The Sanskrit Epics

by Delphi Classics

To Ráma with his train he went.

  He came with faltering steps and slow

  Where Ráma held his mighty bow

  And arrow like a venomed snake,

  And to the son of Raghu spake:

  “Well hast thou kept, O King, thy vow:

  The promised fruit is gathered now.

  But life is marred, my soul to-day

  Turns sickening from all joy away.

  For, while this queen laments and sighs

  Amid a mourning people’s cries,

  And Angad weeps his father slain,

  How can my heart delight to reign?

  For outrage, fury, senseless pride,

  My brother, doomed of yore, has died.

  Yet, Raghu’s son, in bitter woe

  I mourn his fated overthrow.

  Ah, better far in pain and ill

  To dwell on Rishyamúka still

  Than gain the heaven of Gods and all

  Its pleasures by my brother’s fall.

  Did not he cry, — great-hearted foe, —

  “Go, for I will not slay thee, Go”?

  With his brave soul those words agree:

  My speech, my deeds, are worthy me.

  How can a brother counterweigh

  His grievous loss with joys of sway,

  And see with dull unpitying eye

  So brave and good a brother die?

  His lofty soul was nobly blind:

  My death alas, he ne’er designed;

  But I, urged blindly on by hate,

  Sought with his life my rage to sate.

  He smote me with a splintered tree:

  I groaned aloud and turned to flee,

  From stern reproaches he forbore,

  And gently bade me sin no more.

  Serene and dutiful and good

  He kept the laws of brotherhood:

  I, fierce and greedy, vengeful, base,

  Showed all the vices of our race.

  Ah me, dear friend, my brother’s fate

  Lays on my soul a crushing weight:

  A sin no heart should e’er conceive,

  But at the thought each soul should grieve:

  Sin such as Indra’s when his blow

  Laid heavenly Viśvarúpa610 low.

  Yet earth, the waters of the seas,

  The race of women and the trees

  Were fain upon themselves to take

  The weight of sin for Indra’s sake.

  But who a Vánar’s soul will free,

  Or ease the load that crushes me?

  Wretch that I am, I may not claim

  The reverence due to royal name.

  How shall I reign supreme, or dare

  Affect the power I should not share?

  Ah me, I sorrow for my sin,

  The ruin of my race and kin,

  Polluted by a hideous crime

  World-hated till the end of time.

  Alas, the floods of sorrow roll

  With whelming force upon my soul:

  So gathers the descending rain

  In the deep hollow of the plain.”

  Canto XXV. Ráma’s Speech.

  THEN RAGHU’S SON, whose feeling breast

  Shared the great woe that moved the rest,

  Strove with wise charm their grief to ease

  And gently spoke in words like these:

  “You ne’er can raise the dead to bliss

  By agony of grief like this.

  Cease your lament, nor leave undone

  The funeral task you may not shun.

  As nature orders o’er the dead.

  Your tributary tears are shed,

  But Fate, directing each event,

  Is still the lord preëminent.

  Yes, all obey the changeless laws

  Of Fate the universal cause.

  By Fate, the lives of all proceed,

  That governs every word and deed,

  None acts, none sees his hest obeyed,

  But each and all by Fate are swayed.

  The world its ordered course maintains,

  And o’er that course Fate ever reigns.

  Fate ne’er exceeds the rule of Fate:

  Is ne’er too swift, is ne’er too late,

  And making nature its ally

  Forgets no life, nor passes by.

  No kith and kin, no power and force

  Can check or stay its settled course,

  No friend or client, grace or charm,

  That victor of the world disarm.

  So all who see with prudent eyes

  The hand of Fate must recognize,

  For virtue rules, or love, or gain,

  As Fate’s unchanged decrees ordain.

  Báli has died and won the meed

  That waits in heaven on noble deed,

  Throned in the seats the brave may reach

  By liberal hand and gentle speech,

  True to a warrior’s duty, bold

  In fight, the hero lofty-souled

  Deigned not to guard his life: he died,

  And now in heaven is glorified.

  Then cease these tears and wild despair:

  Turn to the task that claims your care,

  For Báli’s is the glorious fate

  Which warriors count most fortunate.”

  When Ráma’s speech had found a close,

  Brave Lakshmaṇ, terror of his foes,

  With wise and soothing words addressed

  Sugríva still with woe oppressed:

  “Arise Sugríva,” thus he said,

  “Perform the service of the dead.

  Prepare with Tárá and her son

  That Báli’s rites be duly done.

  A store of funeral wood provide

  Which wind and sun and time have dried

  And richest sandal fit to grace

  The pyre of one of royal race.

  With words of comfort soft and kind

  Console poor Angad’s troubled mind,

  Nor let thy heart be thus cast down,

  For thine is now the Vánars’ town.

  Let Angad’s care a wreath supply,

  And raiment rich with varied dye,

  And oil and perfumes for the fire,

  And all the solemn rites require.

