The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  I thank thee for thy gentle speech,

  For those we love are those we teach.

  ’Tis like thyself, O fair of face,

  ’Tis worthy of thy noble race:

  Dearer than life, thy feet are set

  In righteous paths they ne’er forget.”

  Thus to the Maithil monarch’s child,

  His own dear wife, in accents mild

  The high-souled hero said:

  Then to the holy groves which lay

  Beyond them fair to see, their way

  The bow-armed chieftain led.

  Canto XI. Agastya.

  RÁMA WENT FOREMOST of the three,

  Next Sítá, followed, fair to see,

  And Lakshmaṇ with his bow in hand

  Walked hindmost of the little band.

  As onward through the wood they went,

  With great delight their eyes were bent

  On rocky heights beside the way

  And lofty trees with blossoms gay;

  And streamlets running fair and fast

  The royal youths with Sítá passed.

  They watched the sáras and the drake

  On islets of the stream and lake,

  And gazed delighted on the floods

  Bright with gay birds and lotus buds.

  They saw in startled herds the roes,

  The passion-frenzied buffaloes,

  Wild elephants who fiercely tore

  The tender trees, and many a boar.

  A length of woodland way they passed,

  And when the sun was low at last

  A lovely stream-fed lake they spied,

  Two leagues across from side to side.

  Tall elephants fresh beauty gave

  To grassy bank and lilied wave,

  By many a swan and sáras stirred,

  Mallard, and gay-winged water-bird.

  From those sweet waters, loud and long,

  Though none was seen to wake the song,

  Swelled high the singer’s music blent

  With each melodious instrument.

  Ráma and car-borne Lakshmaṇ heard

  The charming strain, with wonder stirred,

  Turned on the margent of the lake

  To Dharmabhrit424 the sage, and spake:

  “Our longing souls, O hermit, burn

  This music of the lake to learn:

  We pray thee, noblest sage, explain

  The cause of the mysterious strain.”

  He, as the son of Raghu prayed,

  With swift accord his answer made,

  And thus the hermit, virtuous-souled,

  The story of the fair lake told:

  “Through every age ’tis known to fame,

  Panchápsaras425 its glorious name,

  By holy Máṇḍakarṇi wrought

  With power his rites austere had bought.

  For he, great votarist, intent

  On strictest rule his stern life spent.

  Ten thousand years the stream his bed,

  Ten thousand years on air he fed.

  Then on the blessed Gods who dwell

  In heavenly homes great terror fell:

  They gathered all, by Agni led,

  And counselled thus disquieted:

  “The hermit by ascetic pain

  The seat of one of us would gain.”

  Thus with their hearts by fear oppressed

  In full assembly spoke the Blest,

  And bade five loveliest nymphs, as fair

  As lightning in the evening air,

  Armed with their winning wiles, seduce

  From his stern vows the great recluse.

  Though lore of earth and heaven he knew,

  The hermit from his task they drew,

  And made the great ascetic slave

  To conquering love, the Gods to save.

  Each of the heavenly five became,

  Bound to the sage, his wedded dame;

  And he, for his beloved’s sake,

  Formed a fair palace neath the lake.

  Under the flood the ladies live,

  To joy and ease their days they give,

  And lap in bliss the hermit wooed

  From penance rites to youth renewed.

  So when the sportive nymphs within

  Those secret bowers their play begin,

  You hear the singers’ dulcet tones

  Blend sweetly with their tinkling zones.”

  “How wondrous are these words of thine!”

  Cried the famed chiefs of Raghu’s line,

  As thus they heard the sage unfold

  The marvels of the tale he told.

  As Ráma spake, his eyes were bent

  Upon a hermit settlement

  With light of heavenly lore endued,

  With sacred grass and vesture strewed.

  His wife and brother by his side,

  Within the holy bounds he hied,

  And there, with honour entertained

  By all the saints, a while remained.

  In time, by due succession led,

  Each votary’s cot he visited,

  And then the lord of martial lore,

  Returned where he had lodged before.

  Here for the months, content, he stayed,

  There for a year his visit paid:

  Here for four months his home would fix,

  There, as it chanced, for five or six.

  Here for eight months and there for three

  The son of Raghu’s stay would be:

  Here weeks, there fortnights, more or less,

  He spent in tranquil happiness.

  As there the hero dwelt at ease

  Among those holy devotees,

  In days untroubled o’er his head

  Ten circling years of pleasure fled.

  So Raghu’s son in duty trained

  A while in every cot remained,

  Then with his dame retraced the road

  To good Sutíkshṇa’s calm abode.

  Hailed by the saints with honours due

  Near to the hermit’s home he drew,

  And there the tamer of his foes

  Dwelt for a time in sweet repose.

  One day within that holy wood

  By saint Sutíkshṇa Ráma stood,

  And thus the prince with reverence meek

  To that high sage began to speak:

  “In the wide woodlands that extend

  Around us, lord most reverend,

  As frequent voice of rumour tells,

  Agastya, saintliest hermit, dwells.

