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The Sanskrit Epics

Page 39

by Delphi Classics


  The monarch to Kauśalyá clung,

  And she with mournful steps and slow

  Turned to the palace, worn with woe.

  As one whose hand has touched the fire,

  Or slain a Bráhman in his ire,

  He felt his heart with sorrow torn

  Still thinking of his son forlorn.

  Each step was torture, as the road

  The traces of the chariot showed,

  And as the shadowed sun grows dim

  So care and anguish darkened him.

  He raised a cry, by woe distraught,

  As of his son again he thought.

  And judging that the car had sped

  Beyond the city, thus he said:

  “I still behold the foot-prints made

  By the good horses that conveyed

  My son afar: these marks I see,

  But high-souled Ráma, where is he?

  Ah me, my son! my first and best,

  On pleasant couches wont to rest,

  With limbs perfumed with sandal, fanned

  By many a beauty’s tender hand:

  Where will he lie with log or stone

  Beneath him for a pillow thrown,

  To leave at morn his earthy bed,

  Neglected, and with dust o’erspread,

  As from the flood with sigh and pant

  Comes forth the husband elephant?

  The men who make the woods their home

  Shall see the long-armed hero roam

  Roused from his bed, though lord of all,

  In semblance of a friendless thrall.

  Janak’s dear child who ne’er has met

  With aught save joy and comfort yet,

  Will reach to-day the forest, worn

  And wearied with the brakes of thorn.

  Ah, gentle girl, of woods unskilled,

  How will her heart with dread be filled

  At the wild beasts’ deep roaring there,

  Whose voices lift the shuddering hair!

  Kaikeyí, glory in thy gain,

  And, widow queen, begin to reign:

  No will, no power to live have I

  When my brave son no more is nigh.”

  Thus pouring forth laments, the king

  Girt by the people’s crowded ring,

  Entered the noble bower like one

  New-bathed when funeral rites are done.

  Where’er he looked naught met his gaze

  But empty houses, courts, and ways.

  Closed were the temples: countless feet

  No longer trod the royal street,

  And thinking of his son he viewed

  Men weak and worn and woe-subdued.

  As sinks the sun into a cloud,

  So passed he on, and wept aloud,

  Within that house no more to be

  The dwelling of the banished three,

  Brave Ráma, his Vedehan bride,

  And Lakshmaṇ by his brother’s side:

  Like broad still waters, when the king

  Of all the birds that ply the wing

  Has swooped from heaven and borne away

  The glittering snakes that made them gay.

  With choking sobs and voice half spent

  The king renewed his sad lament:

  With broken utterance faint and low

  Scarce could he speak these words of woe:

  “My steps to Ráma’s mother guide,

  And place me by Kauśalyá’s side:

  There, only there my heart may know

  Some little respite from my woe.”

  The warders of the palace led

  The monarch, when his words were said,

  To Queen Kauśalyá’s bower, and there

  Laid him with reverential care.

  But while he rested on the bed

  Still was his soul disquieted.

  In grief he tossed his arms on high

  Lamenting with a piteous cry:

  “O Ráma, Ráma,” thus said he,

  “My son, thou hast forsaken me.

  High bliss awaits those favoured men

  Left living in Ayodhyá then,

  Whose eyes shall see my son once more

  Returning when the time is o’er.”

  Then came the night, whose hated gloom

  Fell on him like the night of doom.

  At midnight Daśaratha cried

  To Queen Kauśalyá by his side:

  “I see thee not, Kauśalyá; lay

  Thy gentle hand in mine, I pray.

  When Ráma left his home my sight

  Went with him, nor returns to-night.”

  Canto XLIII. Kausalyá’s Lament.

  KAUŚALYÁ SAW THE monarch lie

  With drooping frame and failing eye,

  And for her banished son distressed

  With these sad words her lord addressed:

  “Kaikeyí, cruel, false, and vile

  Has cast the venom of her guile

  On Ráma lord of men, and she

  Will ravage like a snake set free;

  And more and more my soul alarm,

  Like a dire serpent bent on harm,

  For triumph crowns each dark intent,

  And Ráma to the wild is sent.

  Ah, were he doomed but here to stray

  Begging his food from day to day,

  Or do, enslaved, Kaikeyí’s will,

  This were a boon, a comfort still.

  But she, as chose her cruel hate,

  Has hurled him from his high estate,

  As Bráhmans when the moon is new

  Cast to the ground the demons’ due.318

  The long-armed hero, like the lord

  Of Nágas, with his bow and sword

  Begins, I ween, his forest life

  With Lakshmaṇ and his faithful wife.

  Ah, how will fare the exiles now,

  Whom, moved by Queen Kaikeyí, thou

  Hast sent in forests to abide,

  Bred in delights, by woe untried?

  Far banished when their lives are young,

  With the fair fruit before them hung,

  Deprived of all their rank that suits,

  How will they live on grain and roots?

