As Lakshman still his vigil held
By unaffected love impelled,
Guha, whose heart the sight distressed,
With words like these the prince addressed:
‘Beloved youth, this pleasant bed
Was brought for thee, for thee is spread;
On this, my Prince, thine eyelids close,
And heal fatigue with sweet repose.
My men are all to labour trained,
But hardship thou hast ne’er sustained.
All we this night our watch will keep
And guard Kakutstha’s son asleep,
In all the world there breathes not one
More dear to me than Raghu’s son.
The words I speak, heroic youth.
Are true: I swear it by my truth.
Through his dear grace supreme renown
Will, so I trust, my wishes crown.
So shall my life rich store obtain
Of merit, blest with joy and gain.
While Raghu’s son and Sítá lie
Entranced in happy slumber, I
Will, with my trusty bow in hand,
Guard my dear friend with all my band.
To me, who oft these forests range,
ls naught therein or new or strange.
We could with equal might oppose
A four-fold army led by foes.’
Then royal Lakshman made reply:
‘With thee to stand as guardian nigh,
Whose faithful soul regards the right,
Fearless we well might rest to-night.
But how, when Ráma lays his head
With Sítá on his lowly bed,—
How can I sleep? how can I care
For life, or aught that’s bright and fair?
Behold the conquering chief, whose might
Is match for Gods and fiends in fight;
With Sítá now he rests his bead
Asleep on grass beneath him spread.
Won by devotion, text, and prayer.
And many a rite performed with care.
Chief of our father’s sons he shines
Well marked, like him, with favouring signs.
Brief, brief the monarch’s life will be
Now his dear son is forced to flee;
And quickly will the widowed state
Mourn for her lord disconsolate.
Each mourner there has wept her fill;
The cries of anguish now are still:
In the king’s hall each dame, o’ercome
With wearines of woe is dumb.
This first sad night of grief, I ween,
Will do to death each sorrowing queen:
Scarce is Kaus’alyá left alive;
My mother, too, can scarce survive.
If when her heart is fain to break,
She lingers for S’atrughna’s sake,
Kaus’alyá mother of the chief,
Must sink beneath the chilling grief,
That town which countless thousands fill,
Whose hearts with love of Ráma thrill,—
The world’s delight, so rich and fair,—
Grieved for the king, his death will share.
The hopes he fondly cherished, crossed.
Ayodhyá’s throne to Rama lost,—
With mournful cries. Too late, too late!
The king my sire will meet his fate.
And when my sire has passed away,
Most happy in their lot are they,
Allowed, with every pious care,
Part in his funeral rites to bear.
And O, may we with joy at last,—
These years of forest exile past,—
Turn to Ayodhyá’s town to dwell
With him who keeps his promise well.’
While thus the hero mighty-souled,
In wild lament his sorrow told,
Faint with the load that on him lay,
The hours of darkness passed away.
As thus the prince, impelled by zeal
For his loved brother, prompt to feel
Strong yearnings for the people’s weal,
His words of truth outspake,
King Guha grieved to see his woe.
Heart-stricken, gave his tears to flow,
Tormented by the common blow,
Sad, as a wounded snake.
Soon as the shades of night had fled,
Uprising from his lowly bed,
Ráma the famous, broad of chest,
His brother Lakshman thus addressed:
‘Now swift upsprings the Lord of Light,
And fled, is venerable night,
[ p. 154 ]
That dark-winged bird the Koïl now
Is calling from the topmost bough,
And sounding from the thicket nigh
Is heard the peacock’s early cry,
Come, cross the flood that seeks the sea,
The swiftly flowing Jáhnaví.’ [1]
King Guha heard his speech, agreed,
And called his minister with speed:
‘A boat,’ he cried, 'swift, strong, and fair,
With rudder, oars, and men, prepare,
And place it ready by the shore
To bear the pilgrims quickly o’er.’
Thus Guha spake: his followers all
Bestirred them at their master’s call;
Then told the king that ready manned
A gay boat waited near the strand.
Then Guha, hand to hand applied.
With reverence thus to Ráma cried:
‘The boat is ready by the shore:
How, tell me, can I aid thee more?
O lord of men, it waits for thee
To cross the flood that seeks the sea,
O godlike keeper of thy vow,
Embark: the boat is ready now.’
Then Ráma, lord of glory high,
Thus to King Guha. made reply:
‘Thanks for thy gracious care, my lord:
Now let the gear be placed on board.’
Each bow-armed chief, in mail encased,
Bound sword and quiver to his waist,
And then with Sítá near them hied
Down the broad river’s shelving side.
Then with raised palms the charioteer,
In lowly reverence drawing near,
Cried thus to Ráma good and true:
‘Now what remains for me to do?’
With his right hand, while answering
The hero touched his friend:
‘Go back,’ he said, ‘and on the king
With watchful care attend.
Thus far, Sumantra, thou wast guide;
Now to Ayodhyá turn,’ he cried:
‘Hence seek we leaving steeds and car,
On foot the wood that stretches far.’
Sumantra, when, with grieving heart,
He heard the hero bid him part,
Thus to the bravest of the brave,
Ikshváku’s son, his answer gave:
‘In all the world men tell of naught,
To match thy deed, by heroes wrought—
Thus with thy brother and thy wife
Thrall-like to lead a forest life.
No meet reward of fruit repays
Thy holy lore, thy saintlike days,
Thy tender soul, thy love of truth,
If woe like this afflicts thy youth.
Thou, roaming under forest boughs
With thy dear brother and thy spouse
Shalt richer meed of glory gain
Than if three worlds confessed thy reign.
Sad is our fate, O Ráma: we,
Abandoned and repelled by thee,
Must serve as thralls Kaikeyí’s will,
Imperious, wicked, born to ill.’
Thus cried the faithful charioteer,
As Raghu’s son, in rede his peer,
Was fast departing on his road,—
And long his tears of anguish flowed.
But Ráma, when those tears were dried
His lips with water purified,
And in soft accents, sweet and clear,
Again addressed the charioteer:
‘I find no heart, my friend, like thine,
So faithful to Ikshváku’s line.
Still first in view this object keep,
That ne’er for me my sire may weep.
For he, the world’s far-ruling king,
Is old, and wild with sorrow’s sting;
With love’s great burthen worn and weak:
Deem this the cause that thus I speak
Whate’er the high-souled king decrees
His loved Kaikeyí’s heart to please,
Yea, be his order what it may,
Without demur thou must obey,
For this alone great monarchs reign,
That ne’er a wish be formed in vain.
Then, O Sumantra, well provide
That by no check the king be tried:
Nor let his heart in sorrow pine:
This care, my faithful friend, be thine
The honoured king my father greet,
And thus for me my words repeat
To him whose senses are controlled,
Untired till now by grief, and old;
I, Sítá, Lakshman sorrow not,
O Monarch, for our altered lot:
The same to us, if here we roam,
Or if Ayodhyá be our home,
The fourteen years will quickly fly,
The happy hour will soon be nigh
When thou, my lord, again shalt see
Lakshman, the Maithlí dame, and me.