  Go, hasten to the town, O King,

  And Tárá’s little quickly bring.

  A virtue is despatch: and speed

  Is best of all in hour of need.

  Go, let a chosen band prepare

  The litter of the dead to bear.

  For stout and tall and strong of limb

  Must be the chiefs who carry him.”

  He spoke, — his friends’ delight and pride, —

  Then stood again by Ráma’s side.

  When Tára611 heard the words he said

  Within the town he quickly sped,

  And brought, on stalwart shoulders laid,

  The litter for the rites arrayed,

  Framed like a car for Gods, complete

  With painted sides and royal seat,

  With latticed windows deftly made,

  And golden birds and trees inlaid:

  Well joined and wrought in every part,

  A marvel of ingenious art.

  Where pleasure mounds in carven wood

  And many a graven figure stood.

  The best of jewels o’er it hung,

  And wreaths of flowers around it clung,

  And over all was raised on high

  A canopy of saffron dye,

  While like the sun of morning shone

  The brilliant blooms that lay thereon.

  That glorious litter Ráma eyed.

  And spake to Lakshmaṇ by his side:

  “Let Báli on the bier be placed

  And with all funeral service graced.”

  Sugríva then with many a tear

  Drew Báli’s body to the bier

  Whereon, with weeping Angad’s aid,

  The relics of the chief were laid


  Neath many a vesture’s varied fold,

  And wreaths and ornaments and gold.

  Then King Sugríva bade them speed

  The obsequies by law decreed:

  “Let Vánars lead the way and throw

  Rich gems around them as they go,

  And be the chosen bearers near

  Behind them laden with the bier.

  No costly rite may you deny,

  Used when the proudest monarchs die:

  As for a king of widest sway.

  Perform his obsequies to-day.”

  Sugríva gave his high behest;

  Then Princely Tára and the rest,

  With little Angad weeping, led

  The long procession of the dead.

  Behind the funeral litter came,

  With Tárá first, each widowed dame,

  In tears and shrieks her loss deplored,

  Add cried aloud, My lord! My lord!

  While wood and hill and valley sent

  In echoes back the shrill lament.

  Then on a low and sandy isle

  Was reared the hero’s funeral pile

  By crowds of toiling Vánars, where

  The mountain stream ran fresh and fair,

  The Vánar chiefs, a noble band,

  Had laid the litter on the sand,

  And stood a little space apart,

  Each mourning in his inmost heart.

  But Tárá, when her weeping eye

  Saw Báli, on the litter lie,

  Laid his dear head upon her lap,

  And wailed aloud her dire mishap;

  “O mighty Vánar, lord and king,

  To whose fond breast I loved to cling,

  Of goodly arms, wise, brave, and bold,

  Rise, look upon me as of old.

  Rise up, my sovereign, dost thou see

  A crowd of subjects weep for thee?

  Still o’er thy face, though breath has fled,

  The joyous light of life is spread:

  Thus around the sun, although he set,

  A crimson glory lingers yet.

  Death clad in Ráma’s form to-day

  Hast dragged thee from the world away.

  One shaft from his tremendous bow

  Dooms us to widowhood and woe.

  Hast thou, O Vánar King, no eyes

  Thy weeping wives to recognize,

  Who for the length of way unmeet

  Have followed thee with weary feet?

  Yet every moon-faced beauty here

  By thee, O King was counted dear.

  Lord of the Vánar race, hast thou

  No eyes to see Sugríva now?

  About thee stands in mournful mood

  A sore-afflicted multitude,

  And Tára and thy lords of state

  Around their monarch weep and wait.

  Arise my lord, with gentle speech,

  As was thy wont, dismissing each,

  Then in the forest will we play

  And love shall make our spirits gay.”

  The Vánar dames raised Tárá, drowned

  In floods of sorrow, from the ground;

  And Angad with Sugríva’s aid,

  O’erwhelmed with anguish and dismayed,

  Weeping for his departed sire,

  Placed Báli’s body on the pyre:

  Then lit the flame, and round the dead

  Passed slowly with a mourner’s tread.

  Thus with full rites the funeral train

  Performed the service for the slain,

  Then sought the flowing stream and made

  Libations to the parted shade.

  There, setting Angad first in place,

  The chieftains of the Vánar race,

  With Tárá and Sugríva, shed

  The water that delights the dead.

  Canto XXVI. The Coronation.

  EACH VÁNAR COUNCILLOR and peer

  In crowded numbers gathered near

  Sugríva, mournful king, while yet

  His vesture from the wave was wet,

  Before the chief of Raghu’s seed

  Unwearied in each arduous deed,

  They stood and raised the reverent hand

  As saints before Lord Brahmá stand.

  Then Hanumán of massive mould,

  Like some tall hill of glistering gold,

  Son of the God whose wild blasts shake

  The forest, thus to Ráma spake:

  “By thy kind favour, O my lord,

  Sugríva, to his home restored

  Triumphant, has regained to-day

  His rank and power and royal sway.

