, and soft, and fair, Such toils as these untrained to bear, Her wifely love the dame has led The forest’s troubled ways to tread. Here, Ráma, see that naught annoy Her easy hours of tranquil joy: A glorious task has she assayed, To follow thee through woodland shade. Since first from Nature’s hand she came, A woman’s mood is still the same, When Fortune smiles, her love to show, And leave her lord in want and woe. No pity then her heart can feel, She arms her soul with warrior’s steel, Swift as the storm or Feathered King, Uncertain as the lightning’s wing. Not so thy spouse: her purer mind Shrinks from the faults of womankind; Like chaste Arundhatí(441) above, A paragon of faithful love. Let these blest shades, dear Ráma, be A home for Lakshmaṇ, her, and thee.”

With raised hands reverently meek He heard the holy hermit speak, And humbly thus addressed the sire Whose glory shone like kindled fire:

“How blest am I, what thanks I owe That our great Master deigns to show His favour, that his heart can be Content with Lakshmaṇ, Sítá, me. Show me, I pray, some spot of ground Where thick trees wave and springs abound, That I may raise my hermit cell And there in tranquil pleasure dwell.”

Then thus replied Agastya, best Of hermits, to the chief’s request: When for a little he had bent His thoughts, upon that prayer intent:

“Beloved son, four leagues away Is Panchavaṭí bright and gay: Thronged with its deer, most fair it looks With berries, fruit, and water-brooks. There build thee with thy brother’s aid A cottage in the quiet shade, And faithful to thy sire’s behest, Obedient to the sentence, rest. For well, O sinless chieftain, well I know thy tale, how all befell: Stern penance and the love I bore Thy royal sire supply the lore. To me long rites and fervid zeal The wish that stirs thy heart reveal, And hence my guest I bade thee be, That this pure grove might shelter thee. So now, thereafter, thus I speak: The shades of Panchavaṭí seek; That tranquil spot is bright and fair, And Sítá will be happy there. Not far remote from here it lies, A grove to charm thy loving eyes, Godávarí’s pure stream is nigh: There Sítá’s days will sweetly fly. Pure, lovely, rich in many a charm, O hero of the mighty arm, ’Tis gay with every plant and fruit, And throngs of gay buds never mute. Thou, true to virtue’s path, hast might To screen each trusting anchorite, And wilt from thy new home defend The hermits who on thee depend. Now yonder, Prince, direct thine eyes Where dense Madhúka(442) woods arise: Pierce their dark shade, and issuing forth Turn to a fig-tree on the north: Then onward up a sloping mead Flanked by a hill the way will lead: There Panchavaṭí, ever gay With ceaseless bloom, thy steps will stay.”

The hermit ceased: the princely two With seemly honours bade adieu: With reverential awe each youth Bowed to the saint whose word was truth, And then, dismissed with Sítá, they To Panchavaṭí took their way. Thus when each royal prince had grasped His warrior’s mighty bow, and clasped His quiver to his side, With watchful eyes along the road The glorious saint Agastya showed, Dauntless in fight the brothers strode, And Sítá with them hied.

Canto XIV. Jatáyus.

Then as the son of Raghu made His way to Panchavaṭí’s shade, A mighty vulture he beheld Of size and strength unparalleled. The princes, when the bird they saw, Approached with reverence and awe, And as his giant form they eyed, “Tell who thou art,” in wonder cried. The bird, as though their hearts to gain, Addressed them thus in gentlest strain; “In me, dear sons, the friend behold Your royal father loved of old.”

He spoke: nor long did Ráma wait His sire’s dear friend to venerate: He bade the bird declare his name And the high race of which he came. When Raghu’s son had spoken, he Declared his name and pedigree, His words prolonging to disclose How all the things that be arose:

