The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse
Should fall into the raging sea
Where hungry sharks would feed on me.
Nor can I touch, of free accord,
The limbs of any save my lord.
If, by the giant forced away,
In his enfolding arms I lay,
Not mine, O Vánar, was the blame;
What could I do, a helpless dame?
Go, to my lord my message bear,
And bid him end my long despair.”
Canto XXXVIII. Sítá’s Gem.
Again the Vánar chief replied,
With her wise answer satisfied:
“Well hast thou said: thou canst not brave
The rushing wind, the roaring wave.
Thy woman’s heart would sink with fear
Before the ocean shore were near.
And for thy dread lest limb of thine
Should for a while be touched by mine,
The modest fear is worthy one
Whose cherished lord is Raghu’s son.
Yet when I sought to bear thee hence
I spoke the words of innocence,
Impelled to set the captive free
By friendship for thy lord and thee.
But if with me thou wilt not try
The passage of the windy sky,
Give me a gem that I may show,
Some token which thy lord may know.”
Again the Maithil lady spoke,
While tears and sobs her utterance broke:
“The surest of all signs is this,
To tell the tale of vanished bliss.
Thus in my name to Ráma speak:
“Remember Chitrakúṭa’s peak
And the green margin of the rill(867)
That flows beside that pleasant hill,
Where thou and I together strayed
Delighting in the tangled shade.
There on the grass I sat with thee
And laid my head upon thy knee.
There came a greedy crow and pecked
The meat I waited to protect
And, heedless of the clods I threw,
About my head in circles flew,
Until by darling hunger pressed
He boldly pecked me on the breast.
I ran to thee in rage and grief
And prayed for vengeance on the thief.
Then Ráma(868) from his slumber rose
And smiled with pity at my woes.
Upon my bleeding breast he saw
The scratches made by beak and claw.
He laid an arrow on his bow,
And launched it at the shameless crow.
That shaft, with magic power endued,
The bird, where’er he flew, pursued,
Till back to Raghu’s son he fled
And bent at Ráma’s feet his head.(869)
Couldst thou for me with anger stirred
Launch that dire shaft upon a bird,
And yet canst pardon him who stole
The darling of thy heart and soul?
Rise up, O bravest of the brave,
And come in all thy might to save.
Come with the thunders of thy bow,
And smite to earth the Rákshas foe.”
She ceased; and from her glorious hair
She took a gem that sparkled there
A token which her husband’s eyes
With eager love would recognize.
His head the Vánar envoy bent
In low obeisance reverent.
And on his finger bound the gem
She loosened from her diadem.
[I omit two Cantos of dialogue. Sítá tells Hanumán again to convey her
message to Ráma and bid him hasten to rescue her. Hanumán replies as
before that there is no one on earth equal to Ráma, who will soon come and
destroy Rávaṇ. There is not a new idea in the two Cantos: all is
reiteration.]
Canto XLI. The Ruin Of The Grove.
Dismissed with every honour due
The Vánar from the spot withdrew.
Then joyous thought the Wind-God’s son:
“The mighty task is wellnigh done.
The three expedients I must leave;
The fourth alone can I achieve.(870)
These dwellers in the giants’ isle
No arts of mine can reconcile.
I cannot bribe: I cannot sow
Dissension mid the Rákshas foe.
Arts, gifts, address, these fiends despise;
But force shall yet their king chastise.
Perchance he may relent when all
The bravest of his chieftains fall.
This lovely grove will I destroy,
The cruel Rávaṇ’s pride and joy.
The garden where he takes his ease
Mid climbing plants and flowery trees
That lift their proud tops to the skies,
Dear to the tyrant as his eyes.
Then will he rouse in wrath, and lead
His legions with the car and steed
And elephants in long array,
And seek me thirsty for the fray.
The Rákshas legions will I meet,
And all his bravest host defeat;
Then, glorious from the bloody plain,
Turn to my lord the king again.”