  He now will call each faithful friend,

  Enter the city, and attend

  With sage advice and prudent care

  To every task that waits him there.

  Then balm and unguent shall anoint

  Our monarch, as the laws appoint,

  And gems and precious wreaths shall be

  His grateful offering, King, to thee.

  Do thou, O Ráma, with thy friend

  Thy steps within the city bend;

  Our ruler on his throne install,

  And with thy presence cheer us all.”

  Then, skilled in lore and arts that guide

  The speaker, Raghu’s son replied:

  “For fourteen years I might not break

  The mandate that my father spake;

  Nor can I, till that time be fled,

  The street of town or village tread.

  Let King Sugríva seek the town

  Most worthy of her high renown,

  There let him be without delay

  Anointed, and begin his sway.”

  This answered, to Sugríva then

  Thus spake anew the king of men:

  “Do thou who knowest right ordain

  Prince Angad consort of thy reign;

  For he is noble, true, and bold,

  And trained a righteous course to hold

  Gifts like his sire’s that youth adorn

  Born eldest to the eldest born.

  This is the month of Śrávaṇ,612 first

  Of those that see the rain-clouds burst.

  Four months, thou knowest well, extends

  The season when the rain descends.

  No time for deeds of war is this:

  Seek thou thy fair metropolis,

  And I with Lakshmaṇ, O my friend,

  The time upon this hill will spend.

  An ample cavern opens there

  Made lovely by the mountain air,

  And lotuses and lilies fill

  The pleasant lake and murmuring rill.

  When Kártik’s613 month shall clear the skies,

  Then tempt the mighty enterprise.

  Now, chieftain to thy home repair,

  And be anointed sovereign there.”

  Sugríva heard: he bowed his head:

  Within the lovely town he sped

  Which Báli’s royal will had swayed,

  Where thousand Vánar chiefs arrayed

  Gathered in order round their king,

  And led him on with welcoming.

  Low on the earth the lesser crowd

  Fell in prostration as they bowed.

  Sugríva looked with grateful eyes,

  Spake to them all and bade them rise.

  Then through the royal bowers he strode

  Wherein the monarch’s wives abode.

  Soon from the inner chambers came

  The Vánar of exalted fame;

  And joyful friends drew near and shed

  King-making balm upon his head,

  Like Gods anointing in the skies

  Their sovereign of the thousand eyes.614

  Then brought they, o’er their king to hold

  The white umbrella decked with gold,

  And chouries with their waving hair

  In golden handles wondrous fair;

  And fragrant herbs and seed and spice,

  And sparkling gems exce
eding price,

  And every bloom from woods and leas,

  And gum distilled from milky trees;

  And precious ointment white as milk,

  And spotless robes of cloth and silk,

  Wreaths of sweet flowers whose glories gleam

  In grassy grove, on lake or stream.

  And fragrant sandal and each scent

  That makes the soft breeze redolent;

  Grain, honey, odorous seed, and store

  Of oil and curd and golden ore;

  A noble tiger’s skin, a pair

  Of sandals wrought with costliest care,

  Eight pairs of damsels drawing nigh

  Brought unguents stained with varied dye.

  Then gems and cates and robes displayed

  Before the twice-born priests were laid,

  That they would deign in order due

  To consecrate the king anew.

  The sacred grass was duly spread

  And sacrificial flame was fed,

  Which Scripture-learned priests supplied

  With oil which texts had sanctified.

  Then, with all rites ordained of old,

  High on the terrace bright with gold,

  Whereon a glorious carpet lay,

  And fresh-culled garlands sweet and gay,

  Placed on his throne, Sugríva bent

  His looks toward the Orient.

  In horns from forehead of the bull,

  In pitchers bright and beautiful,

  In urns of gold the Vánara took

  Pure water brought from stream and brook,

  From every consecrated strand

  And every sea that beats the land.

  Then, as prescribed by sacred lore

  And many a mighty sage of yore,615

  The leaders of the Vánars poured

  The sacred water on their lord.616

  From every Vánar at the close

  Of that imperial rite arose

  Shouts of glad triumph, loud and long

  Repeated by the high-souled throng.

  Sugríva, when the rite was done,

  Obeyed the hest of Raghu’s son,

  Prince Angad to his breast he strained,

  And partner of his sway ordained.

  Once more from all the host rang out

  The loud huzza and jovful shout.

  “Well done! well done!” each Vánar cried,

  And good Sugríva glorified.

  Then with glad voices loudly raised

  Were Ráma and his brother praised;

  And bright Kishkindhá shone that day

  With happy throngs and banners gay.

  Canto XXVII. Ráma On The Hill.

  BUT WHEN THE solemn rite was o’er,

  And bold Sugríva reigned once more,

  The sons of Raghu sought the hill,

  Praśravaṇ of the rushing rill,

  Where roamed the tiger and the deer,

  And lions raised their voice of fear;