Thus having soothed, O charioteer,
My father and my mother dear,
Let all the queens my message learn.
But to Kaikeyí chiefly turn,
With loving blessings from the three,
From Lakshman, Sítá, and from me,
My mother, Queen Kausalyá, greet
With reverence to her sacred feet.
And add this prayer of mine: 'O King;
Send quickly forth and Bharat bring,
And set him on the royal throne
Which thy decree has made his own.
When he upon the throne is placed,
When thy fond arms are round him laced.
Thine aged heart will cease to ache
With bitter pangs for Ráma’s sake.’
[ p. 155 ]
And say to Bharat: 'See thou treat
The queens with all observance meet:
What care the king receives, the same
Show thou alike to every dame.
Obedience to thy father’s will
Who chooses thee the throne to fill,
Will earn for thee a store of bliss
Both in the world to come and this.’
Thus Ráma bade Sumantra go
With thoughtful care instructed so.
Sumantra all his message heard,
And spake again, by passion stirred:
‘O, should deep feeling mar in aught
The speech by fond devotion taught,
Forgive whate’er I wildly speak:
My love is strong, my tongue is weak.
How shall I, if deprived of thee,
Return that mournful town to see:
Where sick at heart the people are
Because their Ráma roams afar.
Woe will be theirs too deep to brook
When on the empty car they look,
As when from hosts, whose chiefs are slain,
One charioteer comes home again.
This very day, I ween, is food
Forsworn by all the multitude,
Thinking that thou, with hosts to aid,
Art dwelling in the wild wood’s shade.
The great despair, the shriek of woe
They uttered when they saw thee go.
Will, when I come with none beside,
A hundred-fold be multiplied.
How to Kaus’alyá can I say:
‘O Queen, I took thy son away,
And with thy brother left him well:
Weep not for him; thy woe dispel?’
So false a tale I cannot frame,
Yet how speak truth and grieve the dame?
How shall these horses, fleet and bold,
Whom not a hand but mine can hold,
Bear others, wont to whirl the car
Wherein Ikshváku’s children are!
Without thee, Prince, I cannot, no,
I cannot to Ayodhyá go.
Then deign, O Ráma, to relent,
And let me share thy banishment.
But if no prayers can move thy heart,
If thou wilt quit me and depart,
The flames shall end my car and me,
Deserted thus and reft of thee.
In the wild wood when foes are near,
When dangers check thy vows austere,
Borne in my car will I attend.
All danger and all care to end.
For thy dear sake I love the skill
That guides the steed and curbs his will:
And soon a forest life will be
As pleasant, for my love of thee.
And if these horses near thee dwell,
And serve thee in the forest well,
They, for their service, will not miss
The due reward of highest bliss.
Thine orders, as with thee I stray.
Will I with heart and head obey,
Prepared, for thee, without a sigh,
To lose Ayodhyá or the sky.
As one denied with hideous sin,
I never more can pass within
Ayodhyá, city of our king,
Unless beside me thee I bring.
One wish is mine, I ask no more,
That, when thy banishment is o’er
I in my car may bear my lord,
Triumphant, to his home restored.
The fourteen years, if spent with thee.
Will swift as light-winged moments flee;
But the same years, without thee told,
Were magnified a hundred-fold.
Do not, kind lord, thy servant leave,
Who to his master’s son would cleave,
And the same path with him pursue,
Devoted, tender, just and true.’
Again, again Sumantra made
His varied plaint, and wept and prayed.
Him Raghu’s son, whose tender breast
Felt for his servants, thus addressed:
O faithful servant, well my heart
Knows how attached and true thou art.
Hear thou the words I speak, and know
Why to the town I bid thee go.
Soon as Kaikeyí, youngest queen,
Thy coming to the town has seen,
No doubt will then her mind oppress
That Ráma roams the wilderness.
And so the dame, her heart content
With proof of Ráma’s banishment.
Will doubt the virtuous king no more
As faithless to the oath he swore.
Chief of my cares is this, that she,
Youngest amid the queens, may see
Bharat her son securely reign
O’er rich Ayodhyá’s wide domain.
For mine and for the monarch’s sake
Do thou thy journey homeward take,
And, as I bade, repeat each word
That from my lips thou here hast heard.’
Thus spake the prince, and strove to cheer
The sad heart of the charioteer,
And then to royal Guha said
These words most wise and spirited:
‘Guha, dear friend, it is not meet
That people throng my calm retreat:
For I must live a strict recluse,
And mould my life by hermits’ use.
I now the ancient rule accept
By good ascetics gladly kept.
I go: bring fig-tree juice that I
In matted coils my hair may tie.’
Quick Guha hastened to produce,
For the king’s son, that sacred juice.
Then Ráma of his long locks made,
And Lakshman’s too, the hermit braid.
[ p. 156 ]
And the two royal brothers there
With coats of bark and matted hair,
Transformed in lovely likeness stood
To hermit saints who love the wood.
So Ráma, with his brother bold,
A pious anchorite enrolled,
Obeyed the vow which hermits take,
And to his friend, King Guha, spake:
‘May people, treasure, army share,
And fenced forts, thy constant care:
Attend to all: supremely hard
The sovereign’s task, to watch and guard.’
Ikshváku’s son, the good and brave,
This last farewell to Guha gave,
And then, with Lakshman and his bride,
Determined, on his way he hied.
Soon as he viewed, upon the shore,
The bark prepared to waft them o’er
Impetuous Gangá’s rolling tide,
To Lakshman thus the chieftain cried:
‘Brother, embark; thy hand extend,
Thy gentle aid to Sítá lend:
With care her trembling footsteps guide,
And place the lady by thy side.’
When Lakshman heard, prepared to aid
His brother’s words he swift obeyed.
Within the bark he placed the dame,
Then to her side the hero came.
Next Lakshman’s elder brother, lord
Of brightest glory, when on board,
Breathing a prayer for blessings, meet
For priest or warrior to repeat,
Then he and car-borne Lakshman bent,
Well-pleased, their heads, most reverent,
Their hands, with Sítá, having dipped,
As Scripture bids, and water sipped,
Farewell to wise Sumantra said,
And Guha, with the train he led.
So Ráma took, on board, his stand,
And urged the vessel from the land.
Then swift by vigorous arms impelled
Her onward course the vessel held,
And guided by the helmsman through
The dashing waves of Gangá flew.
Half way across the flood they came,
When Sítá, free from spot and blame,
Her reverent hands together pressed,
The Goddess of the stream addressed:
‘May the great chieftain here who springs
From Das’aratha, best of kings,
Protected by thy care, fulfil
His prudent father’s royal will.
When in the forest he has spent
His fourteen years of banishment,
With his dear brother and with me
His home again my lord shall see,
Returning on that blissful day.
I will to thee mine offerings pay,
Dear Queen, whose waters gently flow,
Who canst all blessed gifts bestow.