“List while I tell, O Raghu’s son, The first-born Fathers, one by one, Great Lords of Life, whence all in earth And all in heaven derive their birth. First Kardam heads the glorious race Where Vikrit holds the second place, With Śesha, Sanśray next in line, And Bahuputra’s might divine. Then Stháṇu and Maríchi came, Atri, and Kratu’s forceful frame. Pulastya followed, next to him Angiras’ name shall ne’er be dim. Prachetas, Pulah next, and then Daksha, Vivasvat praised of men: Aríshṭanemi next, and last Kaśyap in glory unsurpassed. From Daksha,—fame the tale has told—: Three-score bright daughters sprang of old. Of these fair-waisted nymphs the great Lord Kaśyap sought and wedded eight, Aditi, Diti, Kálaká, Támrá, Danú, and Analá, And Krodhavasá swift to ire, And Manu(443) glorious as her sire. Then when the mighty Kaśyap cried Delighted to each tender bride: “Sons shalt thou bear, to rule the three Great worlds, in might resembling me.” Aditi, Diti, and Danú Obeyed his will as consorts true, And Kálaká; but all the rest Refused to hear their lord’s behest. First Aditi conceived, and she, Mother of thirty Gods and three, The Vasus and Ádityas bare, Rudras, and Aśvins, heavenly pair. Of Diti sprang the Daityas: fame Delights to laud their ancient name. In days of yore their empire dread O’er earth and woods and ocean spread. Danú was mother of a child, O hero, Aśvagríva styled, And Narak next and Kálak came Of Kálaká, celestial dame. Of Támrá, too, five daughters bright In deathless glory sprang to light. Ennobling fame still keeps alive The titles of the lovely five: Immortal honour still she claims For Kraunchí, Bhasí, Śyení’s names. And wills not that the world forget Śukí or Dhritaráshtrí yet. Then Kraunchí bare the crane and owl, And Bhásí tribes of water fowl: Vultures and hawks that race through air With storm-fleet pinions Śyení bare. All swans and geese on mere and brook Their birth from Dhritaráshtrí took, And all the river-haunting brood Of ducks, a countless multitude. From Śukí Nalá sprang, who bare Dame Vinatá surpassing fair. From fiery Krodhavaśá, ten Bright daughters sprang, O King of men: Mrigí and Mrigamandá named, Hari and Bhadramadá famed, Śárdúlí, Śvetá fair to see, Mátangí bright, and Surabhí, Surasá marked with each fair sign, And Kadrumá, all maids divine. Mrigí, O Prince without a peer, Was mother of the herds of deer, The bear, the yak, the mountain roe Their birth to Mrigamandá owe; And Bhadramadá joyed to be Mother of fair Irávatí, Who bare Airávat,(444) huge of mould, Mid warders of the earth enrolled, From Harí lordly lions trace, With monkeys of the wild, their race. From the great dame Śárdúlí styled Sprung pards, Lángúrs,(445) and tigers wild. Mátangí, Prince, gave birth to all Mátangas, elephants strong and tall, And Śvetá bore the beasts who stand One at each wind, earth’s warder band.(446) Next Surabhí the Goddess bore Two heavenly maids, O Prince, of yore, Gandharví—dear to fame is she— And her sweet sister Rohiṇí. With kine this daughter filled each mead, And bright Gandharví bore the steed.(447) Surasá bore the serpents:(448) all The snakes Kadrú their mother call. Then Manu, high-souled Kaśyap’s(449) wife, To all the race of men gave life, The Bráhmans first, the Kshatriya caste, Then Vaiśyas, and the Śúdras last. Sprang from her mouth the Bráhman race; Her chest the Kshatriyas’ natal place: The Vaiśyas from her thighs, ’tis said, The Śúdras from her feet were bred. From Analá all trees that hang Their fair fruit-laden branches sprang. The child of beauteous Śukí bore Vinatá, as I taught before: And Surasá and Kadrú were Born of one dame, a noble pair. Kadrú gave birth to countless snakes That roam the earth in woods and brakes. Aruṇ and Garuḍ swift of flight By Vinatá were given to light, And sons of Aruṇ red as morn Sampati first, then I was born, Me then, O tamer of the foe, Jaṭáyus, son of Śyení, know. Thy ready helper will I be, And guard thy house, if thou agree: When thou and Lakshmaṇ urge the chase By Sítá’s side shall be my place.” With courteous thanks for promised aid, The prince, to rapture stirred, Bent low, and due obeisance paid, Embraced the royal bird. He often in the days gone by Had heard his father tell How, linked with him in friendship’s tie, He loved Jaṭáyus well. He hastened to his trusted friend His darling to confide, And through the wood his steps to bend By strong Jaṭáyus’ side. On to the grove, with Lakshmaṇ near, The prince his way pursued To free those pleasant shades from fear And slay the giant brood.

Canto XV. Panchavatí.