  So vast the wood, I cannot trace

  The path to reach his dwelling place,

  Nor, searching unassisted, find

  That hermit of the thoughtful mind.

  I with my wife and brother fain

  Would go, his favour to obtain,

  Would seek him in his lone retreat

  And the great saint with reverence greet.

  This one desire, O Master, long

  Cherished within my heart, is strong,

  That I may pay of free accord

  My duty to that hermit lord.”

  As thus the prince whose heart was bent

  On virtue told his firm intent,

  The good Sutíkshṇa’s joy rose high,

  And thus in turn he made reply:

  “The very thing, O Prince, which thou

  Hast sought, I wished to urge but now,

  Bid thee with wife and brother see

  Agastya, glorious devotee.

  I count this thing an omen fair

  That thou shouldst thus thy wish declare,

  And I, my Prince, will gladly teach

  The way Agastya’s home to reach.

  Southward, dear son, direct thy feet

  Eight leagues beyond this still retreat:

  Agastya’s hermit brother there

  Dwells in a home most bright and fair.

  ’Tis on a knoll of woody ground,

  With many a br
anching Pippal426 crowned:

  There sweet birds’ voices ne’er are mute,

  And trees are gay with flower and fruit.

  There many a lake gleams bright and cool,

  And lilies deck each pleasant pool,

  While swan, and crane, and mallard’s wings

  Are lovely in the water-springs.

  There for one night, O Ráma, stay,

  And with the dawn pursue thy way.

  Still farther, bending southward, by

  The thicket’s edge the course must lie,

  And thou wilt see, two leagues from thence

  Agastya’s lovely residence,

  Set in the woodland’s fairest spot,

  All varied foliage decks the cot:

  There Sítá, Lakshmaṇ thou, at ease

  May spend sweet hours neath shady trees,

  For all of noblest growth are found

  Luxuriant on that bosky ground.

  If it be still thy firm intent

  To see that saint preëminent,

  O mighty counsellor, this day

  Depart upon thine onward way.”

  The hermit spake, and Ráma bent

  His head, with Lakshmaṇ, reverent,

  And then with him and Janak’s child

  Set out to trace the forest wild.

  He saw dark woods that fringed the road,

  And distant hills like clouds that showed,

  And, as the way he followed, met

  With many a lake and rivulet.

  So passing on with ease where led

  The path Sutíkshṇa bade him tread,

  The hero with exulting breast

  His brother in these words addressed:

  “Here, surely, is the home, in sight,

  Of that illustrious anchorite:

  Here great Agastya’s brother leads

  A life intent on holy deeds.

  Warned of each guiding mark and sign,

  I see them all herein combine:

  I see the branches bending low

  Beneath the flowers and fruit they show.

  A soft air from the forest springs,

  Fresh from the odorous grass, and brings

  A spicy fragrance as it flees

  O’er the ripe fruit of Pippal trees.

  See, here and there around us high

  Piled up in heaps cleft billets lie,

  And holy grass is gathered, bright

  As strips of shining lazulite.

  Full in the centre of the shade

  The hermits’ holy fire is laid:

  I see its smoke the pure heaven streak

  Dense as a big cloud’s dusky peak.

  The twice-born men their steps retrace

  From each sequestered bathing-place,

  And each his sacred gift has brought

  Of blossoms which his hands have sought.

  Of all these signs, dear brother, each

  Agrees with good Sutíkshṇa’s speech,

  And doubtless in this holy bound

  Agastya’s brother will be found.

  Agastya once, the worlds who viewed

  With love, a Deathlike fiend subdued,

  And armed with mighty power, obtained

  By holy works, this grove ordained

  To be a refuge and defence

  From all oppressors’ violence.

  In days of yore within this place

  Two brothers fierce of demon race,

  Vátápi dire and Ilval, dwelt,

  And slaughter mid the Bráhmans dealt.

  A Bráhman’s form, the fiend to cloak,

  Fierce Ilval wore, and Sanskrit spoke,

  And twice-born sages would invite

  To solemnize some funeral rite.

  His brother’s flesh, concealed within

  A ram’s false shape and borrowed skin, —

  As men are wont at funeral feasts, —

  He dressed and fed those gathered priests.

  The holy men, unweeting ill,

  Took of the food and ate their fill.

  Then Ilval with a mighty shout

  Exclaimed “Vátápi, issue out.”

  Soon as his brother’s voice he heard,

  The fiend with ram-like bleating stirred:

  Rending in pieces every frame,

  Forth from the dying priests he came.

  So they who changed their forms at will

  Thousands of Bráhmans dared to kill, —

  Fierce fiends who loved each cruel deed,

  And joyed on bleeding flesh to feed.

  Agastya, mighty hermit, pressed

  To funeral banquet like the rest,

  Obedient to the Gods’ appeal

  Ate up the monster at a meal.

