The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  Scarce shall I find my friends who dwell

  Here in Ayodhyá safe and well:

  For surely not without a cause

  This crushing dread my soul o’erawes.”

  Heart sick, dejected, every sense

  Confused by terror’s influence,

  On to the town he quickly swept

  Which King Ikshváku’s children kept.

  He passed through Vaijayanta’s gate,

  With weary steeds, disconsolate,

  And all who near their station held,

  His escort, crying Victory, swelled,

  With heart distracted still he bowed

  Farewell to all the following crowd,

  Turned to the driver and began

  To question thus the weary man:

  “Why was I brought, O free from blame,

  So fast, unknown for what I came?

  Yet fear of ill my heart appals,

  And all my wonted courage falls.

  For I have heard in days gone by

  The changes seen when monarchs die;

  And all those signs, O charioteer,

  I see to-day surround me here:

  Each kinsman’s house looks dark and grim,

  No hand delights to keep it trim:

  The beauty vanished, and the pride,

  The doors, unkept, stand open wide.

  No morning rites are offered there,

  No grateful incense loads the air,

  And all therein, with brows o’ercast,

  Sit joyless on the ground and fast.

  Their lovely chaplets dry and dead,

  Their courts unswept, with dust o’erspread,

  The temples of the Gods to-day

  No more look beautiful and gay.

  Neglected stands each holy shrine,

  Each image of a Lord divine.

  No shop where flowery wreaths are sold

  Is bright and busy as of old.

  The women and the men I mark

  Absorbed in fancies dull and dark,

  Their gloomy eyes with tears bedewed,

  A poor afflicted multitude.”

  His mind oppressed with woe and dread,

  Thus Bharat to his driver said,

  Viewed the dire signs Ayodhyá showed,

  And onward to the palace rode.

  Canto LXXII. Bharat’s Inquiry.

  HE ENTERED IN, he looked around,

  Nor in the house his father found;

  Then to his mother’s dwelling, bent

  To see her face, he quickly went.

  She saw her son, so long away,

  Returning after many a day,

  And from her golden seat in joy

  Sprung forward to her darling boy.

  Within the bower, no longer bright,

  Came Bharat lover of the right,

  And bending with observance sweet

  Clasped his dear mother’s lovely feet.

  Long kisses on his brow she pressed,

  And held her hero to her breast,

  Then fondly drew him to her knees,

  And questioned him in words like these:

  “How many nights have fled, since thou

  Leftest thy grandsire’s home, till now?

  By flying steeds so swiftly borne,

  Art thou not weak and travel-worn?

  How fares the king my father, tell:

  Is Yudhájit thine uncle well?

  And now, my son, at length declare

  The pleasure of the visit there.”

  Thus to the offspring of the king

  She spake with tender questioning,

  And to his mother made reply

  Young Bharat of the lotus eye:

  “The seventh night has come and fled

  Since from my grandsire’s home I sped:

  My mother’s sire is well, and he,

  Yudhájit, from all trouble free.

  The gold and every precious thing

  Presented by the conqueror king,

  The slower guards behind convey:

  I left them weary on the way.

  Urged by the men my father sent,

  My hasty course I hither bent:

  Now, I implore, an answer deign,

  And all I wish to know, explain.

  Unoccupied I now behold

  This couch of thine adorned with gold,

  And each of King Ikshváku’s race

  Appears with dark and gloomy face.

  The king is aye, my mother dear,

  Most constant in his visits here.

  To meet my sire I sought this spot:

  How is it that I find him not?

  I long to clasp my father’s feet:

  Say where he lingers, I entreat.

  Perchance the monarch may be seen

  Where dwells Kauśalyá, eldest queen.”

  His father’s fate, from him concealed,

  Kaikeyí to her son revealed:

  Told as glad news the story sad,

  For lust of sway had made her mad:

  “Thy father, O my darling, know,

  Has gone the way all life must go:

  Devout and famed, of lofty thought,

  In whom the good their refuge sought.”

  When Bharat pious, pure, and true,

  Heard the sad words which pierced him through,

  Grieved for the sire he loved so well

  Prostrate upon the ground he fell:

  Down fell the strong-armed hero, high

  Tossing his arms, and a sad cry,

  “Ah, woe is me, unhappy, slain!”

  Burst from his lips again, again,

  Afflicted for his father’s fate

  By grief’s intolerable weight,

  With every sense amazed and cowed

  The splendid hero wailed aloud:

  “Ah me, my royal father’s bed

  Of old a gentle radiance shed,

  Like the pure sky when clouds are past,

  And the moon’s light is o’er it cast:

  Ah, of its wisest lord bereft,

  It shows to-day faint radiance left,

  As when the moon has left the sky.

  Or mighty Ocean’s depths are dry.”

  With choking sobs, with many a tear,

  Pierced to the heart with grief sincere,

  The best of conquerors poured his sighs,

  And with his robe veiled face and eyes.

