The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

  Cast to the ground the fragments lie,

  And still their glory charms the eye.

  A bow so mighty sure was planned

  For heavenly God or giant’s hand.

  Whose was this coat of golden mail

  Which, though its lustre now is pale,

  Shone like the sun of morning, bright

  With studs of glittering lazulite?

  Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this bloom-wreathed shade

  With all its hundred ribs displayed?

  This screen, most meet for royal brow,

  With broken staff lies useless now.

  And these tall asses, goblin-faced,

  With plates of golden harness graced,

  Whose hideous forms are stained with gore

  Who is the lord whose yoke they bore?

  Whose was this pierced and broken car

  That shoots a flame-like blaze afar?

  Whose these spent shafts at random spread,

  Each fearful with its iron head, —

  With golden mountings fair to see,

  Long as a chariot’s axle-tree?

  These quivers see, which, rent in twain,

  Their sheaves of arrows still contain.

  Whose was this driver? Dead and cold,

  His hands the whip and reins still hold.

  See, Lakshmaṇ, here the foot I trace

  Of man, nay, one of giant race.

  The hatred that I nursed of old

  Grows mightier now a hundred fold

  Against these giants, fierce of heart,

  Who change their forms by magic art.

  Slain, eaten by the giant press,

  Or stolen is the votaress,

  Nor could her virtue bring defence

  To Sítá seized and hurried hence.

  O, if my love be slain or lost

  All hope of bliss for me is crossed.

  The power of all the worlds were vain

  To bring one joy to soothe my pain.

  The spirits with their blinded eyes

  Would look in wonder, and despise

  The Lord who made the worlds, the great

  Creator when compassionate.

  And so, I ween, the Immortals turn

  Cold eyes upon me now, and spurn

  The weakling prompt at pity’s call,

  Devoted to the good of all.

  But from this day behold me changed,

  From every gentle grace estranged.

  Now be it mine all life to slay,

  And sweep these cursed fiends away.

  As the great sun leaps up the sky,

  And the cold moonbeams fade and die,

  So vengeance rises in my breast,

  One passion conquering all the rest.

  Gandharvas in their radiant place,

  The Yakshas, and the giant race,

  Kinnars and men shall look in vain

  For joy they ne’er shall see again.

  The anguish of my great despair,

  O Lakshmaṇ, fills the heaven and air;

  And I in wrath all life will slay

  Within the triple world to-day.

  Unless the Gods in heaven who dwell

  Restore my Sítá safe and well,

  I armed with all the fires of Fate,

  The triple world will devastate.

  The troubled stars from heaven shall fall,

  The moon be wrapped in gloomy pall,

  The fire be quenched, the wind be stilled,

  The radiant sun grow dark and chilled;

  Crushed every mountain’s towering pride,

  And every lake and river dried,

  Dead every creeper, plant, and tree,

  And lost for aye the mighty sea.

  Thou shalt the world this day behold

  In wild disorder uncontrolled,

  With dying life which naught defends

  From the fierce storm my bowstring sends.

  My shafts this day, for Sítá’s sake,

  The life of every fiend shall take.

  The Gods this day shall see the force

  That wings my arrows on their course,

  And mark how far that course is held,

  By my unsparing wrath impelled.

  No God, not one of Daitya strain,

  Goblin or Rákshas shall remain.

  My wrath shall end the worlds, and all

  Demons and Gods therewith shall fall.

  Each world which Gods, the Dánav race,

  And giants make their dwelling place,

  Shall fall beneath my arrows sent

  In fury when my bow is bent.

  The arrows loosened from my string

  Confusion on the worlds shall bring.

  For she is lost or breathes no more,

  Nor will the Gods my love restore.

  Hence all on earth with life and breath

  This day I dedicate to death.

  All, till my darling they reveal,

  The fury of my shafts shall feel.”

  Thus as he spake by rage impelled,

  Red grew his eyes, his fierce lips swelled.

  His bark coat round his form he drew

  And coiled his hermit braids anew,

  Like Rudra when he yearned to slay

  The demon Tripur509 in the fray.

  So looked the hero brave and wise,

  The fury flashing from his eyes.

  Then Ráma, conqueror of the foe,

  From Lakshmaṇ’s hand received his bow,

  Strained the great string, and laid thereon

  A deadly dart that flashed and shone,

  And spake these words as fierce in ire

  As He who ends the worlds with fire:

  “As age and time and death and fate

  All life with checkless power await,

  So Lakshmaṇ in my wrath to-day

  My vengeful might shall brook no stay,

  Unless this day I see my dame

  In whose sweet form is naught to blame, —

  Yea, as before, my love behold

  Fair with bright teeth and perfect mould,

  This world shall feel a deadly blow

  Destroyed with ruthless overthrow,

  And serpent lords and Gods of air,

  Gandharvas, men, the doom shall share.”

  Canto LXVI. Lakshman’s Speech.

