Then in sweet accents low and mild
The Vánar spoke to Janak’s child:
‘A noble king, by sin unstained,
The mighty Das’aratha reigned.
Lord of the warrior’s car and steed,
The pride of old Ikshváku’s seed.
A faithful friend, a blameless king.
Protector of each living thing.
A glorious monarch, strong to save,
Blest with the bliss he freely gave,
His son, the best of all who know
The science of the bended bow,
Was moon-bright Ráma, brave and strong
Who loved the right and loathed the wrong
Who ne’er from kingly duty swerved,
Loved by the lands his might preserved.
His feet the path of law pursued;
His arm rebellious foes subdued.
His sire’s command the prince obeyed
And, banished, sought the forest shade,
Where with his wife and brother he
Wandered a saintly devotee.
There as he roamed the wilds he slew
The bravest of the Rákshas crew.
The giant king the prince beguiled,
And stole his consort, Janak’s child.
Then Ráma roamed the country round,
And a firm friend, Sugríva, found,
Lord of the Vánar race, expelled
From his own realm which Báli held,
He conquered Báli and restored
The kingdom to the rightful lord.
Then by Sugríva’s high decree
The Vánarlegions searched for thee,
Sampáti’s counsel bade me leap
A hundred leagues across the deep.
And now my happy eyes have seen
At last the long-sought Maithil queen.
Such was the form, the eye, the grace
Of her whom Ráma bade me trace.’
He ceased: her flowing locks she drew
To shield her from a stranger’s view;
Then, trembling in her wild surprise,
Raised to the tree her anxious eyes.
Her eyes the Maithil lady raised
And on the monkey speaker gazed.
She looked, and trembling at the sight
Wept bitter tears in wild affright.
She shrank a while with fear distraught,
Then, nerved again, the lady thought:
‘Is this a dream mine eyes have seen,
This creature, by our laws unclean?
O, may the Gods keep Ráma, still,
And Lakshman, and my sire, from ill!
It is no dream: I have not slept,
But, trouble-worn, have watched and wept
Afar from that dear lord of mine
For whom in ceaseless woe I pine,
No art may soothe my wild distress
Or lull me to forgetfulness.
I see but him: my lips can frame
No syllable but Ráma’s name.
Each sight I see, each sound I hear,
Brings Ráma to mine eye or ear,
The wish was in my heart, and hence
The sweet illusion mocked my sense.
‘Twas but a phantom of the mind,
And yet the voice was soft and kind
Be glory to the Eternal Sire, [1]
Be glory to the Lord of Fire,
The mighty Teacher in the skies, [2]
And Indra with his thousand eyes,
And may they grant the truth to be
E’en as the words that startled me.’
[ p. 413 ]
Down from the tree Hanumán came
And humbly stood before the dame.
Then joining reverent palm to palm
Addressed her thus with words of balm:
‘Why should the tears of sorrow rise,
Sweet lady, to those lovely eyes,
As when the wind-swept river floods
Two half expanded lotus buds?
Who art thou, O most fair of face?
Of Asur, [3] or celestial race?
Did Nága mother give thee birth?
For sure thou art no child of earth.
Do Rudras [4] claim that heavenly form?
Or the swift Gods [5] who ride the storm?
Or art thou Rohiní [6] the blest,
That star more lovely than the rest,—
Reft from the Moon thou lovest well
And doomed a while on earth to dwell?
Or canst thou, fairest wonder, be
The starry queen Arundhatí, [7]
Fled in thy wrath or jealous pride
From her dear lord Vas’ishtha’s side?
Who is the husband, father, son
Or brother, O thou loveliest one,
Gone from this world in heaven to dwell,
For whom those eyes with weeping swell?
Yet, by the tears those sweet eyes shed,
Yet, by the earth that bears thy tread, [8]
By calling on a monarch’s name,
No Goddess but a royal dame.
Art thou the queen, fair lady, say,
Whom Rávan stole and bore away?
Yea, by that agony of woe,
That form unrivalled here below,
That votive garb, thou art, I ween,
King Janak’s child and Ráma’s queen.’
Hope at the name of Ráma woke,
And thus the gentle lady spoke:
‘I am that Sítá wooed and won
By Das’aratha’s royal son,
The noblest of Ikshváku’s line;
And every earthly joy was mine.
But Ráma left his royal home
In Dandak’s tangled wilds to roam.
Where with Sumitrá’s son and me,
He lived a saintly devotee.
The giant Rávan came with guile
And bore me thence to Lanká’s isle.
Some respite yet the fiend allows,
Two months of life, to Ráma’s spouse.