Arrived at Panchavaṭí’s shade Where silvan life and serpents strayed, Ráma in words like these addressed Lakshmaṇ of vigour unrepressed:

“Brother, our home is here: behold The grove of which the hermit told: The bowers of Panchavaṭí see Made fair by every blooming tree. Now, brother, bend thine eyes around; With skilful glance survey the ground: Here be some spot selected, best Approved for gentle hermits’ rest, Where thou, the Maithil dame, and I May dwell while seasons sweetly fly. Some pleasant spot be chosen where Pure waters gleam and trees are fair, Some nook where flowers and wood are found And sacred grass and springs abound.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, Sítá standing by, Raised reverent hands, and made reply:

“A hundred years shall flee, and still Will I obey my brother’s will: Select thyself a pleasant spot; Be mine the care to rear the cot.” The glorious chieftain, pleased to hear That loving speech that soothed his ear, Selected with observant care A spot with every charm most fair. He stood within that calm retreat, A shade for hermits’ home most meet, And thus Sumitrá’s son addressed, While his dear hand in his he pressed:

“See, see this smooth and lovely glade Which flowery trees encircling shade: Do thou, beloved Lakshmaṇ rear A pleasant cot to lodge us here. I see beyond that feathery brake The gleaming of a lilied lake, Where flowers in sunlike glory throw Fresh odours from the wave below. Agastya’s words now find we true, He told the charms which here we view: Here are the trees that blossom o’er Godávarí’s most lovely shore. Whose pleasant flood from side to side With swans and geese is beautified, And fair banks crowded with the deer That steal from every covert near. The peacock’s cry is loud and shrill From many a tall and lovely hill, Green-belted by the trees that wave Full blossoms o’er the rock and cave. Like elephants whose huge fronts glow With painted streaks, the mountains show Long lines of gold and silver sheen With copper’s darker hues between. With every tree each hill is graced, Where creepers blossom interlaced. Look where the Sál’s long branches sway, And palms their fanlike leaves display; The date-tree and the Jak are near, And their long stems Tamálas rear. See the tall Mango lift his head, Aśokas all their glory spread, The Ketak her sweet buds unfold, And Champacs hang their cups of gold.(450) The spot is pure and pleasant: here Are multitudes of birds and deer. O Lakshmaṇ, with our father’s friend What happy hours we here shall spend!”

He spoke: the conquering Lakshmaṇ heard, Obedient to his brother’s word. Raised by his toil a cottage stood To shelter Ráma in the wood, Of ample size, with leaves o’erlaid, Of hardened earth the walls were made. The strong bamboos his hands had felled For pillars fair the roof upheld, And rafter, beam, and lath supplied Well interwrought from side to side. Then Śamí(451) boughs he deftly spread Enlaced with knotted cord o’erhead, Well thatched above from ridge to eaves With holy grass, and reed, and leaves. The mighty chief with careful toil Had cleared the ground and smoothed the soil Where now, his loving labour done, Rose a fair home for Raghu’s son. Then when his work was duly wrought, Godávarís sweet stream he sought, Bathed, plucked the lilies, and a store Of fruit and berries homeward bore. Then sacrifice he duly paid, And wooed the Gods their hopes to aid, And then to Ráma proudly showed The cot prepared for his abode. Then Raghu’s son with Sítá gazed Upon the home his hands had raised, And transport thrilled his bosom through His leafy hermitage to view. The glorious son of Raghu round His brother’s neck his arms enwound, And thus began his sweet address Of deep-felt joy and gentleness: “Well pleased am I, dear lord, to see This noble work performed by thee. For this,—sole grace I can bestow,— About thy neck mine arms I throw. So wise art thou, thy breast is filled With grateful thoughts, in duty skilled, Our mighty father, free from stain, In thee, his offspring, lives again.”

Thus spoke the prince, who lent a grace To fortune, pride of Raghu’s race; Then in that spot whose pleasant shade Gave store of fruit, content he stayed. With Lakshmaṇ and his Maithil spouse He spent his day’s neath sheltering boughs, As happy as a God on high Lives in his mansion in the sky.

Canto XVI. Winter.

While there the high-souled hero spent His tranquil hours in sweet content, The glowing autumn passed, and then Came winter so beloved of men.