For, three-pathed Queen, though wandering here,
Thy waves descend from Brahmá’s sphere,
Spouse of the God o’er floods supreme,
Though rolling here thy glorious stream.
To thee, fair Queen, my head shall bend,
To thee shall hymns of praise ascend,
When my brave lord shall turn again,
And, joyful, o’er his kingdom reign.
To win thy grace, O Queen divine,
A hundred thousand fairest kine,
And precious robes and finest meal
Among the Bráhmans will I deal.
A hundred jars of wine shall flow,
When to my home, O Queen, I go;
With these, and flesh, and corn, and rice,
Will I, delighted, sacrifice.
Each hallowed spot, each holy shrine
That stands on these fair shores of thine,
Each fane and altar on thy banks
Shall share my offerings and thanks.
With me and Lakshman, free from harm,
May he the blameless, strong of arm,
Reseek Ayodhyá from the wild,
O blameless Lady undefiled!’
As, praying for her husband’s sake,
The faultless dame to Gangá spake,
To the right bank the vessel flew
With her whose heart was right and true.
Soon as the bark had crossed the wave,
The lion leader of the brave,
Leaving the vessel on the strand,
With wife and brother leapt to land.
Then Ráma thus the prince addressed
Who filled with joy Sumitrá’s breast:
‘Be thine alike to guard and aid
In peopled spot, in lonely shade.
Do thou, Sumitrá’s son, precede:
Let Sítá walk where thou shalt lead.
Behind you both my place shall be,
To guard the Maithil dame and thee.
For she, to woe a stranger yet,
No toil or grief till now has met;
The fair Videhan will assay
The pains of forest life to-day.
To-day her tender feet must tread
Rough rocky wilds around her spread:
No tilth is there, no gardens grow,
No crowding people come and go.’
The hero ceased: and Lakshman led
Obedient to the words he said:
And Sítá followed him, and then
Came Raghu’s pride, the lord of men.
With Sítá walking o’er the sand
They sought the forest, bow in hand,
But still their lingering glances threw
Where yet Sumantra stood in view.
Sumantra, when his watchful eye
The royal youths no more could spy,
Turned from the spot whereon he stood
Homeward with Guha from the wood.
[ p. 157 ]
Still on the brothers forced their way
Where sweet birds sang on every spray,
Though scarce the eye a path could find
Mid flowering trees where creepers twined
Far on the princely brothers pressed,
And stayed their feet at length to rest
Beneath a fig tree’s mighty shade
With countless pendent shoots displayed.
Reclining there a while at ease,
They saw, not far, beneath fair trees
A lake with many a lotus bright
That bore the name of Lovely Sight.
Ráma his wife’s attention drew,
And Lakshman’s, to the charming view:
‘Look, brother, look how fair the flood
Glows with the lotus, flower and bud.’
They drank the water fresh and clear,
And with their shafts they slew a deer.
A fire of boughs they made in haste,
And in the flame the meat they placed.
So Raghu’s sons with Sítá shared
The hunter’s meal their hands prepared,
Then counselled that the spreading tree
Their shelter and their home should be.
When evening rites were duly paid,
Reclined beneath the leafy shade,
To Lakshman thus spake Ráma, best
Of those who glad a people’s breast:
‘Now the first night has closed the day
That saw us from our country stray,
And parted from the charioteer;
Yet grieve not thou, my brother dear.
Henceforth by night, when others sleep,
Must we our careful vigil keep,
Watching for Sítá’s welfare thus,
For her dear life depends on us.
Bring me the leaves that lie around,
And spread them here upon the ground,
That we on lowly beds may lie,
And let in talk the night go by.’
So on the ground with leaves o’erspread,
He who should press a royal bed,
Ráma with Lakshman thus conversed,
And many a pleasant tale rehearsed:
‘This night the king,’ he cried, 'alas!
In broken sleep will sadly pass.
Kaikeyí now content should be,
For mistress of her wish is she.
So fiercely she for empire yearns,
That when her Bharat home returns,
She in her greed, may even bring
Destruction on our lord the king.
What can he do, in feeble eld,
Reft of all aid and me expelled,
His soul enslaved by love, a thrall
Obedient to Kaikeyí’s call?
As thus I muse upon his woe
And all his wisdoms overthrow,
Love is, methinks, of greater might
To stir the heart than gain and right.
For who, in wisdom’s lore untaught.
Could by a beauty’s prayer be bought
To quit his own obedient son,
Who loves him, as my sire has done!
Bharat, Kaikeyí’s child, alone
Will, with his wife, enjoy the throne,
And blissfully his rule maintain
O’er happy Kos’ala’s domain.
To Bharat’s single lot will fall
The kingdom and the power and all,
When fails the king from length of days,
And Ráma in the forest strays.
Whoe’er, neglecting right and gain,
Lets conquering love his soul enchain,
To him, like Das’aratha’s lot,
Comes woe with feet that tarry not.
Methinks at last the royal dame,
Dear Lakshman, has secured her aim,
To see at once her husband dead,
Her son enthroned, and Ráma fled.
Ah me! I fear, lest borne away
By frenzy of success, she slay
Kaus’alyá, through her wicked hate
Of me, bereft, disconsolate;
Or her who aye for me has striven
Sumitrá, to devotion given.
Hence, Lakshman, to Avodhyá speed,
Returning in the hour of need.
With Sítá I my steps will bend
Where Dandak’s mighty woods extend.
No guardian has Kaus’alyá now:
O, be her friend and guardian thou.
Strong hate may vile Kaikeyí lead
To many a base unrighteous deed,
Treading my mother ‘neath her feet
When Bharat holds the royal seat.
Sure in some antenatal time
Were children, by Kausalyá’s crime.
Torn from their mothers’ arms away,
And hence she mourns this evil day.
She for her child no toil would spare
Tending me long with pain and care;
Now in the hour of fruitage she
Has lost that son, ah, woe is me.
O Lakshman, may no matron e’er
A son so doomed to sorrow bear
As I, my mother’s heart who rend
With anguish that can never end.
The Sáriká, [2] methinks, possessed
More love than glows in Ráma’s breast.
Who, as the tale is told to us.
Addressed the stricken parrot thus:
[ p. 158 ]
‘Parrot, the capturer’s talons tear,
While yet alone thou flutterest there.
Before his mouth has closed on me:’
So cried the bird, herself to free.
Reft of her son, in childless woe,
My mother’s tears for ever flow:
Ill-fated, doomed with grief to strive.
What aid can she from me derive?
Pressed down by care, she cannot rise
From sorrow’s flood wherein she lies.
In righteous wrath my single arm
Could, with my bow, protect from harm
Ayodhyá’s town and all the earth:
But what is hero prowess worth?
Lest breaking duty’s law I sin,
And lose the heaven I strive to win,
The forest life today I choose,
And kingly state and power refuse.’
