THE STORY OF THE RAMAYANA.

Brahma, creator of the universe, though all powerful, could not revoke a promise once made. For this reason, Ravana, the demon god of Ceylon, stood on his head in the midst of five fires for ten thousand years, and at the end of that time boldly demanded of Brahma as a reward that he should not be slain by gods, demons, or genii. He also requested the gift of nine other heads and eighteen additional arms and hands.

These having been granted, he began by the aid of his evil spirits, the Rakshasas, to lay waste the earth and to do violence to the good, especially to the priests.

At the time when Ravana's outrages were spreading terror throughout the land, and Brahma, looking down from his throne, shuddered to see the monster he had gifted with such fell power, there reigned in Ayodhya, now the city of Oude, a good and wise raja, Dasaratha, who had reigned over the splendid city for nine thousand years without once growing weary. He had but one grief,—that he was childless,—and at the opening of the story he was preparing to make the great sacrifice, Asva-medha, to propitiate the gods, that they might give him a son.

The gods, well pleased, bore his request to Brahma in person, and incidentally preferred a request that he provide some means of destroying the monster Ravana that was working such woe among their priests, and disturbing their sacrifices.

Brahma granted the first request, and, cudgeling his brains for a device to destroy Ravana, bethought himself that while he had promised that neither gods, genii, nor demons should slay him, he had said nothing of man. He accordingly led the appealing gods to Vishnu, who proclaimed that the monster should be slain by men and monkeys, and that he would himself be re-incarnated as the eldest son of Dasaratha and in this form compass the death of Ravana.

In course of time, as a reward for his performance of the great sacrifice, four sons were born to Dasaratha, Rama by Kausalya, his oldest wife, Bharata, whose mother was Kaikeyi, and twin sons, Lakshmana and Satrughna, whose mother was Sumitra.

Rama, the incarnation of Vishnu, destined to destroy Ravana, grew daily in grace, beauty, and strength. When he was but sixteen years old, having been sent for by a sage to destroy the demons who were disturbing the forest hermits in their religious rites, he departed unattended, save by his brother Lakshmana and a guide, into the pathless forests, where he successfully overcame the terrible Rakshasa, Tarika, and conveyed her body to the grateful sage.

While he was journeying through the forests, destroying countless Rakshasas, he chanced to pass near the kingdom of Mithila and heard that its king, Janaka, had offered his peerless daughter, Sita, in marriage to the man who could bend the mighty bow of Siva the destroyer, which, since its owner's death, had been kept at Janaka's court.

Rama at once determined to accomplish the feat, which had been essayed in vain by so many suitors. When he presented himself at court Janaka was at once won by his youth and beauty; and when the mighty bow, resting upon an eight-wheeled car, was drawn in by five thousand men, and Rama without apparent effort bent it until it broke, he gladly gave him his beautiful daughter, and after the splendid wedding ceremonies were over, loaded the happy pair with presents to carry back to Ayodhya.

When Dasaratha, who had attended the marriage of his son at Mithila, returned home, he began to feel weary of reigning, and bethought himself of the ancient Hindu custom of making the eldest son and heir apparent a Yuva-Raja,—that is appointing him assistant king. Rama deserved this honor, and would, moreover, be of great assistance to him.

His happy people received the announcement of his intention with delight; the priests approved of it as well, and the whole city was in the midst of the most splendid preparations for the ceremony, when it occurred to Dasaratha that all he lacked was the congratulations of his youngest and favorite wife, Kaikeyi, on this great event. The well-watered streets and the garlanded houses had already aroused the suspicions of Kaikeyi,—suspicions speedily confirmed by the report of her maid. Angered and jealous because the son of Kausalya and not her darling Bharata, at that time absent from the city, was to be made Yuva-Raja, she fled to the "Chamber of Sorrows," and was there found by the old Raja.

Though Kaikeyi was his youngest and most beautiful wife, her tears, threats, and entreaties would have been of no avail had she not recalled that, months before, the old Raja, in gratitude for her devoted nursing during his illness, had granted her two promises. She now demanded the fulfilment of these before she would consent to smile upon him, and the consent won, she required him, first, to appoint Bharata Yuva-Raja; and, second, to exile Rama for fourteen years to the terrible forest of Dandaka.