Then every lovely tree that bore
Fair blossoms, from the soil he tore,
Till each green bough that lent its shade
To singing birds on earth was laid.
The wilderness he left a waste,
The fountains shattered and defaced:
O’erthrew and levelled with the ground
Each shady seat and pleasure-mound.
Each arbour clad with climbing bloom,
Each grotto, cell, and picture room,
Each lawn by beast and bird enjoyed,
Each walk and terrace was destroyed.
And all the place that was so fair
Was left a ruin wild and bare,
As if the fury of the blast
Or raging fire had o’er it passed.
Canto XLII. The Giants Roused.
The cries of startled birds, the sound
Of tall trees crashing to the ground,
Struck with amaze each giant’s ear,
And filled the isle with sudden fear.
Then, wakened by the crash and cries,
The fierce shefiends unclosed their eyes,
And saw the Vánar where he stood
Amid the devastated wood.
The more to scare them with the view
To size immense the Vánar grew;
And straight the Rákshas warders cried
Janak’s daughter terrified
“Whose envoy, whence, and who is he,
Why has he come to talk with thee?
Speak, lady of the lovely eyes,
And let not fear thy joy disguise.”
Then thus replied the Maithil dame
Of noble soul and perfect frame.
“Can I discern, with scanty skill,
These fiends who change their forms at will?
’Tis yours to say: your kin you meet;
A serpent knows a serpent’s feet.
I weet not who he is: the sight
Has filled my spirit with affright.”
Some pressed round Sítá in a ring;
Some bore the story to their king:
“A mighty creature of our race,
In monkey form, has reached the place.
He came within the grove,” they cried,
“He stood and talked by Sítá’s side,
He comes from Indra’s court to her,
Or is Kuvera’s messenger;
Or Ráma sent the spy to seek
His consort, and her wrongs to wreak.
His crushing arm, his trampling feet
Have marred and spoiled that dear retreat,
And all the pleasant place which thou
So lovest is a ruin now.
The tree where Sítá sat alone
Is spared where all are overthrown.
Perchance he saved the dame from harm:
Perchance the toil had numbed his arm.”
Then flashed the giant’s eye with fire
Like that which lights the funeral pyre.
He bade his bravest Kinkars(871) speed
And to his feet the spoiler lead.
Forth from the palace, at his hest,
Twice forty thousand warriors pressed.
Burning for battle, strong and fierce,
With clubs to crush and swords to pierce,
They saw Hanúmán near a porch,
And, thick as moths around a torch,
Rushed on the foe with wild attacks
Of mace and club and battle-axe.
As round him pressed the Rákshas crowd,
The wondrous monkey roared aloud,
That birds fell headlong from the sky:
Then spake he with a mighty cry:
“Long life to Daśaratha’s heir,
And Lakshmaṇ, ever-glorious pair!
Long life to him who rules our race,
Preserved by noblest Ráma’s grace!
I am the slave of Kośal’s king,(872)
Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.
Hanúmán I, the Wind-God’s seed:
Beneath this arm the foemen bleed.
I fear not, unapproached in might,
A thousand Rávaṇ’s ranged for fight,
Although in furious hands they rear
The hill and tree for sword and spear,
I will, before the giants’ eyes,
Their city and their king chastise;
And, having communed with the dame,
Depart in triumph as I came.”
At that terrific roar and yell
The heart of every giant fell.
But still their king’s command they feared
And pressed around with arms upreared.
Beside the porch a club was laid:
The Vánar caught it up, and swayed
The weapon round his head, and slew
The foremost of the Rákshas crew.
Thus Indra vanquished, thousand-eyed,
The Daityas who the Gods defied.
Then on the porch Hanúmán sprang,
And loud his shout of triumph rang.
The giants looked upon the dead,
And turning to their monarch fled.
And Rávaṇ with his spirit wrought
To frenzy by the tale they brought,
Urged to the fight Prahasta’s son,
Of all his chiefs the mightiest one.
