‘Ah me I o’erwhelmed with shame and weak
With wounds,’ I cried, 'I scarce can speak.
My hapless brother once and I
Our strength of flight resolved to try.
And by our foolish pride impelled
Our way through realms of ether held.
We vowed before the saints who tread
The wilds about Kailása’s head,
That we with following wings would chase
The swift sun to his resting place.
Up on our soaring pinions through
The fields of cloudless air we flew.
Beneath us far, and far away,
Like chariot wheels bright cities lay,
Whence in wild snatches rose the song
Of women mid the gay-clad throng,
With sounds of sweetest music blent
And many a tinkling ornament.
Then as our rapid wings we strained
The pathway of the sun we gained,
Beneath us all the earth was seen
Clad in her garb of tender green,
And every river in her bed
Meandered like a silver thread.
We looked on Meru far below.
And Vindhya and the Lord of Snow,
Like elephants that bend to cool
Their fever in a lilied pool.
But fervent heat and toil o’ercame
The vigour of each yielding frame,
Our weary hearts began to quail,
And wildered sense to reel and fail.
We knew not, fainting and distressed,
The north or south or east or west.
With a great strain mine eyes I turned
Where the fierce sun before me burned,
And seemed to my astonished eyes
The equal of the earth in size. [1]
At length, o’erpowered, Jatáyus fell
Without a word to say farewell,
And when to earth I saw him hie
I followed headlong from the sky. [2]
With sheltering wings I intervened
And from the sun his body screened,
But lost, for heedless folly doomed,
My pinions which the heat consumed.
ln Janasthán, I hear them say,
My hapless brother fell and lay.
I, pinionless and faint and weak,
Dropped upon Vindhya’s woody peak.
Now with my swift wings burnt away,
Reft of my brother and my sway.
From this tall mountain’s summit I
Will cast me headlong down and die.
[ p. 390 ]
‘As to the saint I thus complained
My bitter tears fell unrestrained.
He pondered for a while, then broke
The silence, and thus calmly spoke:
‘Forth from thy sides again shall spring,
O royal bird, each withered wing,
And all thine ancient power and might
Return to thee with strength of sight.
A noble deed has been foretold
In prophecy pronounced of old:
Nor dark to me are future things,
Seen by the light which penance brings.
A glorious king shall rise and reign,
The pride of old Ikshváku’s strain.
A good and valiant prince, his heir,
Shall the dear name of Ráma bear.
With his brave brother Lakshman he
An exile in the woods shall be,
Where Rávan, whom no God may slay, 1
Shall steal his darling wife away,
In vain the captive will be wooed
With proffered love and dainty food,
She will not hear, she will not taste:
But, lest her beauty wane and waste,
Lord Indra’s self will come to her
With heavenly food, and minister.
Then envoys of the Vánar race
By Ráma sent will seek this place.
To them, O roamer of the air,
The lady’s fate shalt thou declare.
Thou must not move—so maimed thou art
Thou canst not from this spot depart.
Await the day and moment due,
And thy burnt wings will sprout anew.
I might this day the boon bestow
And bid again thy pinions grow,
But wait until thy saving deed
The nations from their fear have freed.
Then for this glorious aid of thine
The princes of Ikshváku’s line,
And Gods above and saints below
Eternal gratitude shall owe.
Fain would mine aged eyes behold
That pair of whom my lips have told,
Yet wearied here I must not stay,
But leave my frame and pass away.’
‘With this and many a speech beside.
My failing heart he fortified,
With glorious hope my breast inspired,
And to his holy home retired.
I scaled the mountain height, to view
The region round, and looked for you.
In ceaseless watchings night and day
A hundred seasons passed away,
And by the sage’s words consoled
I wait the hour and chance foretold.
But since Nis’ákar sought the skies.
And cast away all earthly ties,
Full many a care and doubt has pressed
With grievous weight upon my breast.
But for the saint who turned aside
My purpose I had surely died.
Those hopeful words the hermit spake,
That bid me live for Ráma’s sake,
Dispel my anguish as the light
Of lamp and torch disperse the night.’