One morn, to bathe, at break of day To the fair stream he took his way. Behind him, with the Maithil dame Bearing a pitcher Lakshmaṇ came, And as he went the mighty man Thus to his brother chief began:

“The time is come, to thee more dear Than all the months that mark the year: The gracious seasons’ joy and pride, By which the rest are glorified. A robe of hoary rime is spread O’er earth, with corn engarlanded. The streams we loved no longer please, But near the fire we take our ease. Now pious men to God and shade Offer young corn’s fresh sprouted blade, And purge away their sins with rice Bestowed in humble sacrifice. Rich stores of milk delight the swain, And hearts are cheered that longed for gain, Proud kings whose breasts for conquests glow Lead bannered troops to smite the foe. Dark is the north: the Lord of Day To Yáma’s south(452) has turned away: And she—sad widow—shines no more, Reft of the bridal mark(453) she wore. Himálaya’s hill, ordained of old The treasure-house of frost and cold, Scarce conscious of the feebler glow, Is truly now the Lord of Snow. Warmed by the noontide’s genial rays Delightful are the glorious days: But how we shudder at the chill Of evening shadows and the rill! How weak the sun, how cold the breeze! How white the rime on grass and trees! The leaves are sere, the woods have lost Their blossoms killed by nipping frost. Neath open skies we sleep no more: December’s nights with rime are hoar: Their triple watch(454) in length extends With hours the shortened daylight lends. No more the moon’s sun-borrowed rays Are bright, involved in misty haze, As when upon the mirror’s sheen The breath’s obscuring cloud is seen. E’en at the full the faint beams fail To struggle through the darksome veil: Changed like her hue, they want the grace That parts not yet from Sítá’s face. Cold is the western wind, but how Its piercing chill is heightened now, Blowing at early morning twice As furious with its breath of ice! See how the dewy tears they weep The barley, wheat, and woodland steep, Where, as the sun goes up the sky, The curlew and the sáras cry. See where the rice plants scarce uphold Their full ears tinged with paly gold, Bending their ripe heads slowly down Fair as the date tree’s flowery crown. Though now the sun has mounted high Seeking the forehead of the sky, Such mist obscures his struggling beams, No bigger than the moon he seems. Though weak at first, his rays at length Grow pleasant in their noonday strength, And where a while they chance to fall Fling a faint splendour over all. See, o’er the woods where grass is wet With hoary drops that cling there yet, With soft light clothing earth and bough There steals a tender glory now. Yon elephant who longs to drink, Still standing on the river’s brink, Plucks back his trunk in shivering haste From the cold wave he fain would taste. The very fowl that haunt the mere Stand doubtful on the bank, and fear To dip them in the wintry wave As cowards dread to meet the brave. The frost of night, the rime of dawn Bind flowerless trees and glades of lawn: Benumbed in apathetic chill Of icy chains they slumber still. You hear the hidden sáras cry From floods that wrapped in vapour lie, And frosty-shining sands reveal Where the unnoticed rivers steal. The hoary rime of dewy night, And suns that glow with tempered light Lend fresh cool flavours to the rill That sparkles from the topmost hill. The cold has killed the lily’s pride: Leaf, filament, and flower have died: With chilling breath rude winds have blown, The withered stalk is left alone. At this gay time, O noblest chief, The faithful Bharat, worn by grief, Lives in the royal town where he Spends weary hours for love of thee. From titles, honour, kingly sway, From every joy he turns away: Couched on cold earth, his days are passed With scanty fare and hermit’s fast. This moment from his humble bed He lifts, perhaps, his weary head, And girt by many a follower goes To bathe where silver Sarjú flows. How, when the frosty morn is dim, Shall Sarjú be a bath for him Nursed with all love and tender care, So delicate and young and fair. How bright his hue! his brilliant eye With the broad lotus leaf may vie. By fortune stamped for happy fate, His graceful form is tall and straight. In duty skilled, his words are truth: He proudly rules each lust of youth. Though his strong arm smites down the foe, In gentle speech his accents flow. Yet every joy has he resigned And cleaves to thee with heart and mind. Thus by the deeds that he has done A name in heaven has Bharat won, For in his life he follows yet Thy steps, O banished anchoret. Thus faithful Bharat, nobly wise, The proverb of the world belies: “No men, by mothers’ guidance led, The footsteps of their fathers tread.” How could Kaikeyí, blest to be Spouse of the king our sire, and see A son like virtuous Bharat, blot Her glory with so foul a plot!”