Two moons of hopeless woe remain.
And then the captive will be slain.’
Thus spoke the dame in mournful mood,
And Hanumán his speech renewed:
‘O lady, by thy lord’s decree
I come a messenger to thee.
Thy lord is safe with steadfast friends,
And greeting to his queen he sends,
And Lakshman, ever faithful bows
His reverent head to Ráma’s spouse.’
Through all her frame the rapture ran,
As thus again the dame began:
‘Now verily the truth I know
Of the wise saw of long ago:
‘Once only in a hundred years
True joy to living man appears.’
He marked her rapture-beaming hue,
And nearer to the lady drew,
But at each onward step he took
Suspicious fear her spirit shook.
‘Alas, Alas,’ she cried in fear.
‘False is the tale I joyed to hear.
‘Tis Rávan, 'tis the fiend, who tries
To mock me with a new disguise.
If thou, to wring my woman’s heart,
Hast changed thy shape by magic art,
And wouldst a helpless dame beguile,
The wicked deed is doubly vile.
But no: that fiend thou canst not be:
Such joy I had from seeing thee.
But if my fancy does not err,
And thou art Ráma’s messenger,
The glories of my lord repeat:
For to these ears such words are sweet.
The Vánar knew the lady’s thought, [9]
And gave the answer fondly sought:
[ p. 414 ]
‘Bright as the sun that lights the sky
Dear as the Moon to every eye.
He scatters blessings o’er the land
Like bounties from Vais’ravan’s 1 hand.
Like Vishnu strong and unsubdued,
Unmatched in might and fortitude.
Wise, truthful as the Lord of Speech,
With gentle words he welcomes each.
Of noblest mould and form is he,
Like love’s incarnate deity.
He quells the fury of the foe,
And strikes when justice prompts the blow.
Safe in the shadow of his arm
The world is kept from scathe and harm.
Now soon shall Rávan rue his theft,
And fall, of realm and life bereft.
For Ráma’s wrathful hand shall wing
His shafts against the giant king.
The day, O Maithil Queen, is near
When he and Lakshman will he here,
And by their side Sugríva lead
His countless hosts of Vánar breed.
Sugríva’s servant, I, by name
Hanúmán, by his order came.
With desperate leap I crossed the sea
To Lanká’s isle in search of thee,
No traitor, gentle dame, am I:
Upon my word and faith rely.’
With joyous heart she heard him tell
Of the great lord she loved so well,
And in sweet accents, soft and low,
Spoke, half forgetful of her woe:
‘How didst thou stand by Ráma’s side?
How came my lord and thou allied?
How met the people of the wood
With men on terms of brotherhood?
Declare each grace and regal sign
That decks the lords of Raghu’s line.
Each circumstance and look relate
Tell Ráma’s form and speech, and gait.’
‘Thy fear and doubt,’ he cried, 'dispelled,
Hear, lady, what mine eyes beheld.
Hear the imperial signs that grace
The glory of Ikshváku’s race.
With moon-bright face and lotus eyes,
Most beautiful and good and wise,
With sun-like glory round his head,
Long-suffering as the earth we tread,
He from all foes his realm defends.
Yea, o’er the world his care extends.
He follows right in all his ways,
And ne’er from royal duty strays.
He knows the lore that strengthens kings;
His heart to truth and honour clings.
Each grace and gift of form and mind
Adorns that prince of human kind;
And virtues like his own endue
His brother ever firm and true.
O’er all the land they roamed distaught,
And thee with vain endeavour sought,
Until at length their wandering feet
Trod wearily our wild retreat.
Our banished king Sugríva spied
The princes from the mountain side.
By his command I sought the pair
And led them to our monarch there.
Thus Ráma and Sugríva met,
And joined the bonds that knit them yet,
When each besought the other’s aid,
And friendship and alliance made.
An arrow launched from Ráma’s bow
Laid Báli dead, Sugríva’s foe.
Then by commandment of our lord
The Vánar hosts each land explored.
We reached the coast: I crossed the sea
And found my way at length to thee.’ 1b
‘Receive,’ he cried, ‘this precious ring, [10]
Sure token from thy lord the king:
The golden ring he wont to wear:
See, Ráma’s name engraven there.’
Then, as she took the ring he showed,
The tears that spring of rapture flowed.
She seemed to touch the hand that sent
The dearly valued ornament,
And with her heart again at ease,
Replied in gentle words like these:
‘O thou, whose soul no fears deter.
Wise, brave, and faithful messenger!
And hast thou dared, o’er wave and foam,
To seek me in the giants’ home!
