The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  That Ráma was his friends’ defence,

  Kauśalyá’s own true child most dear,

  The eldest and his father’s peer?

  Men in the son not only trace

  The father’s figure, form, and face,

  But in his heart they also find

  The offspring of the father’s mind;

  And hence, though dear their kinsmen are,

  To mothers sons are dearer far.

  There goes an ancient legend how

  Good Surabhí, the God-loved cow,

  Saw two of her dear children strain,

  Drawing a plough and faint with pain.

  She saw them on the earth outworn,

  Toiling till noon from early morn,

  And as she viewed her children’s woe,

  A flood of tears began to flow.

  As through the air beneath her swept

  The Lord of Gods, the drops she wept,

  Fine, laden with delicious smell,

  Upon his heavenly body fell.

  And Indra lifted up his eyes

  And saw her standing in the skies,

  Afflicted with her sorrow’s weight,

  Sad, weeping, all disconsolate.

  The Lord of Gods in anxious mood

  Thus spoke in suppliant attitude:

  “No fear disturbs our rest, and how

  Come this great dread upon thee now?

  Whence can this woe upon thee fall,

  Say, gentle one who lovest all?”

  Thus spake the God who rules the skies,

  Indra, the Lord supremely wise;

  And gentle Surabhí, well learned

  In eloquence, this speech returned:

  “Not thine the fault, great God, not thine

  And guiltless are the Lords divine:

  I mourn two children faint with toil,

  Labouring hard in stubborn soil.

  Wasted and sad I see them now,

  While the sun beats on neck and brow,

  Still goaded by the cruel hind, —

  No pity in his savage mind.

  O Indra, from this body sprang

  These children, worn with many a pang.

  For this sad sight I mourn, for none

  Is to the mother like her son.”

  He saw her weep whose offspring feed

  In thousands over hill and mead,

  And knew that in a mother’s eye

  Naught with a son, for love, can vie.

  He deemed her, when the tears that came

  From her sad eyes bedewed his frame,

  Laden with their celestial scent,

  Of living things most excellent.

  If she these tears of sorrow shed

  Who many a thousand children bred,

  Think what a life of woe is left

  Kauśalyá, of her Ráma reft.

  An only son was hers and she

  Is rendered childless now by thee.

  Here and hereafter, for thy crime,

  Woe is thy lot through endless time.

  And now, O Queen, without delay,

  With all due honour will I pay

  Both to my brother and my sire

  The rites their several fates require.

  Back to Ayodhyá will I bring

  The long-armed chief, her lord and king,

  And to the wood myself betake

  Where hermit saints their dwelling make.

  For, sinner both in deed and thought!

  This hideous crime which thou hast wrought

  I cannot bear, or live to see

  The people’s sad eyes bent on me.

  Begone, to Daṇḍak wood retire,

  Or cast thy body to the fire,

  Or bind around thy neck the rope:

  No other refuge mayst thou hope.

  When Ráma, lord of valour true,

  Has gained the earth, his right and due,

  Then, free from duty’s binding debt,

  My vanished sin shall I forget.”

  Thus like an elephant forced to brook

  The goading of the driver’s hook,

  Quick panting like a serpent maimed,

  He fell to earth with rage inflamed.

  Canto LXXV. The Abjuration.

  A WHILE HE lay: he rose at length,

  And slowly gathering sense and strength,

  With angry eyes which tears bedewed,

  The miserable queen he viewed,

  And spake with keen reproach to her

  Before each lord and minister:

  “No lust have I for kingly sway,

  My mother I no more obey:

  Naught of this consecration knew

  Which Daśaratha kept in view.

  I with Śatrughna all the time

  Was dwelling in a distant clime:

  I knew of Ráma’s exile naught,

  That hero of the noble thought:

  I knew not how fair Sítá went,

  And Lakshmaṇ, forth to banishment.”

  Thus high-souled Bharat, mid the crowd,

  Lifted his voice and cried aloud.

  Kauśalyá heard, she raised her head,

  And quickly to Sumitrá said:

  “Bharat, Kaikeyí’s son is here, —

  Hers whose fell deeds I loathe and fear:

  That youth of foresight keen I fain

  Would meet and see his face again.”

  Thus to Sumitrá spake the dame,

  And straight to Bharat’s presence came

  With altered mien, neglected dress,

  Trembling and faint with sore distress.

  Bharat, Śatrughna by his side,

  To meet her, toward her palace hied.

  And when the royal dame they viewed

  Distressed with dire solicitude,

  Sad, fallen senseless on the ground,

  About her neck their arms they wound.

  The noble matron prostrate there,

  Embraced, with tears, the weeping pair,

  And with her load of grief oppressed,

  To Bharat then these words addressed:

  “Now all is thine, without a foe,

  This realm for which thou longest so.

  Ah, soon Kaikeyí’s ruthless hand

  Has won the empire of the land,

  And made my guiltless Ráma flee

  Dressed like some lonely devotee.