Thus in fraternal love he spoke, And from his lips reproaches broke: But Ráma grieved to hear him chide The absent mother, and replied:

“Cease, O beloved, cease to blame Our royal father’s second dame. Still speak of Bharat first in place Of old Ikshváku’s princely race. My heart, so firmly bent but now To dwell in woods and keep my vow, Half melting as I hear thee speak Of Bharat’s love, grows soft and weak, With tender joy I bring to mind His speeches ever sweet and kind. That dear as Amrit took the sense With most enchanting influence. Ah, when shall I, no more to part, Meet Bharat of the mighty heart? When, O my brother, when shall we The good and brave Śatrughna see?” Thus as he poured his fond lament The son of Raghu onward went: They reached the river, and the three Bathed them in fair Godávarí. Libations of the stream they paid To every deity and shade, With hymns of praise, the Sun on high And sinless Gods to glorify. Fresh from the purifying tide Resplendent Ráma came, With Lakshmaṇ ever by his side, And the sweet Maithil dame. So Rudra shines by worlds adored, In glory undefiled, When Nandi(455) stands beside his lord, And King Himálaya’s child.(456)

Canto XVII. Súrpanakhá.

The bathing and the prayer were o’er; He turned him from the grassy shore, And with his brother and his spouse Sought his fair home beneath the boughs. Sítá and Lakshmaṇ by his side, On to his cot the hero hied, And after rites at morning due Within the leafy shade withdrew. Then, honoured by the devotees, As royal Ráma sat at ease, With Sítá near him, o’er his head A canopy of green boughs spread, He shone as shines the Lord of Night By Chitrá’s(457) side, his dear delight. With Lakshmaṇ there he sat and told Sweet stories of the days of old, And as the pleasant time he spent With heart upon each tale intent, A giantess, by fancy led, Came wandering to his leafy shed. Fierce Śúrpaṇakhá,—her of yore The Ten-necked tyrant’s mother bore,— Saw Ráma with his noble mien Bright as the Gods in heaven are seen; Him from whose brow a glory gleamed, Like lotus leaves his full eyes beamed: Long-armed, of elephantine gait, With hair close coiled in hermit plait: In youthful vigour, nobly framed, By glorious marks a king proclaimed: Like some bright lotus lustrous-hued, With young Kandarpa’s(458) grace endued: As there like Indra’s self he shone, She loved the youth she gazed upon. She grim of eye and foul of face Loved his sweet glance and forehead’s grace: She of unlovely figure, him Of stately form and shapely limb: She whose dim locks disordered hung, Him whose bright hair on high brows clung: She whose fierce accents counselled fear, Him whose soft tones were sweet to hear: She whose dire form with age was dried, Him radiant in his youthful pride: She whose false lips maintained the wrong, Him in the words of virtue strong: She cruel-hearted, stained with sin, Him just in deed and pure within. She, hideous fiend, a thing to hate, Him formed each eye to captivate: Fierce passion in her bosom woke, And thus to Raghu’s son she spoke:

“With matted hair above thy brows, With bow and shaft and this thy spouse, How hast thou sought in hermit dress The giant-haunted wilderness? What dost thou here? The cause explain: Why art thou come, and what to gain?” As Śúrpaṇakhá questioned so, Ráma, the terror of the foe, In answer to the monster’s call, With fearless candour told her all. “King Daśaratha reigned of old, Like Gods celestial brave and bold. I am his eldest son and heir, And Ráma is the name I bear. This brother, Lakshmaṇ, younger born, Most faithful love to me has sworn. My wife, this princess, dear to fame, Is Sitá the Videhan dame. Obedient to my sire’s behest And by the queen my mother pressed, To keep the law and merit win, I sought this wood to harbour in. But speak, for I of thee in turn Thy name, and race, and sire would learn. Thou art of giant race, I ween. Changing at will thy form and mien. Speak truly, and the cause declare That bids thee to these shades repair.”

Thus Ráma spoke: the demon heard, And thus replied by passion spurred: “Of giant race, what form soe’er My fancy wills, ’tis mine to wear. Named Śúrpaṇakhá here I stray, And where I walk spread wild dismay. King Rávaṇ is my brother: fame Has taught perchance his dreaded name, Strong Kumbhakarṇa slumbering deep In chains of never-ending sleep: Vibhíshaṇ of the duteous mind, In needs unlike his giant kind: Dúshaṇ and Khara, brave and bold Whose fame by every tongue is told: Their might by mine is far surpassed; But when, O best of men, I cast These fond eyes on thy form, I see My chosen love and lord in thee. Endowed with wondrous might am I: Where’er my fancy leads I fly. The poor misshapen Sítá leave, And me, thy worthier bride receive. Look on my beauty, and prefer A spouse more meet than one like her: I’ll eat that ill-formed woman there: Thy brother too her fate shall share. But come, beloved, thou shalt roam With me through all our woodland home; Each varied grove with me shalt seek, And gaze upon each mountain peak.”