He ceased: and in the Vánars’ view
Forth from his side young pinions grew,
And boundless rapture filled his breast
As thus the chieftains he addressed:
‘Joy, joy! the pinions, which the Lord
Of Day consumed, are now restored
Through the dear grace & boundless might
Of that illustrious anchorite.
The tire of youth within me burns,
And all my wonted strength returns.
Onward, ye Vánars, toil strive,
And you shall find the dame alive.
Look on these new-found wings, and hence
Be strong in surest confidence.’
Swift from the crag he sprang to try
His pinions in his nativie sky.
His words the chieftains’ doubts had stilled?
And every heart with courage filled. 1b
Shouts of triumphant joy outrang
As to their feet the Vánars sprang:
And, on the mighty task intent,
Swift to the sea their steps they bent.
They stood and gazed upon the deep,
Whose billows with a roar and leap
On the sea banks ware wildly hurled,—
The mirror of the mighty world.
There on the strand the Vánars stayed
And with sad eyes the deep surveyed,
Here, as in play, his billows rose,
And there he slumbered in repose.
Here leapt the boisterous waters, high
As mountains, menacing the sky,
And wild infernal forms between
The ridges of the waves were seen.
[ p. 391 ]
They saw the billows rave and swell,
And their sad spirits sank and fell;
For ocean in their deep despair
Seemed boundless as the fields of air.
Then noble Angad spake to cheer
The Vánars and dispel their fear:
‘Faint not: despair should never find
Admittance to a noble mind.
Despair, a serpent’s mortal bite,
Benumbs the hero’s power and might.’
Then passed the weary night, and all
Assembled at their prince’s call,
And every lord of high estate
Was gathered round him for debate.
Bright was the chieftains’ glorious band
Round Angad on the ocean strand,
As when the mighty Storm-Gods meet
Round Indra on his golden seat.
Then princely Angad looked on each,
And thus began his prudent speech:
‘What chief of all our host will leap
A hundred leagues across the deep?
Who, O illustrious Vánars, who
Will make Sugriva’s promise true,
And from our weight of fear set free
The leaders of our band and me!
To whom, O warriors, shall we owe
A sweet release from pain and woe,
And proud success, and happy lives
With our dear children and our wives,
Again permitted by his grace
To look with joy on Ráma’s face,
And noble Lakshman, and our lord
The king, to our sweet homes restored?’
Thus to the gathered lords he spoke;
But no reply the silence broke.
Then with a sterner voice he cried:
‘O chiefs, the nation’s boast and pride,
Whom valour strength and power adorn,
Of most illustrious lineage born,
Where’er you wilt you force a way,
And none your rapid course can stay.
Now come, your several powers declare.
And who this desperate leap will dare?
But none of all the host was found
To clear the sea with desperate bound,
Though each, as Angad bade, declared
His proper power and what he dared. [3]
Then spake good Jámbavan the sage,
Chief of them all for reverend age;
‘I, Vánar chieftains, long ago
Limbs light to leap could likewise show,
But now on frame and spirit weighs
The burthen of my length of days.
Still task like this I may not slight,
When Ráma and our king unite.
So listen while I tell, O friends,
What lingering strength mine age attends.
If my poor leap may aught avail,
Of ninety leagues, I will not fail.
Far other strength in youth’s fresh prime
I boasted, in the olden time,
When, at Prahláda’s [4] solemn rite,
I circled in my rapid flight
Lord Vishnu, everlasting God,
When through the universe he trod.
But now my limbs are weak and old,
My youth is fled, its fire is cold,
And these exhausted nerves to strain
In such a task were idle pain,’
Then Angad due obeisance paid,
And to the chief his answer made:
‘Then I, ye noble Vánars, I
Mvself the mighty leap will try:
Although perchance the power I lack
To leap from Lanká’s island back’
Thus the impetuous chieftain cried,
And Jámbavan the sage replied:
‘Whate’er thy power and might may be,
This task, O Prince, is not for thee.
Kings go not forth themselves, but send
The servants who their best attend.
Thou art the darling and the boast,
The honoured lord of all the host.
In thee the root, O Angad, lies
Of our appointed enterprise;
And thee, on whom our hopes depend,
Our care must cherish and defend.’