  O, that my years of woe were passed,

  And the glad hour were come at last

  When I shall see my children dear,

  Ráma, his wife, and Lakshmaṇ here!

  When shall Ayodhyá, wild with glee,

  Again those mighty heroes see,

  And decked with wreaths her banners wave

  To welcome home the true and brave?

  When will the beautiful city view

  With happy eyes the lordly two

  Returning, joyful as the main

  When the dear moon is full again?

  When, like some mighty bull who leads

  The cow exulting through the meads,

  Will Ráma through the city ride,

  Strong-armed, with Sítá at his side?

  When will ten thousand thousand meet

  And crowd Ayodhyá’s royal street,

  And grain in joyous welcome throw

  Upon my sons who tame the foe?

  When with delight shall youthful bands

  Of Bráhman maidens in their hands

  Bear fruit and flowers in goodly show,

  And circling round Ayodhyá go?

  With ripened judgment of a sage,

  And godlike in his blooming age,

  When shall my virtuous son appear,

  Like kindly rain, our hearts to cheer?

  Ah, in a former life, I ween,

  This hand of mine, most base and mean,

  Has dried the udders of the kine

  And left the thirsty calves to pine.

  Hence, as the lion robs the cow,

  Kaikeyí makes me childless now,

  Exulting from her feebler foe

  To rend the son she cherished so.

  I had but him, in Scripture skilled,
r />   With every grace his soul was filled.

  Now not a joy has life to give,

  And robbed of him I would not live:

  Yea, all my days are dark and drear

  If he, my darling, be not near,

  And Lakshmaṇ brave, my heart to cheer.

  As for my son I mourn and yearn,

  The quenchless flames of anguish burn

  And kill me with the pain,

  As in the summer’s noontide blaze

  The glorious Day-God with his rays

  Consumes the parching plain.”

  Canto XLIV. Sumitrá’s Speech.

  KAUŚALYÁ CEASED HER sad lament,

  Of beauteous dames most excellent.

  Sumitrá who to duty clave,

  In righteous words this answer gave:

  “Dear Queen, all noble virtues grace

  Thy son, of men the first in place.

  Why dost thou shed these tears of woe

  With bitter grief lamenting so?

  If Ráma, leaving royal sway

  Has hastened to the woods away,

  ’Tis for his high-souled father’s sake

  That he his premise may not break.

  He to the path of duty clings

  Which lordly fruit hereafter brings —

  The path to which the righteous cleave —

  For him, dear Queen, thou shouldst not grieve.

  And Lakshmaṇ too, the blameless-souled,

  The same high course with him will hold,

  And mighty bliss on him shall wait,

  So tenderly compassionate.

  And Sítá, bred with tender care,

  Well knows what toils await her there,

  But in her love she will not part

  From Ráma of the virtuous heart.

  Now has thy son through all the world

  The banner of his fame unfurled;

  True, modest, careful of his vow,

  What has he left to aim at now?

  The sun will mark his mighty soul,

  His wisdom, sweetness, self-control,

  Will spare from pain his face and limb,

  And with soft radiance shine for him.

  For him through forest glades shall spring

  A soft auspicious breeze, and bring

  Its tempered heat and cold to play

  Around him ever night and day.

  The pure cold moonbeams shall delight

  The hero as he sleeps at night,

  And soothe him with the soft caress

  Of a fond parent’s tenderness.

  To him, the bravest of the brave,

  His heavenly arms the Bráhman gave,

  When fierce Suváhu dyed the plain

  With his life-blood by Ráma slain.

  Still trusting to his own right arm

  Thy hero son will fear no harm:

  As in his father’s palace, he

  In the wild woods will dauntless be.

  Whene’er he lets his arrows fly

  His stricken foemen fall and die:

  And is that prince of peerless worth

  Too weak to keep and sway the earth?

  His sweet pure soul, his beauty’s charm,

  His hero heart, his warlike arm,

  Will soon redeem his rightful reign

  When from the woods he comes again.

  The Bráhmans on the prince’s head

  King-making drops shall quickly shed,

  And Sítá, Earth, and Fortune share

  The glories which await the heir.

  For him, when forth his chariot swept,

  The crowd that thronged Ayodhyá wept,

  With agonizing woe distressed.

  With him in hermít’s mantle dressed

  In guise of Sítá Lakshmí went,

  And none his glory may prevent.

  Yea, naught to him is high or hard,

  Before whose steps, to be his guard,

  Lakshmaṇ, the best who draws the bow,

  With spear, shaft, sword rejoiced to go.

  His wanderings in the forest o’er,

  Thine eyes shall see thy son once more,

  Quit thy faint heart, thy grief dispel,

  For this, O Queen, is truth I tell.

  Thy son returning, moonlike, thence,

  Shall at thy feet do reverence,

  And, blest and blameless lady, thou

  Shalt see his head to touch them bow,

  Yea, thou shalt see thy son made king

  When he returns with triumphing,

  And how thy happy eyes will brim

  With tears of joy to look on him!