The promise of a Hindu, once given, cannot be revoked. In spite of the grief of the old Raja, of Kausalya, his old wife, and of all the people, who were at the point of revolt at the sudden disgrace of their favorite prince, the terrible news was announced to Rama, and he declared himself ready to go, to save his father from dishonor.

He purposed to go alone, but Sita would not suffer herself to be thus deserted. Life without him, she pleaded, was worse than death; and so eloquent was her grief at the thought of parting that she was at last permitted to don the rough garment of bark provided by the malicious Kaikeyi.

The people of Ayodhya, determined to share the fate of their favorites, accompanied them from the city, their tears laying the dust raised by Rama's chariot wheels. But when sleep overcame them, Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana escaped from them, dismissed their charioteer, and, crossing the Ganges, made their way to the mountain of Citra-kuta, where they took up their abode.

No more beautiful place could be imagined. Flowers of every kind, delicious fruits, and on every side the most pleasing prospects, together with perfect love, made their hermitage a paradise on earth. Here the exiles led an idyllic existence until sought out by Bharata, who, learning from his mother on his return home the ruin she had wrought in the Raj, had indignantly spurned her, and hastened to Dandaka. The old Raja had died from grief soon after the departure of the exiles, and Bharata now demanded that Rama should return to Ayodhya and become Raja, as was his right, as eldest son.

When Rama refused to do this until the end of his fourteen years of exile, Bharata vowed that for fourteen years he would wear the garb of a devotee and live outside the city, committing the management of the Raj to a pair of golden sandals which he took from Rama's feet. All the affairs of state would be transacted under the authority of the sandals, and Bharata, while ruling the Raj, would pay homage to them.

Soon after the departure of Bharata the exiles were warned to depart from their home on Citra-kuta and seek a safer hermitage, for terrible rakshasas filled this part of the forest. They accordingly sought the abode of Atri the hermit, whose wife Anasuya was so pleased with Sita's piety and devotion to her husband that she bestowed upon her the crown of immortal youth and beauty. They soon found a new abode in the forest of Pancarati, on the banks of the river Godavari, where Lakshmana erected a spacious bamboo house.

Their happiness in this elysian spot was destined to be short-lived. Near them dwelt a horrible rakshasa, Surpanakha by name, who fell in love with Rama. When she found that he did not admire the beautiful form she assumed to win him, and that both he and Lakshmana laughed at her advances, she attempted to destroy Sita, only to receive in the attempt a disfiguring wound from the watchful Lakshmana. Desiring revenge for her disfigured countenance and her scorned love, she hastened to the court of her brother Ravana, in Ceylon, and in order to induce him to avenge her wrongs, dwelt upon the charms of the beautiful wife of Rama.

Some days after, Sita espied a golden fawn, flecked with silver, among the trees near their home. Its shining body, its jewel-like horns, so captivated her fancy that she implored Rama, if possible, to take it alive for her; if not, at least to bring her its skin for a couch. As Rama departed, he warned Lakshmana not to leave Sita for one moment; he would surely return, since no weapon could harm him. In the depths of the forest the fawn fell by his arrow, crying as it fell, "O Sita! O Lakshmana!" in Rama's very tones.

When Sita heard the cry she reproached Lakshmana for not going to his brother's aid, until he left her to escape her bitter words. He had no sooner disappeared in the direction of the cry than a hermit appeared and asked her to minister unto his wants.

Sita carried him food, bathed his feet, and conversed with him until, able no longer to conceal his admiration for her, he revealed himself in his true form as the demon god of Ceylon.

When she indignantly repulsed him he seized her, and mounting his chariot drove rapidly towards Ceylon.

When Rama and Lakshmana returned home, soon after, they found the house empty. As they searched through the forest for traces of her they found a giant vulture dying from wounds received while endeavoring to rescue the shrieking Sita. Going farther, they encountered the monkey king Sugriva and his chiefs, among whom Sita had dropped from the chariot her scarf and ornaments.

Sugriva had been deposed from his kingdom by his brother Bali, who had also taken his wife from him. Rama agreed to conquer Bali if Sugriva would assist in the search for Sita; and, the agreement made, they at once marched upon Kishkindha, together slew Bali, and gained possession of the wealthy city and the queen Tara. They were now ready to search for the lost Sita.