  Herein what profit has the queen,

  Whose eye delights in havoc, seen?

  Me also, me ‘twere surely good

  To banish to the distant wood,

  To dwell amid the shades that hold

  My famous son with limbs like gold.

  Nay, with the sacred fire to guide,

  Will I, Sumitrá by my side,

  Myself to the drear wood repair

  And seek the son of Raghu there.

  This land which rice and golden corn

  And wealth of every kind adorn,

  Car, elephant, and steed, and gem, —

  She makes thee lord of it and them.”

  With taunts like these her bitter tongue

  The heart of blameless Bharat wrung

  And direr pangs his bosom tore

  Than when the lancet probes a sore.

  With troubled senses all astray

  Prone at her feet he fell and lay.

  With loud lament a while he plained,

  And slowly strength and sense regained.

  With suppliant hand to hand applied

  He turned to her who wept and sighed,

  And thus bespake the queen, whose breast

  With sundry woes was sore distressed:

  “Why these reproaches, noble dame?

  I, knowing naught, am free from blame.

  Thou knowest well what love was mine

  For Ráma, chief of Raghu’s line.

  O, never be his darkened mind

  To Scripture’s guiding lore inclined,

  By whose consent the prince who led

  The good
, the truthful hero, fled.

  May he obey the vilest lord,

  Offend the sun with act abhorred,350

  And strike a sleeping cow, who lent

  His voice to Ráma’s banishment.

  May the good king who all befriends,

  And, like his sons, the people tends,

  Be wronged by him who gave consent

  To noble Ráma’s banishment.

  On him that king’s injustice fall,

  Who takes, as lord, a sixth of all,

  Nor guards, neglectful of his trust,

  His people, as a ruler must.

  The crime of those who swear to fee,

  At holy rites, some devotee,

  And then the promised gift deny,

  Be his who willed the prince should fly.

  When weapons clash and heroes bleed,

  With elephant and harnessed steed,

  Ne’er, like the good, be his to fight

  Whose heart allowed the prince’s flight.

  Though taught with care by one expert

  May he the Veda’s text pervert,

  With impious mind on evil bent,

  Whose voice approved the banishment.

  May he with traitor lips reveal

  Whate’er he promised to conceal,

  And bruit abroad his friend’s offence,

  Betrayed by generous confidence.

  No wife of equal lineage born

  The wretch’s joyless home adorn:

  Ne’er may he do one virtuous deed,

  And dying see no child succeed.

  When in the battle’s awful day

  Fierce warriors stand in dread array,

  Let the base coward turn and fly,

  And smitten by the foeman, die.

  Long may he wander, rags his wear,

  Doomed in his hand a skull to bear,

  And like an idiot beg his bread,

  Who gave consent when Ráma fled.

  His sin who holy rites forgets,

  Asleep when shows the sun and sets,

  A load upon his soul shall lie

  Whose will allowed the prince to fly.

  His sin who loves his Master’s dame,

  His, kindler of destructive flame,

  His who betrays his trusting friend

  Shall, mingled all, on him descend.

  By him no reverence due be paid

  To blessed God or parted shade:

  May sire and mother’s sacred name

  In vain from him obedience claim.

  Ne’er may he go where dwell the good,

  Nor win their fame and neighbourhood,

  But lose all hopes of bliss to-day,

  Who willed the prince should flee away.

  May he deceive the poor and weak

  Who look to him and comfort seek,

  Betray the suppliants who complain,

  And make the hopeful hope in vain.

  Long may his wife his kiss expect,

  And pine away in cold neglect.

  May he his lawful love despise,

  And turn on other dames his eyes,

  Fool, on forbidden joys intent,

  Whose will allowed the banishment.

  His sin who deadly poison throws

  To spoil the water as it flows,

  Lay on the wretch its burden dread

  Who gave consent when Ráma fled.”351

  Thus with his words he undeceived

  Kauśalyá’s troubled heart, who grieved

  For son and husband reft away;

  Then prostrate on the ground he lay.

  Him as he lay half-senseless there,

  Freed by the mighty oaths he sware,

  Kauśalyá, by her woe distressed,

  With melancholy words addressed:

  “Anew, my son, this sorrow springs

  To rend my heart with keener stings:

  These awful oaths which thou hast sworn

  My breast with double grief have torn.

  Thy soul, and faithful Lakshmaṇ’s too,

  Are still, thank Heaven! to virtue true.

  True to thy promise, thou shalt gain

  The mansions which the good obtain.”

  Then to her breast that youth she drew,

  Whose sweet fraternal love she knew,

  And there in strict embraces held

  The hero, as her tears outwelled.

  And Bharat’s heart grew sick and faint

  With grief and oft-renewed complaint,

  And all his senses were distraught

  By the great woe that in him wrought.

  Thus he lay and still bewailed

  With sighs and loud lament

  Till all his strength and reason failed,

  The hours of night were spent.