  Thou, blameless lady, shouldst the whole

  Of the sad people here console:

  Why in thy tender heart allow

  This bitter grief to harbour now?

  As the long banks of cloud distil

  Their water when they see the hill,

  So shall the drops of rapture run

  From thy glad eyes to see thy son

  Returning, as he lowly bends

  To greet thee, girt by all his friends.”

  Thus soothing, kindly eloquent,

  With every hopeful argument

  Kauśalyá’s heart by sorrow rent,

  Fair Queen Sumitrá ceased.

  Kauśalyá heard each pleasant plea,

  And grief began to leave her free,

  As the light clouds of autumn flee,

  Their watery stores decreased.

  Canto XLV. The Tamasá.

  THEIR TENDER LOVE the people drew

  To follow Ráma brave and true,

  The high-souled hero, as he went

  Forth from his home to banishment.

  The king himself his friends obeyed,

  And turned him homeward as they prayed.

  But yet the people turned not back,

  Still close on Ráma’s chariot track.

  For they who in Ayodhyá dwelt

  For him such fond affection felt,

  Decked with all grace and glories high,

  The dear full moon of every eye.

  Though much his people prayed and wept,

  Kakutstha’s son his purpose kept,

  And still his journey would pursue

  To keep the king his father true.

  Deep in the hero’s bosom sank

  Their love, whose signs his glad eye drank.

  He spoke to cheer them, as his own

  Dear children, in a loving tone:

  “If ye would grant my fond desire,

  Give Bharat now that love entire

  And reverence shown to me by all

  Who dwell within Ayodhyá’s wall.

  For he, Kaikeyí’s darling son,

  His virtuous career will run,

  And ever bound by duty’s chain

  Consult your weal and bliss and gain.

  In judgment old, in years a child,

  With hero virtues meek and mild,

  A fitting lord is he to cheer

  His people and remove their fear.

  In him all kingly gifts abound,

  More noble than in me are found:

  Imperial prince, well proved and tried —

  Obey him as your lord and guide.

  And grant, I pray, the boon I ask:

  To please the king be still your task,

  That his fond heart, while I remain

  Far in the wood, may feel no pain.”

  The more he showed his will to tread

  The path where filial duty led,

  The more the people, round him thronged,

  For their dear Ráma’s empire longed.

  Still more attached his followers grew,

  As Ráma, with his brother, drew

  The people with his virtues’ ties,

  Lamenting all with tear-dimmed eyes.

  The saintly twice-born, triply old

  In glory, knowledge, seasons told,

  With hoary heads that shook and bowed,

 
Their voices raised and spake aloud:

  “O steeds, who best and noblest are,

  Who whirl so swiftly Ráma’s car,

  Go not, return: we call on you:

  Be to your master kind and true.

  For speechless things are swift to hear,

  And naught can match a horse’s ear,

  O generous steeds, return, when thus

  You hear the cry of all of us.

  Each vow he keeps most firm and sure,

  And duty makes his spirit pure.

  Back with our chief! not wood-ward hence;

  Back to his royal residence!”

  Soon as he saw the aged band.

  Exclaiming in their misery, stand,

  And their sad cries around him rang,

  Swift from his chariot Ráma sprang.

  Then, still upon his journey bent,

  With Sítá and with Lakshmaṇ went

  The hero by the old men’s side

  Suiting to theirs his shortened stride.

  He could not pass the twice-born throng

  As weariedly they walked along:

  With pitying heart, with tender eye,

  He could not in his chariot fly.

  When the steps of Ráma viewed

  That still his onward course pursued,

  Woe shook the troubled heart of each,

  And burnt with grief they spoke this speech —

  “With thee, O Ráma, to the wood

  All Bráhmans go and Bráhmanhood:

  Borne on our aged shoulders, see,

  Our fires of worship go with thee.

  Bright canopies that lend their shade

  In Vájapeya319 rites displayed,

  In plenteous store are borne behind

  Like cloudlets in the autumn wind.

  No shelter from the sun hast thou,

  And, lest his fury burn thy brow,

  These sacrificial shades we bear

  Shall aid thee in the noontide glare.

  Our hearts, who ever loved to pore

  On sacred text and Vedic lore,

  Now all to thee, beloved, turn,

  And for a life in forests yearn.

  Deep in our aged bosoms lies

  The Vedas’ lore, the wealth we prize,

  There still, like wives at home, shall dwell,

  Whose love and truth protect them well.

  To follow thee our hearts are bent;

  We need not plan or argument.

  All else in duty’s law we slight,

  For following thee is following right.

  O noble Prince, retrace thy way:

  O, hear us, Ráma, as we lay,

  With many tears and many prayers,

  Our aged heads and swan-white hairs

  Low in the dust before thy feet;

  O, hear us, Ráma, we entreat.

  Full many of these who with thee run,

  Their sacred rites had just begun.

  Unfinished yet those rites remain;

 

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