Thus mourning in that lonely spot
The troubled chief bewailed his lot,
And filled with tears, his eyes ran o’er;
Then silent sat, and spake no more.
To him, when ceased his loud lament,
Like fire whose brilliant might is spent.
Or the great sea when sleeps the wave,
Thus Lakshman consolation gave:
‘Chief of the brave who bear the bow,
E’en now Ayodhyá, sunk in woe,
By thy departure reft of light
Is gloomy as the moonless night.
Unfit it seems that thou, O chief.
Shouldst so afflict thy soul with grief,
So with thou Sítá’s heart consign
To deep despair as well as mine.
Not I, O Raghu’s son, nor she
Could live one hour deprived of thee:
We were, without thine arm to save,
Like fish deserted by the wave.
Although my mother dear to meet,
S’atrughna and the king, were sweet,
On them, or heaven, to feed mine eye
Were nothing, if thou wert not by.’
Sitting at ease, their glances fell
Upon the beds, constructed well.
And there the sons of virtue laid
Their limps beneath the fig tree’s shade.
So there that night the heroes spent
Under the boughs that o’er them bent,
And when the sun his glory spread,
Upstarting, from the place they sped.
On to that spot they made their way,
Through the dense wood that round them lay,
Where Yamuná’s [3] swift waters glide
To blend with Gangá’s holy tide.
Charmed with the prospect ever new
The glorious heroes wandered through
Full many a spot of pleasant ground,
Rejoicing as they gazed around,
With eager eye and heart at ease,
On countless sorts of flowery trees.
And now the day was half-way sped
When thus to Lakshman Ráma said:
‘There, there, dear brother, turn thine eyes;
See near Prayág [4] that smoke arise:
The banner of our Lord of Flames
The dwelling of some saint proclaims.
Near to the place our steps we bend
Where Yamuná and Gangá blend.
I hear and mark the deafening roar
When chafing floods together pour.
See, near us on the ground are left
Dry logs, by labouring woodmen cleft,
And the tall trees, that blossom near
Saint Bharadvája’s home, appear.’
The bow-armed princes onward passed,
And as the sun was sinking fast
They reached the hermit’s dwelling, set
Near where the rushing waters met.
The presence of the warrior scared
The deer and birds as on he fared,
And struck them vith unwonted awe:
Then Bharadvája’s cot they saw.
The high-souled hermit soon they found
Girt by his dear disciples round:
Calm saint, whose vows had well been wrought,
Whose fervent rites keen sight had bought.
Duly had flames of worship blazed
When Ráma on the hermit gazed:
His suppliant hands the hero raised,
Drew nearer to the holy man
With his companions, and began,
Declaring both his name and race
And why they sought that distant place;
‘Saint, Das’aratha’s children we,
Ráma and Lakshman, come to thee.
This my good wife from Janak springs.
The best of fair Videha’s kings;
Through lonely wilds, a faultless dame,
To this pure grove with me she came.
My younger brother follows still
Me banished by my father’s will:
Sumitrá’s son, bound by a vow,—
He roams the wood beside me now.
Sent by my father forth to rove,
We seek, O Saint, some holy grove,
Where lives of hermits we may lead,
And upon fruits and berries feed.’
When Bharadvája, prudent-souled,
Had heard the prince his tale unfold,
Water he bade them bring, a bull,
And honour-gifts in dishes full,
[ p. 159 ]
And drink and food of varied taste,
Berries and roots, before him placed,
And then the great ascetic showed
A cottage for the guests’ abode.
The saint these honours gladly paid
To Ráma who had thither strayed,
Then compassed sat by birds and deer
And many a hermit resting near.
The prince received the service kind,
And sat him down rejoiced in mind.
Then Bharadvája silence broke,
And thus the words of duty spoke:
‘Kakutstha’s royal son, that thou
Hadst sought this grove I knew ere now.
Mine ears have heard thy story, sent
Without a sin to banishment.
Behold, O Prince, this ample space
Near where the mingling floods embrace,
Holy, and beautiful, and clear:
Dwell with us, and be happy here.’
By Bharadvája thus addressed,
Ráma whose kind and tender breast
All living things would bless and save,
In gracious words his answer gave:
‘My honoured lord, this tranquil spot,
Fair home of hermits, suits me not:
For all the neighbouring people here
Will seek us when they know me near:
With eager wish to look on me,
And the Videhan dame to see,
A crowd of rustics will intrude
Upon the holy solitude.
Provide, O gracious lord, I pray,
Some quiet home that lies away,
Where my Videhan spouse may dwell
Tasting the bliss deserved so well.’
The hermit heard the prayer he made:
A while in earnest thought he stayed.
And then in words like these expressed
His answer to the chief’s request:
‘Ten leagues away there stands a hill
Where thou mayvst live, if such thy will:
A holy mount, exceeding fair;
Great saints have made their dwelling there:
There great Langúrs [5] in thousands play,
And bears amid the thickets stray;
Wide-known by Chitrakúta’s name,
It rivals Gandhamádan’s [6] fame.
Long as the man that hill who seeks
Gazes upon its sacred peaks,
To holy things his soul he gives
And pure from thought of evil lives.
There, while a hundred autumns fled,
Has many a saint with hoary head
Spent his pure life, and won the prize,
By deep devotion, in the skies:
Best home, I ween, if such retreat,
Far from the ways of men, be sweet:
Or let thy yewre of exile flee
Here in this hermitage with me.’
Thus Bharadvája spake, and trained
In lore of duty, entertained
The princes and the dame, and pressed
Hie friendly gifts on every guest.
Thus to Prayág the hero went,
Thus saw the saint preeminent,
And varied speeches heard and said:
Then holy night o’er heaven was spread.
And Ráma took, by toil oppressed,
With Sitá and his brother, rest;
And so the night, with sweet content,
In Bharadvája’s grove was spent.
But when the dawn dispelled the night,
Ráma approached the anchorite,
And thus addressed the holy sire
Whose glory shone like kindled fire:
‘Well have we spent, O truthful Sage,
The night within thy hermitage:
Now let my lord his guests permit
For their new home his grove to quit.’
Then, as he saw the morning break,
Ih answer Bharadvája spake:
‘Go forth to Chitrakúta’s hill,
Where berries grow, and sweets distil:
Full well, I deem, that home will suit
Thee, Ráma, strong and resolute.
Go forth, and Chitrakúta seek,
Famed mountain of the Varied Peak.
In the wild woods that gird him round
All creatures of the chase are found:
Thou in the glades shalt see appear
Vast herds of elephants and deer.
With Si’ta there shalt thou delight
To gaze upon the woody height;
There with expanding heart to look
On river, table-land, and brook,
And see the foaming torrent rave
Impetuous from the mountain cave.
Auspicious hill! where all day long
The lapwing’s cry, the Koil’s song
Make all who listen gay:
Where all is fresh and fair to see,
Where elephants and deer roam free,
There, as a hermit, stay.’
The princely tamers of their foes
Thus passed the night in calm repose,
Then to the hermit having bent
With reverence, on their way they went.