  Kaikeyí saw him fallen there,

  Godlike, afflicted, in despair,

  Used every art to move him thence,

  And tried him thus with eloquence:

  “Arise, arise, my dearest; why

  Wilt thou, famed Prince, so lowly lie?

  Not by such grief as this are moved

  Good men like thee, by all approved.

  The earth thy father nobly swayed,

  And rites to Heaven he duly paid.

  At length his race of life was run:

  Thou shouldst not mourn for him, my son.”

  Long on the ground he wept, and rolled

  From side to side, still unconsoled,

  And then, with bitter grief oppressed,

  His mother with these words addressed:

  “This joyful hope my bosom fed

  When from my grandsire’s halls I sped —

  “The king will throne his eldest son,

  And sacrifice, as should be done.”

  But all is changed, my hope was vain,

  And this sad heart is rent in twain,

  For my dear father’s face I miss,

  Who ever sought his loved ones’ bliss.

  But in my absence, mother, say,

  What sickness took my sire away?

  Ah, happy Ráma, happy they

  Allowed his funeral rites to pay!

  The glorious monarch has not learned

  That I his darling have returned,

  Or quickly had he hither sped,

  And pressed his kisses on my head.

  Where
is that hand whose gentle touch,

  Most soft and kind I loved so much,

  The hand that loved to brush away

  The dust that on his darling lay?

  Quick, bear the news to Ráma’s ear;

  Tell the great chief that I am here:

  Brother, and sire, and friend, and all

  Is he, and I his trusty thrall.

  For noble hearts, to virtue true,

  Their sires in elder brothers view.

  To clasp his feet I fain would bow:

  He is my hope and refuge now.

  What said my glorious sire, who knew

  Virtue and vice, so brave and true?

  Firm in his vows, dear lady, say,

  What said he ere he passed away?

  What was his rede to me? I crave

  To hear the last advice he gave.”

  Thus closely questioned by the youth,

  Kaikeyí spoke the mournful truth:

  “The high-souled monarch wept and sighed,

  For Ráma, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ, cried,

  Then, best of all who go to bliss,

  Passed to the world which follows this.

  “Ah, blessed are the people who

  Shall Ráma and his Sítá view,

  And Lakshmaṇ of the mighty arm,

  Returning free from scathe and harm.”

  Such were the words, the last of all,

  Thy father, ere he died, let fall,

  By Fate and Death’s dread coils enwound,

  As some great elephant is bound.”

  He heard, yet deeper in despair,

  Her lips this double woe declare,

  And with sad brow that showed his pain

  Questioned his mother thus again:

  “But where is he, of virtue tried,

  Who fills Kauśalyá’s heart with pride,

  Where is the noble Ráma? where

  Is Lakshmaṇ brave, and Sítá fair?”

  Thus pressed, the queen began to tell

  The story as each thing befell,

  And gave her son in words like these,

  The mournful news she meant to please:

  “The prince is gone in hermit dress

  To Daṇḍak’s mighty wilderness,

  And Lakshmaṇ brave and Sítá share

  The wanderings of the exile there.”

  Then Bharat’s soul with fear was stirred

  Lest Ráma from the right had erred,

  And jealous for ancestral fame,

  He put this question to the dame:

  “Has Ráma grasped with lawless hold

  A Bráhman’s house, or land, or gold?

  Has Ráma harmed with ill intent

  Some poor or wealthy innocent?

  Was Ráma, faithless to his vows,

  Enamoured of anothers spouse?

  Why was he sent to Daṇḍak’s wild,

  Like one who kills an unborn child?”

  He questioned thus: and she began

  To tell her deeds and crafty plan.

  Deceitful-hearted, fond, and blind

  As is the way of womankind:

  “No Bráhman’s wealth has Ráma seized,

  No dame his wandering fancy pleased;

  His very eyes he ne’er allows

  To gaze upon a neighbour’s spouse.

  But when I heard the monarch planned

  To give the realm to Ráma’s hand,

  I prayed that Ráma hence might flee,

  And claimed the throne, my son, for thee.

  The king maintained the name he bare,

  And did according to my prayer,

  And Ráma, with his brother, sent,

  And Sítá, forth to banishment.

  When his dear son was seen no more,

  The lord of earth was troubled sore:

  Too feeble with his grief to strive,

  He joined the elemental Five.

  Up then, most dutiful! maintain

  The royal state, arise, and reign.

  For thee, my darling son, for thee

  All this was planned and wrought by me.

  Come, cast thy grief and pain aside,

  With manly courage fortified.

  This town and realm are all thine own,

  And fear and grief are here unknown.

  Come, with Vaśishṭha’s guiding aid,

  And priests in ritual skilled

  Let the king’s funeral dues be paid,

  And every claim fulfilled.

  Perform his obsequies with all

  That suits his rank and worth,

  Then give the mandate to install

  Thyself as lord of earth.”

  Canto LXXIII. Kaikeyí Reproached.