  HE STOOD INCENSED with eyes of flame,

  Still mourning for his ravished dame,

  Determined, like the fire of Fate,

  To leave the wide world desolate.

  His ready bow the hero eyed,

  And as again, again he sighed,

  The triple world would fain consume

  Like Hara510 in the day of doom.

  Then Lakshmaṇ moved with sorrow viewed

  His brother in unwonted mood,

  And reverent palm to palm applied,

  Thus spoke with lips which terror dried

  “Thy heart was ever soft and kind,

  To every creature’s good inclined.

  Cast not thy tender mood away,

  Nor yield to anger’s mastering sway.

  The moon for gentle grace is known,

  The sun has splendour all his own,

  The restless wind is free and fast,

  And earth in patience unsurpassed.

  So glory with her noble fruit

  Is thine eternal attribute.

  O, let not, for the sin of one,

  The triple world be all undone.

  I know not whose this car that lies

  In fragments here before our eyes,

  Nor who the chiefs who met and fought,

  Nor what the prize the foemen sought;

  Who marked the ground with hoof and wheel,

  Or whose the hand that plied the steel

  Which left this spot, the battle o’er,

  Thus sadly dyed with drops of gore.

  Searching with utmost care I view

  The signs of one and not of two.

>   Where’er I turn mine eyes I trace

  No mighty host about the place.

  Then mete not out for one offence

  This all-involving recompense.

  For kings should use the sword they bear,

  But mild in time should learn to spare,

  Thou, ever moved by misery’s call,

  Wast the great hope and stay of all.

  Throughout this world who would not blame

  This outrage on thy ravished dame?

  Gandharvas, Dánavs, Gods, the trees,

  The rocks, the rivers, and the seas,

  Can ne’er in aught thy soul offend,

  As one whom holiest rites befriend.

  But him who dared to steal the dame

  Pursue, O King, with ceaseless aim,

  With me, the hermits’ holy band,

  And thy great bow to arm thy hand

  By every mighty flood we’ll seek,

  Each wood, each hill from base to peak.

  To the fair homes of Gods we’ll fly,

  And bright Gandharvas in the sky,

  Until we reach, where’er he be,

  The wretch who stole thy spouse from thee.

  Then if the Gods will not restore

  Thy Sítá when the search is o’er,

  Then, royal lord of Kośal’s land,

  No longer hold thy vengeful hand.

  If meekness, prayer, and right be weak

  To bring thee back the dame we seek,

  Up, brother, with a deadly shower

  Of gold-bright shafts thy foes o’erpower,

  Fierce as the flashing levin sent

  From King Mahendra’s firmament.

  Canto LXVII. Ráma Appeased.

  AS RÁMA, PIERCED by sorrow’s sting,

  Lamented like a helpless thing,

  And by his mighty woe distraught

  Was lost in maze of troubled thought,

  Sumitrá’s son with loving care

  Consoled him in his wild despair,

  And while his feet he gently pressed

  With words like these the chief addressed:

  “For sternest vow and noblest deed

  Was Daśaratha blessed with seed.

  Thee for his son the king obtained,

  Like Amrit by the Gods regained.

  Thy gentle graces won his heart,

  And all too weak to live apart

  The monarch died, as Bharat told,

  And lives on high mid Gods enrolled.

  If thou, O Ráma, wilt not bear

  This grief which fills thee with despair,

  How shall a weaker man e’er hope,

  Infirm and mean, with woe to cope?

  Take heart, I pray thee, noblest chief:

  What man who breathes is free from grief?

  Misfortunes come and burn like flame,

  Then fly as quickly as they came.

  Yayáti son of Nahush reigned

  With Indra on the throne he gained.

  But falling for a light offence

  He mourned a while the consequence.

  Vaśishṭha, reverend saint and sage,

  Priest of our sire from youth to age,

  Begot a hundred sons, but they

  Were smitten in a single day.511

  And she, the queen whom all revere,

  The mother whom we hold so dear,

  The earth herself not seldom feels

  Fierce fever when she shakes and reels.

  And those twin lights, the world’s great eyes,

  On which the universe relies, —

  Does not eclipse at times assail

  Their brilliance till their fires grow pale?

  The mighty Powers, the Immortal Blest

  Bend to a law which none contest.

  No God, no bodied life is free

  From conquering Fate’s supreme decree.

  E’en Śakra’s self must reap the meed

  Of virtue and of sinful deed.

  And O great lord of men, wilt thou

  Helpless beneath thy misery bow?

  No, if thy dame be lost or dead,

  O hero, still be comforted,

  Nor yield for ever to thy woe

  O’ermastered like the mean and low.

  Thy peers, with keen far-reaching eyes,

  Spend not their hours in ceaseless sighs;

  In dire distress, in whelming ill

  Their manly looks are hopeful still.

  To this, great chief, thy reason bend,

  And earnestly the truth perpend.

  By reason’s aid the wisest learn

  The good and evil to discern.