High favour Rharadvája showed.
And blessed them ready for the road.
[ p. 160 ]
With such fond looks as fathers throw
On their own sons, before they go.
Then spake the saint with glory bright
To Ráma peerless in his might:
‘First, lords of men, direct your feet
Where Yamuna’ and Gangá meet;
Then to the swift Kalindi [7] go,
Whose westward waves to Gangá flow.
When thou shalt see her lovely shore
Worn by their feet who hasten o’er,
Then, Raghu’s son, a raft prepare.
And cross the Sun born river there.
Upon her farther bank a tree,
Near to the landing wilt thou see.
The blessed source of varied gifts,
There her green boughs that Eig tree lifts:
A tree where countless birds abide,
Bv Syáma’s name known far and wide.
Sitá, revere that holy shade:
There be thy prayers for blessing prayed.
Thence for a league your way pursue,
And a dark wood shall meet your view,
Where tall bamboos their foliage show,
The Gum tree and the Jujube grow.
To Chitrakúta have I oft
Trodden that path so smooth and soft,
Where burning woods no traveller scare,
But all is pleasant, green, and fair.’
When thus the guests their road had learned,
Back to his cot the hermit turned,
And Ráma, Lakshman, Sitá paid
Their reverent thanks for courteous aid.
Thus Ráma spake to Lakshman, when
The saint had left the lords of men:
‘Great store of bliss in sooth is ours
On whom his love the hermit showers.’
As each to other wisely talked,
The lion lords together walked
On to Kálindi’s woody shore;
And gentle Sita went before.
They reached that flood, whose waters flee
With rapid current to the sea;
Their minds a while to thought they gave
And counselled how to cross the wave.
At length, with logs together laid,
A mighty raft the brothers made.
Then dry bamboos across were tied,
And grass was spread from side to side.
And the great hero Lakshman brought
Cane and Rose Apple boughs and wrought,
Trimming the branches smooth and neat,
For Sitá’s use a pleasant seat.
And Ráma placed thereon his dame
Touched with a momentary shame,
Resembling in her glorious mien
All thought surpassing Fortune’s Queen
Then Ráma hastened to dispose.
Each in its place, the skins and bows,
And by the fair Videhan laid
The coats, the ornaments, and spade.
When Sitá thus was set on board,
And all their gear was duly stored,
The heroes each with vigorous hand,
Pushed off the raft and left the land.
When half its way the raft had made,
Thus Sitá to Kálindi prayed:
‘Goddess, whose flood I traverse now,
Grant that my lord may keep his vow.
For thee shall bleed a thousand kine,
A hundred jars shall pour their wine,
When Ráma sees that town again
Where old Ikshváku’s children reign.”
Thus to Kálindi’s stream she sued
And prayed in suppliant attitude.
Then to the river’s bank the dame,
Fervent in supplication, came.
They left the raft that brought them o’er,
And the thick wood that clothed the shore,
And to the Fig-tree Syama made
Their way, so cool with verdant shade.
Then Sitá viewed that best of trees,
And reverent spake in words like these:
‘Hail,hail, O mighty tree! Allow
My husband to complete his vow;
Let us returning, I entreat,
Kaus’alyá and Sumitrá meet.’
Then with her hands together placed
Around the tree she duly paced.
When Ráma saw his blameless spouse
A suppliant under holy boughs,
The gentle darling of his heart,
He thus to Lakshman spake apart:
‘Brother, by thee our way be led;
Let Sitá close behind thee tread:
I, best of men, will grasp my bow,
And hindmost of the three will go.
What fruits soe’er her fancy take,
Or flowers half hidden in the brake,
For Janak’s child forget not thou
To gather from the brake or bough.”
Thus on they fared. The tender dame
Asked Ráma, as they walked, the name
Of every shrub that blossoms bore,
Creeper, and tree unseen before:
And Lakshman fetched, at Sitá’s prayer,
Boughs of each tree with clusters fair.
Then Janak’s daughter joyed to see
The sand-discoloured river flee,
Where the glad cry of many a bird,
The sa’ras and the swan, was heard.
A league the brothers travelled through
The forest noble game they slew:
Beneath the trees their meal they dressed
And sat them down to eat and rest.
A while in that delightful shade
Where elephants unnumbered strayed.
Where peacocks screamed and monkeys played.
[ p. 161 ]
They wandered with delight.
Then by the river’s side they found
A pleaaant spot of level ground,
Where all was smooth and fair around,
Their lodging for the night.
Then Ráma, when the morning rose,
Called Lakshman gently from repose:
‘Awake, the pleasant voices hear
Of forest birds that warble near.
Scourge of thy foes, no longer stay;
The hour is come to speed away.’
The slumbering prince unclosed his eyes
When thus his brother bade him rise,
Compelling, at the timely cry,
Fatigue, and sleep, and rest to fly.
The brothers rose and Sítá too;
Pure water from the stream they drew,
Paid morning rites, then followed still
The road to Chitrakúta’s hill.
Then Ráma as he took the road
With Lakshman, while the morning, glowed,
To the Videhan lady cried,
Sítá the fair, the lotus-eyed:
‘Look round thee, dear; each flowery tree
Touched with the fire of morning see:
The Kins’uk, now the Frosts are fled,—
How glorious with his wreaths of red!
The Bel-trees see, so loved of men,
Hanging their boughs in every glen.
O’erburthened with their fruit and flowers:
A plenteous store of food is ours.
See, Lakshman, in the leafy trees,
Where’er they make their home.
Down hangs, the work of labouring bees
The ponderous honeycomb.
In the fair wood before us spread
The startled wild-cock cries:
Hark, where the flowers are soft to tread,
The peacock’s voice replies.
Where elephants are roaming free,
And sweet birds’ songs are loud,
The glorious Chitrakúta see:
His peaks are in the cloud.
On fair smooth ground he stands displayed,
Begirt by many a tree:
O brother, in that holy shade
How happy shall we be!’ [8]
Then Ráma, Lakshman, Sitá, each
Spoke raising suppliant hands this speech
To him, in woodland dwelling met,
Válmiki, ancient anchoret:
‘O Saint, this mountain takes the mind,
With creepers, trees of every kind,
Vith fruit and roots abounding thus,
A pleasant life it offers us:
Here for a while we fain would stay,
And pass a season blithe and gay.’
Then the great saint, in duty trained,
With honour gladly entertained:
He gave his guests a welcome fair,
And bade them sit and rest them there,
Ráma of mighty arm and chest
His faithful Lakshman then addressed:
‘Brother, bring hither from the wood
Selected timber strong and good,
And build therewith a little cot;
My heart rejoices in the spot
That lies beneath the mountain’s side,
Remote, with water well supplied.’
Sumitrá’s son his words obeyed,
Brought many a tree, and deftly made,
With branches in the forest cut,
As Ráma bade, a leafy hut.
