They roamed each mount, nor spared to seek

  On ridge and crag and towering peak.

  They sought the dame in every spot;

  But all in vain; they found her not.

  Above, below, on every side

  They ranged the hill, and Ráma cried,

  “O Lakshmaṇ, O my brother still

  No trace of Sítá on the hill!”

  Then Lakshmaṇ as he roamed the wood

  Beside his glorious brother stood,

  And while fierce grief his bosom burned

  This answer to the chief returned:

  “Thou, Ráma, after toil and pain

  Wilt meet the Maithil dame again,

  As Vishṇu, Bali’s might subdued,

  His empire of the earth renewed.”508

  Then Ráma cried in mournful tone,

  His spirit by his woe o’erthrown;

  “The wood is searched from side to side,

  No distant spot remains untried,

  No lilied pool, no streamlet where

  The lotus buds are fresh and fair.

  Our eyes have searched the hill with all

  His caves and every waterfall, —

  But ah, not yet I find my wife,

  More precious than the breath of life.”

  As thus he mourned his vanished dame

  A mighty trembling seized his frame,

  And by o’erpowering grief assailed,

  His troubled senses reeled and failed.

  Too great to bear his misery grew,

  And many a long hot sigh he drew,

  Then as he wept and sobbed and sighed,

  “O Sítá, O my love!” he cried.

  Then Lakshmaṇ, joining palm to palm,

  Tried every art his woe to calm.

  But Ráma in his anguish heard

  Or heeded not one soothing word,

  Still for his spouse he mourned, and shrill

  Rang out his lamentation still.

  Canto LXIII. Ráma’s Lament.

  THUS FOR HIS wife in vain he sought:

  Then, his sad soul with pain distraught,

  The hero of the lotus eyes

  Filled all the air with frantic cries.

  O’erpowered by love’s strong influence, he

  His absent wife still seemed to see,

  And thus with accents weak and faint

  Renewed with tears his wild complaint:

  “Thou, fairer than their bloom, my spouse,

  Art hidden by Aśoka boughs.

  Those blooms have power to banish care,

  But now they drive me to despair.

  Thine arms are like the plantain’s stem:

  Why let the plantain cover them?

  Thou art not hidden, love; thy feet

  Betray thee in thy dark retreat.

  Thou runnest in thy girlish sport

  To flowery trees, thy dear resort.

  But cease, O cease, my love, I pray,

  To vex me with thy cruel play.

  Such mockery in a holy spot

  Where hermits dwell beseems thee not.

  Ah, now I see thy fickle mind

  To scornful mood too much inclined,

  Come, large-eyed beauty, I implore;

  Lone is the cot so dear before.

  No, she is slain by giants; they

  Have stolen or devoured their prey,

  Or surely at my mournful cry

  My darling to her lord would fly.

  O Lakshmaṇ, see those troops of deer:

  In each sad eye there gleams a tear.

  Those looks of woe too clearly say

  My consort is the giants’ prey.

  O noblest, fairest of the fair,

  Where art thou, best of women, where?

  This day will dark Kaikeyí find

  Fresh triumph for her evil mind,

  When I, who with my Sítá came

  Return alone, without my dame.

  But ne’er can I return to see

  Those chambers where my queen should be

  And hear the scornful people speak

  Of Ráma as a coward weak.

  For mine will be the coward’s shame

  Who let the foeman steal his dame.

  How can I seek my home, or brook

  Upon Videha’s king to look?

  How listen, when he bids me tell,

  My wanderings o’er, that all is well?

  He, when I meet his eager view,

  Will mark that Sítá comes not too,

  And when he hears the mournful tale

  His wildered sense will reel and fail.

  “O Daśaratha” will he cry,

  “Blest in thy mansion in the sky!”

  Ne’er to that town my steps shall bend,

  That town which Bharat’s arms defend,

  For e’en the blessed homes above

  Would seem a waste without my love.

  Leave me, my brother, here, I pray;

  To fair Ayodhyá bend thy way.

  Without my love I cannot bear

  To live one hour in blank despair.

  Round Bharat’s neck thy fond arms twine,

  And greet him with these words of mine:

  “Dear brother, still the power retain,

  And o’er the land as monarch reign.”

  With salutation next incline

  Before thy mother, his, and mine.

  Still, brother, to my words attend,

  And with all care each dame befriend.

  To my dear mother’s ear relate

  My mournful tale and Sítá’s fate.”

  Thus Ráma gave his sorrow vent,

  And from a heart which anguish rent,

  Mourned for his wife in loud lament, —

  Her of the glorious hair,

  From Lakshmaṇ’s cheek the colour fled,

  And o’er his heart came sudden dread,

  Sick, faint, and sore disquieted

  By woe too great to bear.

  Canto LXIV. Ráma’s Lament.

  REFT OF HIS love, the royal chief,

  Weighed down beneath his whelming grief,

  Desponding made his brother share

  His grievous burden of despair.