As thus she spoke, the monster gazed With sparkling eyes where passion blazed: Then he, in lore of language learned, This answer eloquent returned:

Canto XVIII. The Mutilation.

On her ensnared in Káma’s net His eyes the royal Ráma set, And thus, her passion to beguile, Addressed her with a gentle smile:

“I have a wife: behold her here, My Sítá ever true and dear: And one like thee will never brook Upon a rival spouse to look. But there my brother Lakshmaṇ stands: Unchained is he by nuptial bands: A youth heroic, loved of all, Gracious and gallant, fair and tall. With winning looks, most nobly bred, Unmatched till now, he longs to wed. Meet to enjoy thy youthful charms, O take him to thy loving arms. Enamoured on his bosom lie, Fair damsel of the radiant eye, As the warm sunlight loves to rest Upon her darling Meru’s breast.”

The hero spoke, the monster heard, While passion still her bosom stirred. Away from Ráma’s side she broke, And thus in turn to Lakshmaṇ spoke: “Come, for thy bride take me who shine In fairest grace that suits with thine. Thou by my side from grove to grove Of Daṇḍak’s wild in bliss shalt rove.”

Then Lakshmaṇ, skilled in soft address, Wooed by the amorous giantess, With art to turn her love aside, To Śúrpaṇakhá thus replied:

“And can so high a dame agree The slave-wife of a slave to be? I, lotus-hued! in good and ill Am bondsman to my brother’s will. Be thou, fair creature radiant-eyed, My honoured brother’s younger bride: With faultless tint and dainty limb, A happy wife, bring joy to him. He from his spouse grown old and grey, Deformed, untrue, will turn away, Her withered charms will gladly leave, And to his fair young darling cleave. For who could be so fond and blind, O loveliest of all female kind, To love another dame and slight Thy beauties rich in all delight?”

Thus Lakshmaṇ praised in scornful jest The long-toothed fiend with loathly breast, Who fondly heard his speech, nor knew His mocking words were aught but true. Again inflamed with love she fled To Ráma, in his leafy shed Where Sítá rested by his side, And to the mighty victor cried:

“What, Ráma, canst thou blindly cling To this old false misshapen thing? Wilt thou refuse the charms of youth For withered breast and grinning tooth! Canst thou this wretched creature prize And look on me with scornful eyes? This aged crone this very hour Before thy face will I devour: Then joyous, from all rivals free. Through Daṇḍak will I stray with thee.”

She spoke, and with a glance of flame Rushed on the fawn-eyed Maithil dame: So would a horrid meteor mar Fair Rohiṇí’s soft beaming star. But as the furious fiend drew near, Like Death’s dire noose which chills with fear, The mighty chief her purpose stayed, And spoke, his brother to upbraid: “Ne’er should we jest with creatures rude, Of savage race and wrathful mood. Think, Lakshmaṇ, think how nearly slain My dear Videhan breathes again. Let not the hideous wretch escape Without a mark to mar her shape. Strike, lord of men, the monstrous fiend, Deformed, and foul, and evil-miened.”

He spoke: then Lakshmaṇ’s wrath rose high, And there before his brother’s eye, He drew that sword which none could stay, And cleft her nose and ears away. Noseless and earless, torn and maimed, With fearful shrieks the fiend exclaimed, And frantic in her wild distress Resought the distant wilderness. Deformed, terrific, huge, and dread, As on she moved, her gashes bled, And groan succeeded groan as loud As roars, ere rain, the thunder cloud. Still on the fearful monster passed, While streams of blood kept falling fast, And with a roar, and arms outspread Within the boundless wood she fled. To Janasthán the monster flew; Fierce Khara there she found, With chieftains of the giant crew In thousands ranged around. Before his awful feet she bent And fell with piercing cries, As when a bolt in swift descent Comes flashing from the skies. There for a while with senses dazed Silent she lay and scared: At length her drooping head she raised, And all the tale declared, How Ráma, Lakshmaṇ, and the dame Had reached that lonely place: Then told her injuries and shame, And showed her bleeding face.

Canto XIX. The Rousing Of Khara.

When Khara saw his sister lie With blood-stained limbs and troubled eye, Wild fury in his bosom woke, And thus the monstrous giant spoke;