In thee, true messenger, I find
The noblest of thy woodland kind.
Who couldst, unmoved by terror, brook
On Rávan, king of fiends, to look.
[ p. 415 ]
Now may we commune here as friends,
For he whom royal Ráma sends
Must needs he one in danger tried,
A valiant, wise, and faithful guide.
Say, is it well with Ráma still?
Lives Lakshman yet untouched by ill?
Then why should Ráma’s hand be slow
To free his consort from her woe?
Why spare to burn, in search of me,
The land encircled by the sea?
Can Bharat send no army out
With banners, cars and battle shout?
Cannot thy king Sugríva lend
His legions to assist his friend?’
His hands upon his head he laid
And thus again his answer made:
‘Not yet has Ráma learnt where lies
His lady of the lotus eyes,
Or he like Indra from the sky
To S’achí’s [11] aid, to thee would fly.
Soon will he hear the tale, and then,
Roused to revenge, the lord of men
Will to the giants’ island lead
Fierce myriads of the woodland breed,
Bridging his conquering way, and make
The town a ruin for thy sake.
Believe my words, sweet dame; I swear
By roots and fruit, my woodland fare,
By Meru’s peak and Vindhva’s chain,
And Mandar of the Milky Main,
Soon shalt thou see thy lord, though now
He waits upon Prasravan’s [12] brow,
Come glorious as the breaking morn,
Like Indra on Airávat [13] borne.
For thee he looks with longing eyes;
The wood his scanty food supplies.
For thee his brow is pale and worn,
For thee are meat and wine forsworn.
Thine image in his heart he keeps,
For thee by night he wakes and weeps.
Or if perchance his eyes he close
And win brief respite from his woes,
E’en then the name of Sítá slips
In anguish from his murmuring lips.
If lovely flowers or fruit lie sees,
Which women love, upon the trees,
To thee, to thee his fancy flies.
And ‘Sítá! O my love!’ he cries.’
‘Thou bringest me,’ she cried again,
‘A mingled draught of bliss and pain
Bliss, that he wears me in his heart,
Pain, that he wakes and weeps apart,
O, see how Fate is king of all,
Now lifts us high, now bids us fall,
And leads a captive bound with cord
The meanest slave, the proudest lord,
Thus even now Fate’s stern decree
Has struck with grief my lord and me.
Say, how shall Ráma reach the shore
Of sorrow’s waves that rise and roar,
A shipwrecked sailor, wellnigh drowned
In the wild sea that foams around?
When will he smite the demon down,
Lay low in dust the giants’ town,
And, glorious from his foes’ defeat,
His wife, his long-lost Sítá, meet?
Go, bid him speed to smite his foes
Before the year shall reach its close.
Ten months are fled but two remain,
Then Rávan’s captive must be slain.
Oft has Vibhíshan, [14] just and wise,
Besought him to restore his prize.
But deaf is Rávan’s senseless ear:
His brother’s rede he will not hear.
Vibhíshan’s daughter [15] loves me well:
From her I learnt the tale I tell,
Avindhva [16] prudent, just, and old,
The giant’s fall has oft foretold;
But Fate impels him to despise
His word on whom he most relies.
In Ráma’s love I rest secure,
For my fond heart is true and pure,
And him, my noblest lord, I deem
In valour, power, and might supreme.’
As from her eyes the waters ran,
The Vánar chief again began:
‘Yea, Ráma, when he hears my tale,.
Will with our hosts these walls assail,
Or I myself, O Queen, this day
Will bear thee from the fiend away,
Will lift thee up, and take thee hence
To him thy refuge and defence;
Will take thee in my arms, and flee;
To Ráma far beyond the sea;
Will place thee on Prasravan hill
Where Raghu’s son is waiting still.’
[ p. 416 ]
‘How canst thou bear me hence?’ she cried,
‘The way is long, the sea is wide.
To bear my very weight would be
A task too hard for one like thee.’ 1
Swift rose before her startled eyes
The Vánar in his native size,
Like Mandar’s hill or Meru’s height,
Encircled with a blaze of light.
‘O come,’ he cried, 'thy fears dispel,
Nor doubt that I will bear thee well.
Come, in my strength and care confide,
And sit in joy by Ráma’s side.’
Again she spake: 'I know thee now,
Brave, resolute, and strong art thou;
In glory like the Lord of Fire
With storm-swift feet which naught may tire
But yet with thee I may not fly:
For, borne so swiftly through the sky,
Mine eyes would soon grow faint and dim,
My dizzy brain would reel and swim,
My yielding arms relax their hold,
And I in terror uncontrolled
Should fall into the raging sea
Where hungry sharks would feed on me.