  Over his sinking bosom rolled

  The flood of sorrow uncontrolled.

  And as he wept and sighed,

  In mournful accents faint and slow

  With words congenial to his woe,

  To Lakshmaṇ thus he cried:

  “Brother, I ween, beneath the sun,

  Of all mankind there lives not one

  So full of sin, whose hand has done

  Such cursed deeds as mine.

  For my sad heart with misery bleeds,

  As, guerdon of those evil deeds,

  Still greater woe to woe succeeds

  In never-ending line.

  A life of sin I freely chose,

  And from my past transgression flows

  A ceaseless flood of bitter woes

  My folly to repay.

  The fruit of sin has ripened fast,

  Through many a sorrow have I passed,

  And now the crowning grief at last

  Falls on my head to-day.

  From all my faithful friends I fled,

  My sire is numbered with the dead,

  My royal rank is forfeited,

  My mother far away.

  These woes on which I sadly think

  Fill, till it raves above the brink,

  The stream of grief in which I sink, —

  The flood which naught can stay.

  Ne’er, brother, ne’er have I complained;

  Though long by toil and trouble pained,

  Without a murmur I sustained

  The woes of woodland life.

  But fiercer than the flames that rise

  When crackling wood the food supplies, —

  Flashing a glow through evening skies, —

  This sorrow for my wife.

  Some cruel fiend has seized the prey

  And torn my trembling love away,

  While, as he bore her through the skies,

  She shrieked aloud with frantic cries,

  In tones of fear which, wild and shrill,

  Retained their native sweetness still.

  Ah me, that breast so soft and sweet,

  For sandal’s precious perfume meet,

  Now all detained with dust and gore,

  Shall meet my fond caress no more.

  That face, whose lips with tones so clear

  Made pleasant music, sweet to hear, —

  With soft locks plaited o’er the brow, —

  Some giant’s hand is on it now.

  It smiles not, as the dear light fails

  When Ráhu’s jaw the moon assails.

  Ah, my true love! that shapely neck

  She loved with fairest chains to deck,

  The cruel demons rend, and drain

  The lifeblood from each mangled vein.

  Ah, when the savage monsters came

  And dragged away the helpless dame,

  The lady of the long soft eye

  Called like a lamb with piteous cry.

  Beneath this rock, O Lakshmaṇ, see,

  My peerless consort sat with me,

  And gently talked to thee the while,

  Her sweet lips opening with a smile.

  Here is that fairest stream which she

  Loved ever, bright Godávarí.

  Ne’er can the dame have passed this way:

  So far alone she would not stray,

  Nor has my darling, lotus-eyed,

  Sought lilies by the river’s side,

  For without me she ne’er would go

  To streamlets where the wild flowers grow,

  Tell me not, brother, she has strayed

  To the dark forest’s distant shade

  Where blooming boughs are gay and sweet,

  And bright birds love the cool retreat.

  Alone my love would never dare, —

  My timid love, — to wander there.

  O Lord of Day whose eye sees all

  We act and plan, on thee I call:

  For naught is hidden from thy sight, —

  Great witness thou of wrong and right.

  Where is she, lost or torn away?

  Dispel my torturing doubt and say.

  And O thou Wind who blowest free,

  The worlds have naught concealed from thee.

  List to my prayer, reveal one trace

  Of her, the glory of her race.

  Say, is she stolen hence, or dead,

  Or do her feet the forest tread?”

  Thus with disordered senses, faint

  With woe he poured his sad complaint,

  And then, a better way to teach,

  Wise Lakshmaṇ spoke in seemly speech:

  “Up, brother dear, thy grief subdue,

  With heart and soul thy search renew.

  When woes oppress and dangers threat

  Brave effort ne’er was fruitless yet.”

  He spoke, but Ráma gave no heed

  To valiant Lakshmaṇ’s prudent rede.

  With double force the flood of pain

  Rushed o’er his yielding soul again.

  Canto LXV. Ráma’s Wrath.

  WITH PITEOUS VOICE, by woe subdued,

  Thus Raghu’s son his speech renewed:

  “Thy steps, my brother, quickly turn

  To bright Godávarí and learn

  If Sítá to the stream have hied

  To cull the lilies on its side.”

  Obedient to the words he said,

  His brother to the river sped.

  The shelving banks he searched in vain,

  And then to Ráma turned again.

  “I searched, but found her not,” he cried;

  “I called aloud, but none replied.

  Where can the Maithil lady stray,

  Whose sight would chase our cares away?

  I know not where, her steps untraced,

  Roams Sítá of the dainty waist.”

  When Ráma heard the words he spoke

  Again he sank beneath the stroke,

  And with a bosom anguish-fraught

  Himself the lovely river sought.

  There standing on the shelving side,

  “O Sítá, where art thou?” he cried.

  No spirit voice an answer gave,

  No murmur from the trembling wave

  Of sweet Godávarí declared

  The outrage which the fiend had dared.