In his quest through every land, Hanuman, the monkey general, learned from the king of the vultures that she had been carried to Ceylon. He immediately set out for the coast with his army, only to find a bridgeless ocean stretching between them and the island. Commanding his soldiers to remain where they were, Hanuman expanded his body to enormous proportions, leaped the vast expanse of water, and alighted upon a mountain, from which he could look down upon Lanka, the capital city of Ceylon. Perceiving the city to be closely guarded, he assumed the form of a cat, and thus, unsuspected, crept through the barriers and examined the city. He found the demon god in his apartments, surrounded by beautiful women, but Sita was not among them. Continuing his search, he at last discovered her, her beauty dimmed by grief, seated under a tree in a beautiful asoka grove, guarded by hideous rakshasas with the faces of buffaloes, dogs, and swine.

Assuming the form of a tiny monkey, Hanuman crept down the tree, and giving her the ring of Rama, took one from her. He offered to carry her away with him, but Sita declared that Rama must himself come to her rescue. While they were talking together, the demon god appeared, and, after fruitless wooing, announced that if Sita did not yield herself to him in two months he would have her guards "mince her limbs with steel" for his morning repast.

In his rage, Hanuman destroyed a mango grove and was captured by the demon's guards, who were ordered to set his tail on fire. As soon as this was done, Hanuman made himself so small that he slipped from his bonds, and, jumping upon the roofs, spread a conflagration through the city of Lanka.

He leaped back to the mainland, conveyed the news of Sita's captivity to Rama and Sugriva, and was soon engaged in active preparations for the campaign.

As long as the ocean was unbridged it was impossible for any one save Hanuman to cross it. In his anger at being so thwarted, Rama turned his weapons against it, until from the terrified waves rose the god of the ocean, who promised him that if Nala built a bridge, the waves should support the materials as firmly as though it were built on land.

Terror reigned in Lanka at the news of the approach of Rama. Vibishana, Ravana's brother, deserted to Rama, because of the demon's rage when he advised him to make peace with Rama. Fiercely fought battles ensued, in which even the gods took part, Vishnu and Indra taking sides with Rama, and the evil spirits fighting with Ravana.

After the war had been carried on for some time, with varying results, it was decided to determine it by single combat between Ravana and Rama. Then even the gods were terrified at the fierceness of the conflict. At each shot Rama's mighty bow cut off a head of the demon, which at once grew back, and the hero was in despair until he remembered the all-powerful arrow given him by Brahma.

As the demon fell by this weapon, flowers rained from heaven upon the happy victor, and his ears were ravished with celestial music.

Touched by the grief of Ravana's widows, Rama ordered his foe a splendid funeral, and then sought the conquered city.

Sita was led forth, beaming with happiness at finding herself re-united to her husband; but her happiness was destined to be of short duration. Rama received her with coldness and with downcast eyes, saying that she could no longer be his wife, after having dwelt in the zenana of the demon. Sita assured him of her innocence; but on his continuing to revile her, she ordered her funeral pyre to be built, since she would rather die by fire than live despised by Rama. The sympathy of all the bystanders was with Sita, but Rama saw her enter the flames without a tremor. Soon Agni, the god of fire, appeared, bearing the uninjured Sita in his arms. Her innocence thus publicly proved by the trial by fire, she was welcomed by Rama, whose treatment she tenderly forgave.

The conquest made, the demon destroyed, and Sita restored, Rama returned in triumph to Ayodhya, and assumed the government. The city was prosperous, the people were happy, and for a time all went well. It was not long, however, before whispers concerning Sita's long abode in Ceylon spread abroad, and some one whispered to Rama that a famine in the country was due to the guilt of Sita, who had suffered the caresses of the demon while in captivity in Ceylon. Forgetful of the trial by fire, forgetful of Sita's devotion to him through weal and woe, the ungrateful Rama immediately ordered her to the forest in which they had spent together the happy years of their exile.

Without a murmur the unhappy Sita, alone and unbefriended, dragged herself to the forest, and, torn with grief of body and spirit, found the hermitage of Valmiki, where she gave birth to twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Here she reared them, with the assistance of the hermit, who was their teacher, and under whose care they grew to manhood, handsome and strong.

It chanced about the time the youths were twenty years old, that Rama, who had grown peevish and disagreeable with age, began to think the gods were angered with him because he had killed Ravana, who was the son of a Brahman. Determined to propitiate them by means of the great sacrifice, he caused a horse to be turned loose in the forest. When his men went to retake it, at the end of the year, it was caught by two strong and beautiful youths who resisted all efforts to capture them. In his rage Rama went to the forest in person, only to learn that the youths were his twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Struck with remorse, Rama recalled the sufferings of his wife Sita, and on learning that she was at the hermitage of Valmiki, ordered her to come to him, that he might take her to him again, having first caused her to endure the trial by fire to prove her innocence to all his court.