  With sin and goodness scarcely known

  Faint light by chequered lives is shown;

  Without some clear undoubted deed

  We mark not how the fruits succeed.

  In time of old, O thou most brave,

  To me thy lips such counsel gave.

  Vṛihaspati512 can scarcely find

  New wisdom to instruct thy mind.

  For thine is wit and genius high

  Meet for the children of the sky.

  I rouse that heart benumbed by pain

  And call to vigorous life again.

  Be manly godlike vigour shown;

  Put forth that noblest strength, thine own.

  Strive, best of old Ikshváku’s strain,

  Strive till the conquered foe be slain.

  Where is the profit or the joy

  If thy fierce rage the worlds destroy?

  Search till thou find the guilty foe,

  Then let thy hand no mercy show.”

  Canto LXVIII. Jatáyus.

  THUS FAITHFUL LAKSHMAṆ strove to cheer

  The prince with counsel wise and clear.

  Who, prompt to seize the pith of all,

  Let not that wisdom idly fall.

  With vigorous effort he restrained

  The passion in his breast that reigned,

  And leaning on his bow for rest

  His brother Lakshmaṇ thus addressed:

  “How shall we labour now, reflect;

  Whither again our search direct?

  Brother, what plan canst thou devise

  To bring her to these longing eyes?”

  To him by toil and sorrow tried

  The prudent Lakshmaṇ thus replied:

  “Come, though our labour yet be vain,

  And search through Janasthán again, —

  A realm where giant foes abound,

  And trees and creepers hide the ground.

  For there are caverns deep and dread,

  By deer and wild birds tenanted,

  And hills with many a dark abyss,

  Grotto and rock and precipice.

  There bright Gandharvas love to dwell,

  And Kinnars in each bosky dell.

  With me thy eager search to aid

  Be every hill and cave surveyed.

  Great chiefs like thee, the best of men,

  Endowed with sense and piercing ken,

  Though tried by trouble never fail,

  Like rooted hills that mock the gale.”

  Then Ráma, pierced by anger’s sting,

  Laid a keen arrow on his string,

  And by the faithful Lakshmaṇ’s side

  Roamed through the forest far and wide.

  Jaṭáyus there with blood-drops dyed,

  Lying upon the ground he spied,

  Huge as a mountain’s shattered crest,

  Mid all the birds of air the best.

  In wrath the mighty bird he eyed,

  And thus the chief to Lakshmaṇ cried:

  “Ah me, these signs the truth betray;

  My darling was the vulture’s prey.

  Some demon in the bird’s disguise

  Roams through the wood that round us lies.

  On large-eyed Sítá he has fed,

  And rests him now with wings outspread.

  But my keen shafts whose flight is true,

/>   Shall pierce the ravenous monster through.”

  An arrow on the string he laid,

  And rushing near the bird surveyed,

  While earth to ocean’s distant side

  Trembled beneath his furious stride.

  With blood and froth on neck and beak

  The dying bird essayed to speak,

  And with a piteous voice, distressed,

  Thus Daśaratha’s son addressed:

  “She whom like some sweet herb of grace

  Thou seekest in this lonely place,

  Fair lady, is fierce Rávaṇ’s prey,

  Who took, beside, my life away.

  Lakshmaṇ and thou had parted hence

  And left the dame without defence.

  I saw her swiftly borne away

  By Rávaṇ’s might which none could stay.

  I hurried to the lady’s aid,

  I crushed his car and royal shade,

  And putting forth my warlike might

  Hurled Rávaṇ to the earth in fight.

  Here, Ráma, lies his broken bow,

  Here lie the arrows of the foe.

  There on the ground before thee are

  The fragments of his battle car.

  There bleeds the driver whom my wings

  Beat down with ceaseless buffetings.

  When toil my aged strength subdued,

  His sword my weary pinions hewed.

  Then lifting up the dame he bare

  His captive through the fields of air.

  Thy vengeful blows from me restrain,

  Already by the giant slain.”

  When Ráma heard the vulture tell

  The tale that proved his love so well,

  His bow upon the ground he placed,

  And tenderly the bird embraced:

  Then to the earth he fell o’erpowered,

  And burning tears both brothers showered,

  For double pain and anguish pressed

  Upon the patient hero’s breast.

  The solitary bird he eyed

  Who in the lone wood gasped and sighed,

  And as again his anguish woke

  Thus Ráma to his brother spoke:

  “Expelled from power the woods I tread,

  My spouse is lost, the bird is dead.

  A fate so sad, I ween, would tame

  The vigour of the glorious flame.

  If I to cool my fever tried

  To cross the deep from side to side,

  The sea, — so hard my fate, — would dry

  His waters as my feet came nigh.

  In all this world there lives not one

  So cursed as I beneath the sun;

  So strong a net of misery cast

  Around me holds the captive fast,

  Best of all birds that play the wing,

  Loved, honoured by our sire the king,

  The vulture, in my fate enwound,

  Lies bleeding, dying on the ground.”