  “O speak!” the pitying spirits cried,

  But yet the stream their prayer denied,

  Nor dared she, coldly mute, relate

  To the sad chief his darling’s fate

  Of Rávaṇ’s awful form she thought,

  And the dire deed his arm had wrought,

  And still withheld by fear dismayed,

  The tale for which the mourner prayed.

  When hope was none, his heart to cheer,

  That the bright stream his cry would hear

  While sorrow for his darling tore

  His longing soul he spake once more:

  “Though I have sought with tears and sighs

  Godárvarí no word replies,

  O say, what answer can I frame

  To Janak, father of my dame?

  Or how before her mother stand

  Leading no Sítá by the hand?

  Where is my loyal love who went

  Forth with her lord to banishment?

  Her faith to me she nobly held

  Though from my realm and home expelled, —

  A hermit, nursed on woodland fare, —

  She followed still and soothed my care.

  Of all my friends am I bereft,

  Nor is my faithful consort left.

  How slowly will the long nights creep

  While comfortless I wake and weep!

  O, if my wife may yet be found,

  With humble love I’ll wander round

  This Janasthán, Praśravaṇ’s hill,

  Mandákiní’s delightful rill.

  See how the deer with gentle eyes

  Look on my face and sympathize.

  I mark their soft expression: each

  Would soothe me, if it could, with speech.”

  A while the anxious throng he eyed.

  And “Where is Sítá, where?” he cried.

  Thus while hot tears his utterance broke

  The mourning son of Raghu spoke.

  The deer in pity for his woes

  Obeyed the summons and arose.

  Upon his right thy stood, and raised

  Their sad eyes up to heaven and gazed

  Each to that quarter bent her look

  Which Rávaṇ with his captive took.

  Then Raghu’s son again they viewed,

  And toward that point their way pursued.

  Then Lakshmaṇ watched their looks intent

  As moaning on their way they went,

  And marked each sign which struck his sense

  With mute expressive influence,

  Then as again his sorrow woke

  Thus to his brother chief he spoke:

  “Those deer thy eager question heard

  And rose at once by pity stirred:

  See, in thy search their aid they lend,

  See, to the south their looks they bend.

  Arise, dear brother, let us go

  The way their eager glances show,

  If haply sign or trace descried

  Our footsteps in the search may guide.”

  The son of Raghu gave assent,

  And quickly to the south they went;

  With eager eyes the earth he scanned,

  And Lakshmaṇ followed close at hand.

  As each to other spake his thought,

  And round with anxious glances sought,

  Scattered before them in the way,

  Blooms of a fallen garland lay.

  When Ráma saw that flowery rain

  He spoke once more with bitterest pain:

  “O Lakshmaṇ every flower that lies

  Here on the ground I recognize.

  I culled them in the grove, and there

  My darling twined them in her hair.

  The sun, the earth, the genial breeze

  Have spared these flowers my soul to please.”

  Then to that woody hill he prayed,

  Whence flashed afar each wild cascade:

  “O best of mountains, hast thou seen

  A dame of perfect form and mien

  In some sweet spot with trees o’ergrown, —

  My darling whom I left alone?”

  Then as a lion threats a deer

  He thundered with a voice of fear:

  “Reveal her, mountain, to my view

  With golden limbs and golden hue.

  Where is my darling Sítá? speak

  Before I rend thee peak from peak.”

  The mountain seemed her track to show,

  But told not all he sought to know.

  Then Daśaratha’s son renewed

  His summons as the mount he viewed:

  “Soon as my flaming arrows fly,

  Consumed to ashes shall thou lie

  Without a herb or bud or tree,

  And birds no more shall dwell in thee.

  And if this stream my prayer deny,

  My wrath this day her flood shall dry,

  Because she lends no aid to trace

  My darling of the lotus face.”

  Thus Ráma spake as though his ire

  Would scorch them with his glance of fire;

  Then searching farther on the ground

  The footprint of a fiend he found,

  And small light traces here and there,

  Where Sítá in her great despair,

  Shrieking for Ráma’s help, had fled

  Before the giant’s mighty tread.

  His careful eye each trace surveyed

  Which Sítá and the fiend had made, —

  The quivers and the broken bow

  And ruined chariot of the foe, —

  And told, distraught by fear and grief,

  His tidings to his brother chief:

  “O Lakshmaṇ, here,” he cried “behold

  My Sítá’s earrings dropped with gold.

  Here lie her garlands torn and rent,

  Here lies each glittering ornament.

  O look, the ground on every side

  With blood-like drops of gold is dyed.

  The fiends who wear each strange disguise

  Have seized, I ween, the helpless prize.

  My lady, by their hands o’erpowered,

  Is slaughtered, mangled, and devoured.

  Methinks two fearful giants came

  And waged fierce battle for the dame.

  Whose, Lakshmaṇ, was this mighty bow

  With pearls and gems in glittering row?

 

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