Sita had had time to recover from the love of her youth, and the prospect of life with Rama, without the couleur de rose of youthful love, was not altogether pleasant. At first, she even refused to see him; but finally, moved by the appeals of Valmiki and his wife, she clad herself in her richest robes, and, young and beautiful as when first won by Rama, she stood before him. Not deigning to look in his face, she appealed to the earth. If she had never loved any man but Rama, if her truth and purity were known to the earth, let it open its bosom and take her to it. While the armies stood trembling with horror, the earth opened, a gorgeous throne appeared, and the goddess of earth, seated upon it, took Sita beside her and conveyed her to the realms of eternal happiness, leaving the too late repentant Rama to wear out his remaining years in shame and penitence.

 

SELECTIONS FROM THE RAMAYANA.

THE DESCENT OF THE GANGES.

Sagara, an early king of Ayodhya, had sixty thousand sons, whom he sent out one day to recover a horse that had been designed for the great sacrifice, but had been stolen by a rakshasa. Having searched the earth unsuccessfully, they proceeded to dig into the lower regions.

  Cloven with shovel and with hoe, pierced by axes and by spades,

  Shrieked the earth in frantic woe; rose from out the yawning shades

  Yells of anguish, hideous roars from the expiring brood of hell,—

  Serpents, giants, and asoors, in the deep abyss that dwell.

  Sixty thousand leagues in length, all unweary, full of wrath,

  Through the centre, in their strength, clove they down their hellward

    path.

  And downward dug they many a rood, and downward till they saw aghast,

  Where the earth-bearing elephant stood, ev'n like a mountain tall and

    vast.

  'T is he whose head aloft sustains the broad earth's forest-clothed

    round,

  With all its vast and spreading plains, and many a stately city crowned.

  If underneath the o'erbearing load bows down his weary head, 't is then

  The mighty earthquakes are abroad, and shaking down the abodes of men.

  Around earth's pillar moved they slowly, and thus in humble accents

    blest

  Him the lofty and the holy, that bears the region of the East.

  And southward dug they many a rood, until before their shuddering sight

  The next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge Mahapadmas' mountain height.

  Upon his head earth's southern bound, all full of wonder, saw they rest.

  Slow and awe-struck paced they round, and him, earth's southern

    pillar, blest.

  Westward then their work they urge, king Sagara's six myriad race,

  Unto the vast earth's western verge, and there in his appointed place

  The next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge Saumanasa's mountain crest;

  Around they paced in humble mood, and in like courteous phrase addrest,

  And still their weary toil endure, and onward dig until they see

  Last earth-bearing Himapandure, glorying in his majesty.

At last they reach the place where Vishnu appears with the horse. A flame issues from the mouth of the indignant deity and destroys the six myriad sons of Sagara, The adventure devolves on their brother Ansuman, who achieves it with perfect success. He is permitted to lead away the horse, but the ashes of his brothers cannot be purified by earthly water; the goddess Ganga must first be brought to earth, and having undergone lustration from that holy flood, the race of Sagara are to ascend to heaven. Brahma at last gives his permission to Ganga to descend. King Bhagiratha takes his stand on the top of Gokarna, the sacred peak of Himavan (the Himalaya), and here—

  Stands with arms outstretch'd on high, amid five blazing fires, the one

  Towards each quarter of the sky, the fifth the full meridian sun.

  Mid fiercest frosts on snow he slept, the dry and withered leaves his

    food,

  Mid rains his roofless vigil kept, the soul and sense alike subdued.

  High on the top of Himavan the mighty Mashawara stood;

  And "Descend," he gave the word to the heaven-meandering water—

  Full of wrath the mandate heard Himavan's majestic daughter.

  To a giant's stature soaring and intolerable speed,

  From heaven's height down rushed she, pouring upon Siva's sacred head,

  Him the goddess thought in scorn with her resistless might to sweep

  By her fierce waves overborne, down to hell's remotest deep.