Then Báli’s noble son replied:
‘Needs must I go whate’er betide,
*** For, if no chief this exploit dare,
What waits us all save blank despair,—
Upon the ground again to lie
In hopeless misery, fast, and die?
For not a hope of life I see
If we neglect our king’s decree*’
Then spoke the aged chief again:
‘***Now your attempt shall not be in vain,
For to the task will I incite
A chieftain of sufficient might.’
[ p. 392 ]
The chieftain turned his glances where
The legions sat in mute despair;
And then to Hanumán, the best
Of Vánar lords, these words addressed:
‘Why still, and silent, and apart,
O hero of the dauntless heart?
Thou keepest measured in thy mind
The laws that rule the Vánar kind,
Strong as our king Sugriva, brave
As Ráma’s self to slay or save,
Through every land thy praise is heard,
Famous as that illustrious bird,
Arishtanemi’s son, [5] the king
Of every fowl that plies the wing.
Oft have I seen the monarch sweep
With sounding pinions o’er the deep,
And in his mighty talons bear
Huge serpents struggling through the air.
Thy arms, O hero, match in might
The ample wings he spreads for flight;
And thou with him mayest well compare
In power to do, in heart to dare.
Why, rich in wisdom, power, and skill,
O hero, mt thou lingering still?
An Apsaras [6] the fairest found
Of nymphs for heavenly charms renowned,
Sweet Punjikasthalá, became
A noble Vánar’s wedded dame.
Her heavenly title heard no more,
Anjaná was the name she bore,
When, cursed by Gods, from heaven she fell
In Vánar form on earth to dwell,
New-born in mortal shape the ch*ild
Of Kunjar monarch of the wild.
In youthful beauty wondrous fair,
A crown of jewels about her hair,
In silken robes of richest dye
She roamed the hills that kiss the sky.
Once in her tinted garments dressed
She stood upon the mountain crest,
The God of Wind beside her came,
And breathed upon the lovely dame.
And as he fanned her robe aside
The wondrous beauty that he eyed
In rounded lines of breast and limb
And neck and shoulder ravished him;
And captured by her peerless charms
He strained her in his amorous arms,
Then to the eager God she cried
In trembling accents, terrified:
‘Whose impious love has wronged a spouse
So constant in her nuptial vows?’
He heard, and thus his answer made:
‘O, be not troubled, nor afraid.
But trust, and thou shalt know ere long
My love has done thee, sweet, no wrong.
So strong and brave and wise shall be
The glorious child I give to thee.
Might shall be his that naught can tire,
And limbs to spring as springs his sire,’
Thus spoke the God; the conquered dame
Rejoiced in heart nor feared me shame.
Down in a cave beneath the earth
The happy mother gave thee birth.
Once o’er the summit of the wood
Before thine eyes the new sun stood.
Thou sprangest up in haste to seize
What seemed the fruitage of the trees.
Up leapt the child, a wondrous bound,
Three hundred leagues above the ground,
And, though the angered Day-God shot
His fierce beams on him, feared him not.
Then from the hand of Indra came
A red bolt winged with wrath and flame.
The child fell smitten on a rock.
His cheek was shattered by the shock,
Named Hanumán [7] thenceforth by all
In memory of the fearful fall,
The wandering Wind-God saw thee lie
With bleeding cheek and drooping eye,
And stirred to anger by thy woe
Forbade each scented breeze to blow.
The breath of all the worlds was stilled,
And the sad Gods with terror filled
Prayed to the Wind, to calm the ire
And soothe the sorrow of the sire.
His fiery wrath no longer glowed,
And Brahmá’s self the boon bestowed
That in the brunt of battle none
Should slay with steel the Wind-God’s son.
Lord Indra, sovereign of the skies,
Bent on thee all his thousand eyes,
And swore that ne’er the bolt which he
Hurls from the heaven should injure thee,
‘Tis thine, O mighty chief, to share
The Wind-God’s power, his son and heir.
Sprung from that glorious father thou.
And thou alone, canst aid us now.
This earth of yore, through all her climes,
I circled one-and-twenty times,
And gathered, as the Gods decreed,
Great store of herbs from hill and mead,
Which, scattered o’er the troubled wave.