  BUT WHEN HE heard the queen relate

  His brothers’ doom, his father’s fate,

  Thus Bharat to his mother said

  With burning grief disquieted:

  “Alas, what boots it now to reign,

  Struck down by grief and well-nigh slain?

  Ah, both are gone, my sire, and he

  Who was a second sire to me.

  Grief upon grief thy hand has made,

  And salt upon gashes laid:

  For my dear sire has died through thee,

  And Ráma roams a devotee.

  Thou camest like the night of Fate

  This royal house to devastate.

  Unwitting ill, my hapless sire

  Placed in his bosom coals of fire,

  And through thy crimes his death he met,

  O thou whose heart on sin is set.

  Shame of thy house! thy senseless deed

  Has reft all joy from Raghu’s seed.

  The truthful monarch, dear to fame,

  Received thee as his wedded dame,

  And by thy act to misery doomed

  Has died by flames of grief consumed.

  Kauśalyá and Sumitrá too

  The coming of my mother rue,

  And if they live oppressed by woe,

  For their dear sons their sad tears flow.

  Was he not ever good and kind, —

  That hero of the duteous mind?

  Skilled in all filial duties, he

  As a dear mother treated thee.

  Kauśalyá too, the eldest queen,

  Who far foresees with insight keen,

  Did she not ever show thee all

  A sister’s love at duty’s call?

  And hast thou from the kingdom chased

  Her son, with bark around his waist,

  To the wild wood, to dwell therein,

  And dost not sorrow for thy sin?

  The love I bare to Raghu’s son

  Thou knewest not, ambitious one,

  If thou hast wrought this impious deed

  For royal sway, in lawless greed.

  With him and Lakshmaṇ far away,

  What power have I the realm to sway?

  What hope will fire my bosom when

  I see no more these lords of men?

  The holy king, who loved the right

  Relied on Ráma’s power and might,

  His guardian and his glory, so

  Joys Meru in his woods below.

  How can I bear, a steer untrained,

  The load his mightier strength sustained?

  What power have I to brook alone

  This weight on feeble shoulders thrown?

  But if the needful power were bought

  By strength of mind and brooding thought,

  No triumph shall attend the dame

  Who dooms her son to lasting shame.

  Now should no doubt that son prevent

  From quitting thee on evil bent.

  But Ráma’s love o’erpowers my will,

  Who holds thee as his mother still.

  Whence did the thought, O thou whose eyes

  Are turned to sinful deeds, arise —

  A plan our ancient sires would hate,

  O fallen from thy virtuous state?

  For i
n the line from which we spring

  The eldest is anointed king:

  No monarchs from the rule decline,

  And, least of all, Ikshváku’s line.

  Our holy sires, to virtue true,

  Upon our race a lustre threw,

  But with subversive frenzy thou

  Hast marred our lineal honour now,

  Of lofty birth, a noble line

  Of previous kings is also thine:

  Then whence this hated folly? whence

  This sudden change that steals thy sense?

  Thou shalt not gain thine impious will,

  O thou whose thoughts are bent on ill,

  Thou from whose guilty hand descend

  These sinful blows my life to end.

  Now to the forest will I go,

  Thy cherished plans to overthrow,

  And bring my brother, free from stain,

  His people’s darling, home again.

  And Ráma, when again he turns,

  Whose glory like a beacon burns,

  In me a faithful slave shall find

  To serve him with contented mind.”

  Canto LXXIV. Bharat’s Lament.

  WHEN BHARAT’S ANGER-SHARPENED tongue

  Reproaches on the queen had flung,

  Again, with mighty rage possessed,

  The guilty dame he thus addressed:

  “Flee, cruel, wicked sinner, flee,

  Let not this kingdom harbour thee.

  Thou who hast thrown all right aside,

  Weep thou for me when I have died.

  Canst thou one charge against the king,

  Or the most duteous Ráma bring?

  The one thy sin to death has sent,

  The other chased to banishment.

  Our line’s destroyer, sin defiled

  Like one who kills an unborn child,

  Ne’er with thy lord in heaven to dwell,

  Thy portion shall be down in hell

  Because thy hand, that stayed for naught,

  This awful wickedness has wrought,

  And ruined him whom all held dear,

  My bosom too is stirred with fear.

  My father by thy sin is dead,

  And Ráma to the wood is fled;

  And of thy deed I bear the stain,

  And fameless in the world remain.

  Ambitious, evil-souled, in show

  My mother, yet my direst foe.

  My throning ne’er thine eyes shall bless,

  Thy husband’s wicked murderess.

  Thou art not Aśvapati’s child,

  That righteous king most sage and mild,

  But thou wast born a fiend, a foe

  My father’s house to overthrow.

  Thou who hast made Kauśalyá, pure,

  Gentle, affectionate, endure

  The loss of him who was her bliss, —

  What worlds await thee, Queen, for this?

  Was it not patent to thy sense