  Down on Sankara's holy head, down the holy fell, and there,

  Amid the entangling meshes spread, of his loose and flowing hair,

  Vast and boundless as the woods upon the Himalaya's brow,

  Nor ever may the struggling floods rush headlong to the earth below.

  Opening, egress was not there, amid those winding, long meanders.

  Within that labyrinthine hair, for many an age, the goddess wanders.

By the penances of the king, Siva is propitiated, and the stream, by seven channels, finds its way to the plains of India.

  Up the Raja at the sign upon his glittering chariot leaps,

  Instant Ganga the divine follows his majestic steps.

  From the high heaven burst she forth first on Siva's lofty crown,

  Headlong then, and prone to earth thundering rushed the cataract down,

  Swarms of bright-hued fish came dashing; turtles, dolphins in their

    mirth,

  Fallen or falling, glancing, flashing, to the many-gleaming earth.

  And all the host of heaven came down, spirits and genii, in amaze,

  And each forsook his heavenly throne, upon that glorious scene to gaze.

  On cars, like high-towered cities, seen, with elephants and coursers

    rode,

  Or on soft swinging palanquin, lay wondering each observant god.

  As met in bright divan each god, and flashed their jewell'd vestures'

    rays,

  The coruscating aether glow'd, as with a hundred suns ablaze.

  And with the fish and dolphins gleaming, and scaly crocodiles and

    snakes,

  Glanc'd the air, as when fast streaming the blue lightning shoots and

    breaks:

  And in ten thousand sparkles bright went flashing up the cloudy spray,

  The snowy flocking swans less white, within its glittering mists at

    play.

  And headlong now poured down the flood, and now in silver circlets

    wound,

  Then lake-like spread all bright and broad, then gently, gently flowed

    around,

  Then 'neath the caverned earth descending, then spouted up the boiling

    tide,

  Then stream with stream harmonious blending, swell bubbling up and

    smooth subside.

  By that heaven-welling water's breast, the genii and the sages stood,

  Its sanctifying dews they blest, and plung'd within the lustral flood.

  Whoe'er beneath the curse of heaven from that immaculate world had fled,

  To th' impure earth in exile driven, to that all-holy baptism sped;

  And purified from every sin, to the bright spirit's bliss restor'd,

  Th' ethereal sphere they entered in, and through th' empyreal mansions

    soar'd.

  The world in solemn jubilee beheld those heavenly waves draw near,

  From sin and dark pollution free, bathed in the blameless waters clear.

  Swift king Bhagiratha drave upon his lofty glittering car,

  And swift with her obeisant wave bright Ganga followed him afar.

                                        Milman's Translation.

 

THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA.

The Raja Dasaratha was compelled to banish his favorite son Rama, immediately after his marriage to Sita, because his banishment was demanded by the Raja's wife Kaikeyi, to whom he had once promised to grant any request she might make. His grief at the loss of his son is described in this selection.

  Scarce Rama to the wilderness had with his younger brother gone,

  Abandoned to his deep distress, king Dasaratha sate alone.

  Upon his sons to exile driven when thought that king, as Indra bright,

  Darkness came o'er him, as in heaven when pales th' eclipsed sun his

    light.

  Six days he sate, and mourned and pined for Rama all that weary time.

  At midnight on his wandering mind rose up his old forgotten crime.

  His queen, Kausalya, the divine, addressed he, as she rested near:

  "Kausalya, if thou wakest, incline to thy lord's speech thy ready ear.

  Whatever deed, or good or ill, by man, O blessed queen, is wrought.

  Its proper fruit he gathers still, by time to slow perfection brought.

  He who the opposing counsel's weight compares not in his judgment cool,

  Or misery or bliss his fate, among the sage is deemed a fool.

  As one that quits the Amra bower, the bright Palasa's pride to gain

  Mocked by the promise of its flower, seeks its unripening fruit in vain,

  So I the lovely Amra left for the Palasa's barren bloom,

  Through mine own fatal error 'reft of banished Rama, mourn in gloom.

  Kausalya! in my early youth by my keen arrow, at his mark

  Aimed with too sure and deadly truth, was wrought a deed most fell and

    dark.

  At length, the evil that I did, hath fallen upon my fated head,

  As when on subtle poison hid an unsuspecting child hath fed;

  Even as that child unwittingly hath made the poisonous fare his food,

  Even so, in ignorance by me was wrought that deed of guilt and blood.