Then Ráma, when the cottage stood
Fair, firmly built, and walled with wood,
To Lakshman spake, whose eager mind
To do his brother’s will inclined:
‘Now, Lakshman as our cot is made,
Must sacrifice be duly paid
By us, for lengthened life who hope,
With venison of the antelope.
Away, O bright-eyed Lakshman, speed:
Struck by thy bow a deer must bleed:
As Scripture bids, we must not slight
The duty that commands the rite.’
Lakshman, the chief whose arrows laid
His foemen low, his word obeyed;
And Ráma thus again addressed
The swift performer of his hest:
‘Prepare the venison thou hast shot,
To sacrifice for this our cot.
Haste, brother dear, for this the hour,
And this the day of certain power.’
Then glorious Lakshman took the buck
His arrow in the wood had struck;
Bearing his mighty load he came,
And laid it in the kindled flame.
[ p. 162 ]
Soon as he saw the meat was done,
And that the juices ceased to run
From the broiled carcass, Lakshman then
Spoke thus to Ráma best of men:
‘The carcass of the buck, entire,
Is ready dressed upon the fire.
Now be the sacred rites begun
To please the God, thou godlike one.’
Ráma the good, in ritual trained,
Pure from the bath, with thoughts restrained,
Hasted those verses to repeat
Which make the sacrifice complete.
The hosts celestial came in view,
And Ráma to the cot withdrew,
While a sweet sense of rapture stole
Through the unequalled hero’s soul.
He paid the Vis’vedevas 1 due.
And Rudra’s right, and Vishnu’s too,
Nor wonted blessings, to protect
Their new-built home, did he neglect.
With voice repressed he breathed the prayer,
Bathed duly in the river fair,
And gave good offerings that remove
The stain of sin, as texts approve.
And many an altar there he made,
And shrines, to suit the holy shade,
All decked with woodland chaplets sweet,
And fruit and roots and roasted meat,
With muttered prayer, as texts require,
Water, and grass and wood and fire.
So Ráma, Lakshman, Sítá paid
Their offerings to each God and shade,
And entered then their pleasant cot
That bore fair signs of happy lot.
They entered, the illustrious three,
The well-set cottage, fair to see,
Roofed with the leaves of many a tree,
And fenced from wind and rain;
So, at their Father Brahmá’s call,
The Gods of heaven, assembling all,
To their own glorious council hall
Advance in shining train.
So, resting on that lovely hill,
Near the fair lily-covered rill,
The happy prince forgot,
Surrounded by the birds and deer,
The woe, the longing, and the fear
That gloom the exile’s lot.
When Ráma reached the southern bank,
King Guha’s heart with sorrow sank:
He with Sumantra talked, and spent
With his deep sorrow, homeward went.
Sumantra, as the king decreed,
Yoked to the car each noble steed,
And to Ayodhyá’s city sped
With his sad heart disquieted.
On lake and brook and scented grove
His glances fell, as on he drove:
City and village came in view
As o’er the road his coursers flew.
On the third day the charioteer,
When now the hour of night was near,
Came to Ayodhyá’s gate, and found
The city all in sorrow drowned.
To him, in spirit quite cast down,
Forsaken seemed the silent town,
And by the rush of grief oppressed
He pondered in his mournful breast:
‘Is all Ayodhyá burnt with grief,
Steed, elephant, and man, and chief?
Does her loved Ráma’s exile so
Afflict her with the fires of woe?’
Thus as he mused, his steeds flew fast,
And swiftly through the gate he passed.
On drove the charioteer, and then
In hundreds, yea in thousands, men
Ran to the car from every side,
And, ‘Ráma, where is Ráma?’ cried.
Sumantra said: 'My chariot bore
The duteous prince to Gangá’s shore;
I left him there at his behest,
And homeward to Ayodhyá pressed.’
Soon as the anxious people knew
That he was o’er the flood they drew
Deep sighs, and crying, Ráma! all
Wailed, and big tears began to fall.
He heard the mournful words prolonged,
As here and there the people thronged:
‘Woe, woe for us, forlorn, undone,
No more to look on Raghu’s son!
His like again we ne’er shall see,
Of heart so true, of hand so free,
In gifts, in gatherings for debate,
When marriage pomps we celebrate,
What should we do? What earthly thing
Can rest, or hope, or pleasure bring?’
Thus the sad town, which Ráma kept
As a kind father, wailed and wept.
Each mansion, as the car went by,
Sent forth a loud and bitter cry,
As to the window every dame,
Mourning for banished Ráma, came.
As his sad eyes with tears o’erflowed,
He sped along the royal road
To Das’aratha’s high abode.
There leaping down his car he stayed;
Within the gates his way he made;
Through seven broad courts he onward hied
Where people thronged on every side.
From each high terrace, wild with woe
The royal Indies flocked below:
[ p. 163 ]
He heard them talk in gentle tone,
As each for Ráma made her moan:
‘What will the charioteer reply
To Queen Kaus’alyá’s eager cry?
With Ráma from the gates he went;
Homeward alone, his steps are bent.
Hard is a life with woe distressed!
But difficult to win is rest,
If, when her son is banished, still
She lives beneath her load of ill.’
Such was the speech Sumantra heard
From them whom grief unfeigned had stirred.
As fires of anguish burnt him through,
Swift to the monarch’s hall he drew,
Past the eighth court; there met his sight,
The sovereign in his palace bright,
Still weeping for his son, forlorn,
Pale, faint, and all with sorrow worn.
As there he sat, Sumantra bent
And did obeisance reverent,
And to the king repeated o’er
The message he from Ráma bore.
The monarch heard, and well-nigh brake
His heart, but yet no word he spake:
Fainting to earth he fell, and dumb,
By grief for Ráma overcome,
Rang through the hall a startling cry,
And women’s arms were tossed on high,
When, with his senses all astray,
Upon the ground the monarch lay.
Kaus’alyá with Sumitrás aid,
Raised from the ground her lord dismayed:
‘Sire, of high fate, she cried, O, why
Dost thou no single word reply
To Ráma’s messenger who brings
News of his painful wanderings?
The great injustice done, art thou
Shame-stricken for thy conduct now?
Rise up, and do thy part: bestow
Comfort and help in this our woe.
Speak freely, King; dismiss thy fear,
For Queen Kaikeyí stands not near,
Afraid of whom thou wouldst not seek
Tidings of Ráma: freely speak.’
When the sad queen had ended so,
She sank, insatiate in her woe,
And prostrate lay upon the ground,
While her faint voice by sobs was drowned.
When all the ladies in despair
Saw Queen Kaus’alyá wailing there,
And the poor king oppressed with pain,
They flocked around and wept again.
The king a while had senseless lain,
When care brought memory back again.
Then straight he called, the news to hear
Of Ráma, for the charioteer,
With reverent hand to hand applied
He waited by the old man’s side,
Whose mind with anguish was distraught
Like a great elephant newly caught.