Nor can I touch, of free accord,
The limbs of any save my lord.
If, by the giant forced away,
In his enfolding arms I lay,
Not mine, O Vánar, was the blame;
What could I do, a helpless dame?
Go, to my lord my message bear,
And bid him end my long despair.’
Again the Vánar chief replied,
With her wise answer satisfied:
‘Well hast thou said: thou canst not brave
The rushing wind, the roaring wave.
Thy woman’s heart would sink with fear
Before the ocean shore were near.
And for thy dread lest limb of thine
Should for a while be touched by mine,
The modest fear is worthy one
Whose cherished lord is Raghu’s son.
Yet when I sought to bear thee hence
I spoke the words of innocence,
Impelled to set the captive free
By friendship for thy lord and thee.
But if with me thou wilt not try
The passage of the windy sky,
Give me a gem that I may show,
Some token which thy lord may know.’
Again the Maithil lady spoke,
While tears and sobs her utterance broke:
‘The surest of all signs is this,
To tell the tale of vanished bliss.
Thus in my name to Ráma speak:
‘Remember Chitrakúta’s peak.
And the green margin of the rill [17]
That flows beside that pleasant hill,
Where thou and I together strayed
Delighting in the tangled shade.
There on the grass I sat with thee
And laid my head upon thy knee.
There came a greedy crow and pecked
The meat I waitd to protect
And, heedless of the clods I threw,
About my head in circles flew,
Until by darling hunger pressed
He boldly pecked me on the breast.
I ran to thee in rage and grief
And prayed for vengeance on the thief.
Then Ráma [18] from his slumber rose
And smiled with pity at my woes.
Upon my bleeding breast he saw
The scratches made by beak and claw.
He laid an arrow on his bow.
And launched it at the shameless crow.
That shaft, with magic power endued,
The bird, where’er he flew, pursued,
Till back to Raghu’s son he fled
And bent at Ráma’s feet his head. [19]
Couldst thou for me with anger stirred
Launch that dire shaft upon a bird,
And yet canst pardon him who stole
The darling of thy heart and soul?
Rise up, O bravest of the brave.
And come in all thy might to save.
Come with the thunders of thy bow,
And smite to earth the Rakshas foe.’
She ceased; and from her glorious hair
She took a gem that sparkled there
A token which her husband’s eyes
With eager love would recognize.
His head the Vánar envoy bent
In low obeisance reverent.
And on his finger bound the gem
She loosened from her diadem.
[ p. 417 ]
412:1 Svayambhu, the Self-existent, Brahmá. ↩︎
412:2 Vrihaspati or Váchaspati, the Lord of Speech and preceptor of the Gods. ↩︎
413:1 The Asurs were the fierce enemies of the Gods. ↩︎
413:2 The Rudras are manifestations of S’iva. ↩︎
413:3 The Maruts or Storm Gods. ↩︎
413:4 Rohiní is an asterism personified as the daughter of Daksha and the favourite wife of the Moon. The chief star in the constellation is Aldebaran. ↩︎
413:5 Arundhatí was the wife of the great sage Vas’ishtha, and regarded as the pattern of conjugal excellence. She was raised to the heavens as one of the Pleiades. ↩︎
413:6 The Gods do not shed tears; nor do they touch the ground when they walk or stand. Similarly Milton’s angels marched above the ground and “the passive air upbore their nimble tread.”
Virgil’s ‘vera incessu patuit dea’ may refer to the same belief. ↩︎
413:1b That a friend of Rama would praise him as he should be praised, and that if the stranger were Rávan in disguise he would avoid the subject. ↩︎
414:2b DE GUBERNATIS thinks that this ring which the Sun Ráma sends to the Dawn Sítá is a symbol of the sun’s disc. ↩︎
415:1 S’achí is the loved and lovely wife of Indra, and she is taken as the type of a woman protected by a jealous and all-powerful husband. ↩︎
415:2 The mountain near Kishkindhá. ↩︎
415:3 Airávat is the mighty elephant on which Indra delights to ride. ↩︎
415:1b Vibhíshan is the wicked Rávan’s good brother. ↩︎
415:2b Her name is Kalá, or in the Bengal recension Nandá. ↩︎
415:3b One of Rávan’s chief councillors. ↩︎
416:1b The brook Mandákiní, not far from Chitrakúta where Ráma sojourned for a time. ↩︎
416:2b The poet here changes from the second person to the third. ↩︎
416:3b The whole long story is repeated with some slight variations and additions from Book II. Canto XCVI. I give here only the outline. ↩︎