  Unwed wert thou in virgin bloom, and I in youth's delicious prime,

  The season of the rains had come,—that soft and love enkindling time.

  Earth's moisture all absorbed, the sun through all the world its warmth

    had spread,

  Turned from the north, its course begun, where haunt the spirits of the

    dead:

  Gathering o'er all the horizon's bound on high the welcome clouds

    appeared,

  Exulting, all the birds flew round,—cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and

    veered.

  And all down each wide-watered shore the troubled, yet still limpid

    floods,

  Over their banks began to pour, as o'er them hung the bursting clouds.

  And, saturate with cloud-born dew, the glittering verdant-mantled earth,

  The cuckoos and the peacocks flew, disputing as in drunken mirth.—

 

  "In such a time, so soft, so bland, oh beautiful! I chanced to go.

  With quiver and with bow in hand, where clear Sarayu's waters flow,

  If haply to the river's brink at night the buffalo might stray,

  Or elephant, the stream to drink,—intent my savage game to slay.

  Then of a water cruse, as slow it filled, the gurgling sound I heard,

  Nought saw I, but the sullen low of elephant that sound appeared.

  The swift well-feathered arrow I upon the bowstring fitting straight,

  Towards the sound the shaft let fly, ah, cruelly deceived by fate!

  The winged arrow scarce had flown, and scarce had reached its destined

    aim,

  'Ah me, I'm slain,' a feeble moan in trembling human accents came.

  'Ah, whence hath come this fatal shaft against a poor recluse like me,

  Who shot that bolt with deadly craft,—alas! what cruel man is he?

  At the lone midnight had I come to draw the river's limpid flood,

  And here am struck to death, by whom? ah whose this wrongful deed of

    blood?

  Alas! and in my parents' heart, the old, the blind, and hardly fed,

  In the wild wood, hath pierced the dart, that here hath struck their

    offspring dead.

  Ah, deed most profitless as worst, a deed of wanton useless guilt:

  As though a pupil's hand accurs'd his holy master's blood had spilt.

  But not mine own untimely fate,—it is not that which I deplore.

  My blind, my aged parents' state—'tis their distress afflicts me more.

  That sightless pair, for many a day, from me their scanty food have

    earned;

  What lot is theirs when I'm away, to the five elements returned?

  Alike, all wretched they, as I—ah, whose this triple deed of blood?

  For who the herbs will now supply,—the roots, the fruit, their

    blameless food?'

  My troubled soul, that plaintive moan no sooner heard, so faint and low,

  Trembled to look on what I'd done, fell from my shuddering hand my bow.

  Swift I rushed up, I saw him there, heart-pierced, and fallen the stream

    beside,

  The hermit boy with knotted hair,—his clothing was the black deer's

    hide.

  On me most piteous turned his look, his wounded breast could scarce

    respire,

  And these the words, O queen, he spoke, as to consume me in his ire:

  'What wrong, O Kshatriya, have I done, to be thy deathful arrow's aim,

  The forest's solitary son, to draw the limpid stream I came.

  Both wretched and both blind they lie, in the wildwood all destitute,

  My parents, listening anxiously to hear my home-returning foot.

  By this, thy fatal shaft, this one, three miserable victims fall,

  The sire, the mother, and the son—ah why? and unoffending all.

  How vain my father's life austere, the Veda's studied page how vain,

  He knew not with prophetic fear his son would fall untimely slain.

  But had he known, to one as he, so weak, so blind, 't were bootless all,

  No tree can save another tree by the sharp hatchet marked to fall.

  But to my father's dwelling haste, O Raghu's son, lest in his ire

  Thy head with burning curse he blast, as the dry forest tree the fire.

  Thee to my father's lone retreat will quickly lead yon onward path,

  Oh, haste his pardon to entreat, or ere he curse thee in his wrath.

  Yet first that gently I may die, draw forth the barbed steel from hence,

  Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I, not thine of Brahmin blood the offence.

  My sire, a Brahmin hermit he, my mother was of Sudra race.'

  So spake the wounded boy, on me while turned his unreproaching face.

  As from his palpitating breast I gently drew the mortal dart,

  He saw me trembling stand, and blest that boy's pure spirit seemed to

    part.

  As died that holy hermit's son, from me my glory seemed to go,

  With troubled mind I stood, cast down t' inevitable endless woe.