  Canto LXXVI. The Funeral.

  THE SAINT VAŚISHṬHA, best of all

  Whose words with moving wisdom fall,

  Bharat, Kaikeyí’s son, addressed,

  Whom burning fires of grief distressed:

  “O Prince, whose fame is widely spread,

  Enough of grief: be comforted.

  The time is come: arise, and lay

  Upon the pyre the monarch’s clay.”

  He heard the words Vaśishṭha spoke,

  And slumbering resolution woke.

  Then skilled in all the laws declare,

  He bade his friends the rites prepare.

  They raised the body from the oil,

  And placed it, dripping, on the soil;

  Then laid it on a bed, whereon

  Wrought gold and precious jewels shone.

  There, pallor o’er his features spread,

  The monarch, as in sleep, lay dead.

  Then Bharat sought his father’s side,

  And lifted up his voice and cried:

  “O King, and has thy heart designed

  To part and leave thy son behind?

  Make Ráma flee, who loves the right,

  And Lakshmaṇ of the arm of might?

  Whither, great Monarch, wilt thou go

  And leave this people in their woe,

  Mourning their hero, wild with grief,

  Of Ráma reft, their lion chief?

  Ah, who will guard the people well

  Who in Ayodhyá’s city dwell,

  When thou, my sire, hast sought the sky,

  And Ráma has been forced to fly?

  In widowed woe, bereft of thee,

  The land no more is fair to see:

  The city, to my aching sight,

  Is gloomy as a moonless night.”

  Thus, with o’erwhelming sorrow pained,

  Sad Bharat by the bed complained:

  And thus Vaśishṭha, holy sage,

  Spoke his deep anguish to assuage:

  “O Lord of men, no longer stay;

  The last remaining duties pay:

  Haste, mighty-armed, as I advise,

  The funeral rites to solemnize.”

  And Bharat heard Vaśishṭha’s rede

  With due attention and agreed.

  He summoned straight from every side

  Chaplain, and priest, and holy guide.

  The sacred fires he bade them bring

  Forth from the chapel of the king,

  Wherein the priests in order due,

  And ministers, the offerings threw.

  Distraught in mind, with sob and tear,

  They laid the body on a bier,

  And servants, while their eyes brimmed o’er

  The monarch from the palace bore.

  Another band of mourners led

  The long procession of the dead:

  Rich garments in the way they cast,

  And gold and silver, as they passed.

  Then other hands the corse bedewed

  With fragrant juices that exude

  From sandal, cedar, aloe, pine,

  And every perfume rare and fine.

  Then priestly hands the mighty dead

  Upon the pyre depos
ited.

  The sacred fires they tended next,

  And muttered low each funeral text;

  And priestly singers who rehearse

  The Śaman352 sang their holy verse.

  Forth from the town in litters came,

  Or chariots, many a royal dame,

  And honoured so the funeral ground,

  With aged followers ringed around.

  With steps in inverse order bent,353

  The priests in sad procession went

  Around the monarch’s burning pyre

  Who well had nursed each sacred fire:

  With Queen Kauśalyá and the rest,

  Their tender hearts with woe distressed.

  The voice of women, shrill and clear

  As screaming curlews, smote the ear,

  As from a thousand voices rose

  The shriek that tells of woman’s woes.

  Then weeping, faint, with loud lament,

  Down Sarjú’s shelving bank they went.

  There standing on the river side

  With Bharat, priest, and peer,

  Their lips the women purified

  With water fresh and clear.

  Returning to the royal town,

  Their eyes with tear-drops filled,

  Ten days on earth they laid them down,

  And wept till grief was stilled.

  Canto LXXVII. The Gathering Of The Ashes.

  THE TENTH DAY passed: the prince again

  Was free from every legal stain.

  He bade them on the twelfth the great

  Remaining honour celebrate.

  Much gold he gave, and gems, and food,

  To all the Bráhman multitude,

  And goats whose hair was white and fine,

  And many a thousand head of kine:

  Slaves, men and damsels, he bestowed,

  And many a car and fair abode:

  Such gifts he gave the Bráhman race

  His father’s obsequies to grace.

  Then when the morning’s earliest ray

  Appeared upon the thirteenth day,

  Again the hero wept and sighed

  Distraught and sorrow-stupefied;

  Drew, sobbing in his anguish, near,

  The last remaining debt to clear,

  And at the bottom of the pyre,

  He thus bespake his royal sire:

  “O father, hast thou left me so,

  Deserted in my friendless woe,

  When he to whom the charge was given

  To keep me, to the wood is driven?

  Her only son is forced away

  Who was his helpless mother’s stay:

  Ah, whither, father, art thou fled;

  Leaving the queen uncomforted?”

  He looked upon the pile where lay

  The bones half-burnt and ashes grey,

  And uttering a piteous moan,

  Gave way, by anguish overthrown.

  Then as his tears began to well,