The king with bitter pain distressed
The faithful charioteer addressed,
Who, sad of mien, with flooded eye,
And dust upon his limbs, stood by:
‘Where will be Ráma’s dwelling now,
At some tree’s foot, beneath the bough;
Ah, what will be the exile’s food.
Bred up with kind solicitude?
Can he, long lapped in pleasant rest,
Unmeet for pain, by pain oppressed,
Son of earth’s king, his sad night spend
Earth-couched, as one that has no friend?
Behind him, when abroad he sped,
Cars, elephant, and foot were led:
Then how shall Ráma dwell afar
In the wild woods where no men are?
How, tell me, did the princes there,
With Sítá good and soft and fair,
Alighting from the chariot, tread
The forest wilds around them spread?
A happy lot is thine, I ween,
Whose eyes my two dear sons have seen
Seeking on foot the forest shade,
Like the bright Twins to view displayed,
The heavenly As’vins, when they seek
The woods that hang 'neath Mandar’s peak,
What words, Sumantra, quickly tell,
From Ráma, Lakshman. Sítá fell?
How in the wood did Ráma eat?
What was his bed, and what his seat?
Full answer to my questions give,
For I on thy replies shall live,
As with the saints Yayáti held
Sweet converse, from the skies expelled.’
Urged by the lord of men to speak,
Whose sobbing voice came faint and weak,
Thus he, while tears his utterance broke,
In answer to the monarch spoke;
‘Hear then the words that Ráma said,
Resolved in duty’s path to tread.
Joining his hands, his head he bent,
And gave this message, reverent:
‘Sumantra, to my father go,
Whose lofty mind all people know:
Bow down before him, as is meet,
And in my stead salute his feet.
Then to the queen my mother bend,
And give the greeting that I send:
Ne’er may her steps from duty err,
And may it still be well with her.
And add this word: 'O Queen, pursue
Thy vows with faithful heart and true;
And ever at due season turn
Where holy fires of worship burn.
And, lady, on our lord bestow
[ p. 164 ]
Such honour as to Gods we owe.
Be kind to every queen: let pride
And thought of self be cast aside.
In the king’s fond opinion raise
Kaikeyí, by respect and praise.
Let the young Bharat ever be
Loved, honoured as the king by thee:
Thy king-ward duty ne’er forget:
High over all are monarchs set.’
And Bharat, too, for me address:
Pray that all health his life may bless.
Let every royal lady share,
As justice bids, his love and care.
Say to the strong-armed chief who brings
Joy to Iksváku’s line of kings:
‘As ruling prince thy care be shown
Of him, our sire, who holds the throne.
Stricken in years he feels their weight;
But leave him in his royal state.
As regent heir content thee still,
Submissive to thy father’s will.’
Ráma again his charge renewed,
As the hot flood his cheek bedewed:
‘Hold as thine own my mother dear
Who drops for me the longing tear.’
Then Lakshman, with his soul on fire,
Spake breathing fast these words of ire:
‘Say, for what sin, for what offence
Was royal Ráma banished thence?
He is the cause, the king: poor slave
To the light charge Kaikeyí gave.
Let right or wrong the motive be,
The author of our woe is he.
Whether the exile were decreed
Through foolish faith or guilty greed,
For promises or empire, still
The king has wrought a grievous ill.
Grant that the Lord of all saw fit
To prompt the deed and sanction it,
In Ráma’s life no cause I see
For which the king should bid him flee.
His blinded eye refused to scan
The guilt and folly of the plan,
And from the weakness of the king
Here and hereafter woe shall spring.
No more my sire: the ties that used
To bind me to the king are loosed.
My brother Ráma, Raghu’s son.
To me is lord, friend, sire in one.
The love of men how can he win,
Deserting, by the cruel sin,
Their joy, whose heart is swift to feel
A pleasure in the people’s weal?
Shall he whose mandate could expel
The virtuous Ráma, loved so well,
To whom his subjects’ fond hearts cling—
Shall he in spite of them be king?’
But Janak’s child, my lord, stood by,
And oft the votaress heaved a sigh.
She seemed with dull and wandering sense,
Beneath a spirit’s influence.
The noble princess, pained with woe
Which till that hour she ne’er could know,
Tears in her heavy trouble shed,
But not a word to me she said.
She raised her face which grief had dried
And tenderly her husband eyed,
Gazed on him as he turned to go
While tear chased tear in rapid flow.’
As thus Sumantra, best of peers,
Told his sad tale with many tears,
The monarch cried, 'I pray thee, tell
At length again what there befell.’
Sumantra, at the king’s behest,
Striving with sobs he scarce repressed,
His trembling voice at last controlled,
And thus his further tidings told:
‘Their locks in votive coils they wound,
Their coats of bark upon them bound,
To Gangá’s farther shore they went,
Thence to Prayág their steps were bent.
I saw that Lakshman walked ahead
To guard the path the two should tread.
So far I saw, no more could learn,
Forced by the hero to return.
Retracing slow my homeward course,
Scarce could I move each stubborn horse:
Shedding hot tears of grief he stood
When Ráma turned him to the wood. [9]
As the two princes parted thence
I raised my hands in reverence,
Mounted my ready car, and bore
The grief that stung me to the core.
With Guha all that day I stayed,
Still by the earnest hope delayed
That Ráma, ere the time should end,
Some message from the wood might send.
Thy realms, great Monarch, mourn the blow,
And sympathize with Ráma’s woe.
[ p. 165 ]
Each withering tree hangs low his head,
And shoot, and bud, and flower are dead.
Dried are the floods that wont to fill
The lake, the river, and the rill.
Drear is each grove and garden now,
Dry every blossom on the bough.
Each beast is still, no serpents crawl:
A lethargy of woe on all.
The very wood is silent: crushed
With grief for Ráma, all is hushed.
Fair blossoms from the water born,
Gay garlands that the earth adorn,
And every fruit that gleams like gold,
Have lost the scent that charmed of old.
Empty is every grove I see,
Or birds sit pensive on the tree.
Where’er I look, its beauty o’er,
The pleasance charms not as before.
I drove through fair Ayodhyá’s street:
None flew with joy the car to meet.
They saw that Ráma was not there,
And turned them sighing in despair.
The people in the royal way
Wept tears of bitter grief, when they
Beheld me coming, from afar,
No Ráma with me in the car.
From palace roof and turret high
Each woman bent her eager eye;
She looked for Ráma, but in vain;
Gazed on the car and shrieked for pain.
Their long clear eyes with sorrow drowned
They, when this common grief was found,
Looked each on other, friend and foe,
In sympathy of levelling woe:
No shade of difference between
Foe, friend, or neutral, there was seen.
Without a joy, her bosom rent
With grief for Ráma’s banishment,
Ayodhyá like the queen appears
Who mourns her son with many tears.’
He ended: and the king, distressed.
With sobbing voice that lord addressed:
‘Ah me, by false Kaikeyí led,
Of evil race, to evil bred,
I took no counsel of the sage,
Nor sought advice from skill and age,
I asked no lord his aid to lend,
I called no citizen or friend.