  That shaft that seemed his life to burn like serpent venom, thus drawn

    out,

  I, taking up his fallen urn, t' his father's dwelling took my route.

  There miserable, blind, and old, of their sole helpmate thus forlorn,

  His parents did these eyes behold, like two sad birds with pinions

    shorn.

  Of him in fond discourse they sate, lone, thinking only of their son,

  For his return so long, so late, impatient, oh by me undone.

  My footsteps' sound he seemed to know, and thus the aged hermit said,

  'O Yajnadatta, why so slow?—haste, let the cooling draught be shed.

  Long on the river's cooling brink hast thou been sporting in thy joy.

  Thy mother's fainting spirits sink in fear for thee; but thou, my boy,

  If aught to grieve thy gentle heart thy mother or thy sire do wrong,

  Bear with us, nor, when next we part, on the slow way thus linger long,

  The feet of those that cannot move, of those that cannot see the eye,

  Our spirits live but in thy love,—oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?'

 

  "My throat thick swollen with bursting tears, my power of speech that

    seemed to choke,

  With hands above my head, my fears breaking my quivering voice, I spoke:

  The Kshatriya Dasaratha I, O hermit sage, 't is not thy son!

  Most holy ones, unknowingly a deed of awful guilt I've done.

  With bow in hand I took my way along Sarayu's pleasant brink,

  The savage buffalo to slay, or elephant come down to drink.

 

  "A sound came murmuring to my ear,—'twas of the urn that slowly filled,

  I deemed some savage wild-beast near,—my erring shaft thy son had

    killed.

  A feeble groan I heard, his breast was pierced by that dire arrow keen:

  All trembling to the spot I pressed, lo there thy hermit boy was seen.

  Flew to the sound my arrow, meant the wandering elephant to slay,

  Toward the river brink it went,—and there thy son expiring lay.

  The fatal shaft when forth I drew, to heaven his parting spirit soared,

  Dying he only thought of you, long, long, your lonely lot deplored.

  Thus ignorantly did I slay your child beloved, O hermit sage!

  Turn thou on me, whose fated day is come, thy all-consuming rage!'

  He heard my dreadful tale at length, he stood all lifeless, motionless;

  Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength, me the meek suppliant did

    address.

  'Kshatriya, 't is well that thou hast turned, thy deed of murder to

    rehearse,

  Else over all thy land had burned the fire of my wide-wasting curse.

  If with premeditated crime the unoffending blood thou 'dst spilt,

  The Thunderer on his throne sublime had shaken at such tremendous guilt.

  Against the anchorite's sacred head, hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft

    accursed,

  In th' holy Vedas deeply read, thy skull in seven wide rents had burst.

  But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought that deed of death, thou livest

    still,

  O son of Taghu, from thy thought dismiss all dread of instant ill.

  Oh lead me to that doleful spot where my poor boy expiring lay,

  Beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot, of my blind age the staff, the

    stay.

  On the cold earth 'twere yet a joy to touch my perished child again,

  (So long if I may live) my boy in one last fond embrace to strain

  His body all bedewed with gore, his locks in loose disorder thrown,

  Let me, let her but touch once more, to the dread realm of Yama gone.'

  Then to that fatal place I brought alone that miserable pair;

  His sightless hands and hers I taught to touch their boy that slumbered

    there.

  Nor sooner did they feel him lie, on the moist herbage coldly thrown,

  But with a shrill and feeble cry upon the body cast them down.

  The mother as she lay and groaned, addressed her boy with quivering

    tongue,

  And like a heifer sadly moaned, just plundered of her new-dropped young:

 

  "'Was not thy mother once, my son, than life itself more dear to thee?

  Why the long way thou hast begun, without one gentle word to me?

  One last embrace, and then, beloved, upon thy lonely journey go!

  Alas! with anger art thou moved, that not a word thou wilt bestow?'

 

  "The miserable father now with gentle touch each cold limb pressed,

  And to the dead his words of woe, as to his living son addressed:

  'I too, my son, am I not here?—thy sire with thy sad mother stands;

  Awake, arise, my child, draw near, and clasp each neck with loving

    hands.

  Who now, 'neath the dark wood by night, a pious reader shall be heard?

  Whose honeyed voice my ear delight with th' holy Veda's living word?

  The evening prayer, th' ablution done, the fire adored with worship

    meet,

  Who now shall soothe like thee, my son, with fondling hand, my aged

    feet?