The Amrit to the toilers gave,
[ p. 393 ]
But now my days are wellnigh told,
My strength is gone, my limbs are old,
And thou, the bravest and the best,
Art the sure hope of all the rest.
Now, mighty chief, the task assay:
Thy matchless power and strength display
Rise up, O prince, our second king,
And o’er the flood of ocean spring.
So shall the glorious exploit vie
With his who stepped through earth and sky.’ 1
He spoke: the younger chieftain heard,
His soul to vigorous effort stirred,
And stood before their joyous eyes
Dilated in gigantic size.
Soon as his stature they beheld.
Their fear and sorrow were dispelled;
And joyous praises loud and long
Rang out from all the Vánar throng.
On the great chief their eyes they bent
In rapture and astonishment,
As, when his conquering foot he raised,
The Gods upon Naráyan [8] gazed.
He stood amid the joyous crowd,
Bent to the chiefs, and cried aloud:
‘The Wind-God, Fire’s eternal friend.
Whose blasts the mountain summits rend,
With boundless force that none may stay,
Takes where he lists his viewless way,
Sprung from that glorious father, I
In power and speed with him may vie,
A thousand times with airy leap
Can circle loftiest Meru’s steep:
With my fierce arms can stir the sea
Till from their bed the waters flee
And rush at my command to drown
This land with grove and tower and town.
I through the fields of air can spring
Far swifter than the feathered King,
And leap before him as he dies.
On sounding pinions through the skies,
I can pursue the Lord of Light
Uprising from the eastern height,
And reach him ere his course be sped
With burning beams engarlanded,
I will dry up the mighty main,
Shatter the rocks and rend the plain.
O’er earth and ocean will I bound,
And every flower that grows on ground,
And bloom of climbing plants shall show
Strewn on the ground, the way I go.
Bright as the lustrous path that lies
Athwart the region of the skies. [9]
The Maithil lady will I find,—
Thus speaks mine own prophetic mind,—
And cast in hideous ruin down
The shattered walls of Lanká’s town.’
Still on the chief in rapt surprise
The Vánar legions bent their eyes,
And thus again sage Jámbaván
Addressed the glorious Hanumán;
‘Son of the Wind, thy promise cheers
The Vánars’ hearts, and calms their fears,
Who, rescued from their dire distress.
With prospering vows thy way will bless.
The holy saints their favour lend,
And all our chiefs the deed commend
Urging thee forward on thy way;
Arise then, and the task assay.
Thou art our only refuge; we.
Our lives and all, depend on thee.’
Then sprang the Wind-God’s son the best
Of Vánara, on Mahendra’s crest.
And the great mountain rocked and swayed
By that unusual weight dismayed,
As reels an elephant beneath
The lion’s spring and rending teeth.
The shady wood that crowned him shook,
The trembling birds the boughs forsook,
And ape and pard and lion fled
From brake and lair disquieted.
389:1b Of course not equal to the whole earth, says the Commentator, but equal to Janasthán. ↩︎
389:2b This appears to be the Indian form of the stories of Phaethon and Daedalus and Icarus. ↩︎
391:1 Each chief comes forward and says how far he can leap. Gaja says he can leap ten yojans. Gavaksha can leap twenty. Gavaya thirty.* and so on up to ninety. ↩︎
391:1b Prahlá*da, the son of H***iranyakasipu, was a pious Datya remarkable for his devotion to Vishnu, and was on this account persecuted by his father. ↩︎
392:1 The Bengal recension calls him Arishtaneimi’s brother “The commentator says ”Arishtanemi is Aruna.“ Aruna the charioteer of the sun is the son of Kas’yapa and Vinatá and by consequence brother of Garuda called Vainat*eya from Vinatá his mother,” GORRESIO. ↩︎
392:2 A nymph of Paradise. ↩︎
392:1b Hanu or Hanú means jaw. Haunmán or Hanúmán means properly one with a large jaw. ↩︎
393:2 Náráyan, ‘He who moved upon the waters,’ is Vishnu. The allusion is to the famous three steps of that God. ↩︎
393:1b The Milky Way. ↩︎