  “’Tis done, ’tis done,” fierce Ilval cried,

  And water for his hands supplied:

  Then lifting up his voice he spake:

  “Forth, brother, from thy prison break.”

  Then him who called the fiend, who long

  Had wrought the suffering Bráhmans wrong,

  Thus thoughtful-souled Agastya, best

  Of hermits, with a smile addressed:

  “How, Rákshas, is the fiend empowered

  To issue forth whom I devoured?

  Thy brother in a ram’s disguise

  Is gone where Yáma’s kingdom lies.”

  When from the words Agastya said

  He knew his brother fiend was dead,

  His soul on fire with vengeful rage,

  Rushed the night-rover at the sage.

  One lightning glance of fury, hot

  As fire, the glorious hermit shot,

  As the fiend neared him in his stride,

  And straight, consumed to dust, he died.

  In pity for the Bráhmans’ plight

  Agastya wrought this deed of might:

  This grove which lakes and fair trees grace

  In his great brother’s dwelling place.”

  As Ráma thus the tale rehearsed,

  And with Sumitrá’s son conversed,

  The setting sun his last rays shed,

  And evening o’er the land was spread.

  A while the princely brothers stayed

  And even rites in order paid,

  Then to the holy grove they drew

  And hailed the saint with honour due.

  With courtesy was Ráma met

  By that illustrious anchoret,

  And for one night he rested there

  Regaled with fruit and hermit fare.

  But when the night had reached its close,

  And the sun’s glorious circle rose,

  The son of Raghu left his bed

  And to the hermit’s brother said:

  “Well rested in thy hermit cell,

  I stand, O saint, to bid farewell;

  For with thy leave I journey hence

  Thy brother saint to reverence.”

  “Go, Ráma go,” the sage replied:

  Then from the cot the chieftain hied.

  And while the pleasant grove he viewed,

  The path the hermit showed, pursued.

  Of every leaf, of changing hue.

  Plants, trees by hundreds round him grew,

  With joyous eyes he looked on all,

  Then Jak,427 the wild rice, and Sál;428

  He saw the red Hibiscus glow,

  He saw the flower-tipped creeper throw

  The glory of her clusters o’er

  Tall trees that loads of blossom bore.

  Some, elephants had prostrate laid,

  In some the monkeys leapt and played,

  And through the whole wide forest rang

  The charm of gay birds as they sang.

  Then Ráma of the lotus eye

  To Lakshmaṇ turned who followed nigh,

  And thus the hero youth impressed

  With Fortune’s favouring signs, addressed:

  “How soft the leaves of every tree,

  How tame each bir
d and beast we see!

  Soon the fair home shall we behold

  Of that great hermit tranquil-souled.

  The deed the good Agastya wrought

  High fame throughout the world has bought:

  I see, I see his calm retreat

  That balms the pain of weary feet.

  Where white clouds rise from flames beneath,

  Where bark-coats lie with many a wreath,

  Where silvan things, made gentle, throng,

  And every bird is loud in song.

  With ruth for suffering creatures filled,

  A deathlike fiend with might he killed,

  And gave this southern realm to be

  A refuge, from oppression free.

  There stands his home, whose dreaded might

  Has put the giant crew to flight,

  Who view with envious eyes afar

  The peaceful shades they cannot mar.

  Since that most holy saint has made

  His dwelling in this lovely shade,

  Checked by his might the giant brood

  Have dwelt in peace with souls subdued.

  And all this southern realm, within

  Whose bounds no fiend may entrance win,

  Now bears a name which naught may dim,

  Made glorious through the worlds by him.

  When Vindhya, best of hills, would stay

  The journey of the Lord of Day,

  Obedient to the saint’s behest

  He bowed for aye his humbled crest.

  That hoary hermit, world-renowned

  For holy deeds, within this ground

  Has set his pure and blessed home,

  Where gentle silvan creatures roam.

  Agastya, whom the worlds revere,

  Pure saint to whom the good are dear,

  To us his guests all grace will show,

  Enriched with blessings ere we go.

  I to this aim each thought will turn,

  The favour of the saint to earn,

  That here in comfort may be spent

  The last years of our banishment.

  Here sanctities and high saints stand,

  Gods, minstrels of the heavenly band;

  Upon Agastya’s will they wait,

  And serve him, pure and temperate.

  The liar’s tongue, the tyrant’s mind

  Within these bounds no home may find:

  No cheat, no sinner here can be:

  So holy and so good is he.

  Here birds and lords of serpent race,

  Spirits and Gods who haunt the place,

  Content with scanty fare remain,

  As merit’s meed they strive to gain.

  Made perfect here, the saints supreme,

  On cars that mock the Day-God’s gleam, —

  Their mortal bodies cast aside, —

  Sought heaven transformed and glorified,

  Here Gods to living things, who win

  Their favour, pure from cruel sin,

  Give royal rule and many a good,

  Immortal life and spirithood.