Rash was my deed, bereft of sense
Slave to a woman’s influence.
Surely, my lord, a woe so great
Palls on us by the will of Fate;
It lays the house of Raghu low,
For Destiny will have it so.
I pray thee, if I e’er have done
An act to please thee, yea, but one,
Fly, fly, and Ráma homeward lead:
My life, departing, counsels speed.
Fly, ere the power to bid I lack,
Fly to the wood: bring Ráma back.
I cannot live for even one
Short hour bereaved of my son.
But ah, the prince, whose arms are strong,
Has journeyed far: the way is long:
Me, me upon the chariot place,
And let me look on Ráma’s face.
Ah me, my son, mine eldest-born,
Where roams he in the wood forlorn,
The wielder of the mighty bow,
Whose shoulders like the lion’s show?
O, ere the light of life be dim,
Take me to Sítá and to him.
O Ráma, Lakshman, and O thou
Dear Sítá, constant to thy vow,
Beloved ones, you cannot know
That I am dying of my woe.’
The king to bitter grief a prey,
That drove each wandering sense away,
Sunk in affliction’s sea. too wide
To traverse, in his anguish cried:
‘Hard, hard to pass, my Queen, this sea
Of sorrow raging over me:
No Ráma near to soothe mine eye,
Plunged in its lowest deeps I lie.
Sorrow for Ráma swells the tide,
And Sítá’s absence makes it wide:
My tears its foamy flood distain,
Made billowy by my sighs of pain:
My cries its roar, the arms I throw
About me are the fish below,
Kaikeyí is the fire that feeds
Beneath: my hair the tangled weeds:
Its source the tears for Ráma shed:
The hump-back’s words its monsters dread:
The boon I gave the wretch its shore,
Till Ráma’s banishment be o’er. 1
Ah me, that I should long to set
My eager eyes to-day
On Raghu’s son, and he be yet
With Lakshman far away!’
Thus he of lofty glory wailed,
And sank upon the bed.
Beneath the woe his spirit failed,
And all his senses fled.
As Queen Kaus’alyá, trembling much,
As blighted by a goblin’s touch,
Still lying prostrate, half awoke
To consciousness,'twas thus she spoke:
‘Bear me away, Sumantra, far,
Where Ráma, Sítá, Lakshman are.
Bereft of them I have no power
To linger on a single hour.
[ p. 166 ]
Again, I pray, thy steps retrace,
And me in Dandak forest place,
For after them I needs must go,
Or sink to Yama’s realms below
His utterance choked by tears that rolled
Down from their fountains uncontrolled,
With suppliant hands the charioteer
Thus spake, the lady’s heart to cheer:
‘Dismiss thy grief, despair, and dread
That fills thy soul, of sorrow bred,
For pain and anguish thrown aside.
Will Rama in the wood abide.
And Lakshman, with unfailing care
Will guard the feet of Rama there,
Earning, with governed sense, the prize
That waits on duty in the skies.
And Sita in the wild as well
As in her own dear home will dwell;
To Rama all her heart she gives,
And free from doubt and terror lives.
No faintest sign of care or woe
The features of the lady show:
Rethinks Videha’s pride was made
For exile in the forest shade.
E’en as of old she used to rove
Delighted in the city’s grove,
Thus, even thus she joys to tread
The woodlands uninhabited.
Like a young child, her face as fair
As the young moon, she wanders there.
What though in lonely woods she stray
Still Rama is her joy and stay:
All his the heart no sorrow bends,
Her very life on him depends.
For, if her lord she might not see,
Ayodhy’a like the wood would be.
She bids him, as she roams, declare
The names of towns and hamlets there,
Marks various trees that meet her eye,
And many a brook that hurries by,
And Janak’s daughter seems home
When Rama or his brother spanks
And gives the answer that she seeks.
This, Lady, I remember well,
Nor angry words have to tell:
Reproaches at Kaikey’i shot,
Such, queen, my mind remembers not.’
The speech when Sita’s wrath was high,
Sumantra passed in silence by,
That so his pleasant words might
With sweet report Kaulay’a’s ear.
Her moonlike beauty suffers not
Though winds be rude and suns be hot:
The way, the danger, and the toil
Her gentle lustre may not soil.
Like the red liiy’s leafy crown
Or as the fair full moon looks down,
So the Videhan lady’s face
Still shines with undimmished grace.
What if the borrowed colours throw
O’er her fine feet no row glow,
Still with their natural tints they spread
A lotus glory where they tread.
In sportive grace she walks the ground
And sweet her chiming anklets sound.
No jewels clasp the faultless limb:
She leaves them all for love of him.
If in the woods her gentle eye
A lion sees, or tiger nigh,
Or elephant, she fears no ill
For Rama’s arm supports her still,
No longer be their fate deplored,
Nor thine, nor that of Kosal’s lord,
For conduct such as theirs shall buy
Wide glory that can never die.
For casting grief and care away,
Delighting in the forest, they
With joyful spirits, blithe and gay,
Set forward on the ancient way
Where mighty saints have led:
Their highest aim, their dearest care
To keep their father’s honour fair,
Observing still the oath he sware,
They roam, on wild fruit fed.’
Thus with persuasive art he tried
To turn her from her grief aside,
By soothing fancies won.
But still she gave her sorrow vent:
‘Ah Rama,’ was her shrill lament,
‘My love, my son, my son!’
154:1 Daughter of Jahnu, a name of the Ganges, See p. 55. ↩︎
157:1 The Mainá or Gracula religiosa, a favourite cage-bird, easily taught to talk. ↩︎
158:1 The Jumna. ↩︎
158:1b The Hindu name of Allahabad. ↩︎
159:1 The Langúr is a large monkey. ↩︎
159:2 A mountain said to lie to the east of Meru. ↩︎
160:1 Another name of the Jumna, daughter of the Sun. ↩︎
161:1 ‘We have often looked on that green hill: it is the holiest spot of that sect of the Hindu faith who devote themselves to this incarnation, of Vishnu. The whole neighbourhood is Ráma’s country. Every headland has some legend, every cavern is connected with his name; some of the wild fruits are still called Stáphal, being the reputed food of the exile. Thousands and thousands annually visit the spot, and round the hill is a raised foot-path, on which the devotee, with naked feet, treads full of pious awe.’ Calcutta Review, Vol. XXIII. ↩︎
164:1 ‘So in Homer the horses of Achilles lamented with many bitter tears the death of Patroclus slain by Hector:
“Ἵπποι δ᾽ Αἰακίδαο, μάχης ἀπάνευθεν ἐόντες,
Κλᾶιον, ἐπειδὴ πρῶτα πυθέσθην ἡνιόχοιο
Ἐν κονίῃσι πεσόντος ὑφ᾽ Ἕκτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο.”
ILIAD. XVII. 426.
Ancient poesy frequently associated nature with the joys and sorrows of man.’ GORRESIO. ↩︎