  And who the herb, the wholesome root, or wild fruit from the wood shall

    bring?

  To us the blind, the destitute, with helpless hunger perishing?

  Thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned, within our hermit-dwelling lone,

  How shall I tend, myself as blind, now all my strength of life is gone?

  Oh, stay, my child, oh. Part not yet, to Yama's dwelling go not now,

  To-morrow forth we all will set,—thy mother and myself and thou:

  For both, in grief for thee, and both so helpless, ere another day,

  From this dark world, but little loath, shall we depart, death's easy

    prey!

  And I myself, by Yama's seat, companion of thy darksome way,

  The guerdon to thy virtues meet from that great Judge of men will pray.

  Because, my boy, in innocence, by wicked deed thou hast been slain,

  Rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence ne'er stoop to this dark world

  again.

  Those that to earth return no more, the sense-subdued, the hermits wise,

  Priests their sage masters that adore, to their eternal seats arise.

  Those that have studied to the last the Veda's, the Vedanga's page,

  Where saintly kings of earth have passed, Nahusa and Yayati sage;

  The sires of holy families, the true to wedlock's sacred vow;

  And those that cattle, gold, or rice, or lands, with liberal hands

    bestow;

  That ope th' asylum to th' oppressed, that ever love, and speak the

    truth;

  Up to the dwellings of the blest, th' eternal, soar thou, best-loved

    youth.

  For none of such a holy race within the lowest seat may dwell;

  But that will be his fatal place by whom my only offspring fell.'

 

  "So groaning deep, that wretched pair, the hermit and his wife, essayed

  The meet ablution to prepare, their hands their last faint effort made.

  Divine, with glorious body bright, in splendid car of heaven elate,

  Before them stood their son in light, and thus consoled their helpless

    state:

  'Meed of my duteous filial care, I've reached the wished for realms of

    joy;

  And ye, in those glad realms, prepare to meet full soon your dear-loved

    boy.

  My parents, weep no more for me, yon warrior monarch slew me not,

  My death was thus ordained to be, predestined was the shaft he shot.'

  Thus as he spoke, the anchorite's son soared up the glowing heaven afar,

  In air his heavenly body shone, while stood he in his gorgeous car.

  But they, of that lost boy so dear the last ablution meetly made,

  Thus spoke to me that holy seer, with folded hands above his head.

  'Albeit by thy unknowing dart my blameless boy untimely fell,

  A curse I lay upon thy heart, whose fearful pain I know too well.

  As sorrowing for my son I bow, and yield up my unwilling breath,

  So, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou at life's last close repose in

    death.'

  That curse dread sounding in mine ear, to mine own city forth I set,

  Nor long survived that hermit seer, to mourn his child in lone regret.

  This day that Brahmin curse fulfilled hath fallen on my devoted head,

  In anguish for my parted child have all my sinking spirits fled.

  No more my darkened eyes can see, my clouded memory is o'ercast,

  Dark Yama's heralds summon me to his deep, dreary realm to haste.

  Mine eye no more my Rama sees, and grief-o'erborne, my spirits sink,

  As the swoln stream sweeps down the trees that grow upon the crumbling

    brink.

  Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake one word his home-returning voice,

  Again to life I should awake, as quaffing nectar draughts, rejoice,

  But what so sad could e'er have been, celestial partner of my heart,

  As Rama's beauteous face unseen, from life untimely to depart?

  His exile in the forest o'er, him home returned to Oude's high town,

  Oh happy those, that see once more, like Indra from the sky come down.

  No mortal men, but gods I deem,—moonlike, before whose wondering sight

  My Rama's glorious face shall beam, from the dark forest bursting

    bright.

  Happy that gaze on Rama's face with beauteous teeth and smile of love,

  Like the blue lotus in its grace, and like the starry king above.

  Like to the full autumnal moon, and like the lotus in its bloom,

  That youth who sees returning soon,—how blest shall be that mortal's

    doom."

  Dwelling in that sweet memory, on his last bed the monarch lay,

  And slowly, softly seemed to die, as fades the moon at dawn away.

  "Ah, Rama! ah, my son!" thus said, or scarcely said, the king of men,

  His gentle hapless spirit fled in sorrow for his Rama then,

  The shepherd of his people old at midnight on his bed of death,

  The tale of his son's exile told, and breathed away his dying breath.

                                         Milman's Translation.