Canto XLIII. The Ruin Of The Temple.
The Wind-God’s son a temple(873) scaled
Which, by his fury unassailed,
High as the hill of Meru, stood
Amid the ruins of the wood;
And in his fury thundered out
Again his haughty battle-shout:
“I am the slave of Kośal’s King
Whose wondrous deeds the minstrels sing.”
Forth hurried, by that shout alarmed,
The warders of the temple armed
With every weapon haste supplied,
And closed him in on every side,
With bands that strove to pierce and strike
With shaft and axe and club and pike.
Then from its base the Vánar tore
A pillar with the weight it bore.
Against the wall the mass he dashed,
And forth the flames in answer flashed,
That wildly ran o’er roofs and wall
In hungry rage consuming all.
He whirled the pillar round his head
And struck a hundred giants dead.
Then high upheld on air he rose
And called in thunder to his foes:
“A thousand Vánar chiefs like me
Roam at their will o’er land and sea,
Terrific might we all possess:
Our stormy speed is limitless.
And all, unconquered in the fray,
Our king Sugríva’s word obey.
Backed by his bravest myriads, he
Our warrior lord will cross the sea.
Then Lanká’s lofty towers, and all
Your hosts and Rávaṇ’s self shall fall.
None shall be left unslaughtered; none
Who braves the wrath of Raghu’s son.”
Canto XLIV. Jambumáli’s Death.
Then Jambumáli, pride and boast
For valour of the Rákshas host,
Prahasta’s son supremely brave,
Obeyed the hest that Rávaṇ gave:
Fierce warrior with terrific teeth,
With saguine robes and brilliant wreath.
A bow like Indra’s own(874), and store
Of glittering shafts the chieftain bore.
And ever as the string he tried
The weapon with a roar replied,
Loud as the crashing thunder sent
By him who rules the firmament.
Soon as the foeman came in view
Borne on a car which asses drew,
The Vánar chieftain mighty-voiced
Shouted in triumph and rejoiced.
Prahasta’s son his bow-string drew,
And swift the winged arrows flew,
One in the face the Vánar smote,
Another quivered in his throat.
Ten from the deadly weapon sent
His brawny arms and shoulders rent.
Then as he felt each galling shot
The Vánar’s rage waxed fiercely hot.
He looked, and saw a mass of stone
That lay before his feet o’erthrown.
The mighty block he raised and threw,
And crashing through the air it flew.
But Jambumáli shunned the blow,
And rained fresh arrows from his bow.
The Vánar’s limbs were red with gore:
A Sál tree from the earth he tore,
And, ere he hurled it undismayed,
Above his head the missile swayed.
But shafts from Jambumáli’s bow
Cut through it ere his hand could throw.
And thigh and arm and chest and side
With streams of rushing blood were dyed.
Still unsubdued though wounded oft
The shattered trunk he raised aloft,
And down with well-directed aim
On Jambumáli’s chest it came.
There crushed upon the trampled grass
He lay an undistinguished mass,
The foeman’s eye no more could see
His head or chest or arm or knee.
And bow and car and steeds(875) and store
Of glittering shafts were seen no more.
When Jambumáli’s death he heard,
King Rávaṇ’s heart with rage was stirred
And forth his general’s sons he sent,
For power and might preeminent.
Canto XLV. The Seven Defeated.
Forth went the seven in brave attire,
In glory brilliant as the fire,
Impetuous chiefs with massive bows,
The quellers of a host of foes:
Trained from their youth in martial lore,
And masters of the arms they bore:
Each emulous and fiercely bold,
And banners wrought with glittering gold
Waved o’er their chariots, drawn at speed
By coursers of the noblest breed.
On through the ruins of the grove
At Hanumán they fiercely drove,
And from the ponderous bows they strained
A shower of deadly arrows rained.
Then scarce was seen the Vánar’s form
Enveloped in the arrowy storm.
So stands half veiled the Mountains’ King