The Rámáyan of Válmíki, translated into English verse
Rains from its labouring womb a stony shower.
She heard, she swooned, she fell upon the earth,
Fell on that bosom whence she sprang to birth.
As, when the tempest in its fury flies,
Low in the dust the prostrate creeper lies,
So, struck with terror sank she on the ground,
And all her gems, like flowers, lay scattered round.
But Earth, her mother, closed her stony breast,
And, filled with doubt, denied her daughter rest.
She would not think the Chief of Raghu’s race
Would thus his own dear guiltless wife disgrace.
Stunned and unconscious, long the lady lay,
And felt no grief, her senses all astray.
But gentle Lakshmaṇ, with a brother’s care,
Brought back her sense, and with her sense, despair.
But not her wrongs, her shame, her grief, could wring
One angry word against her lord the King:
Upon herself alone the blame she laid,
For tears and sighs that would not yet be stayed.
To soothe her anguish Lakshmaṇ gently strove;
He showed the path to Saint Válmíki’s grove;
And craved her pardon for the share of ill
He wrought, obedient to his brother’s will.
“O, long and happy, dearest brother, live!
I have to praise,” she cried, “and not forgive:
To do his will should be thy noblest praise;
As Vishṇu ever Indra’s will obeys.
Return, dear brother: on each royal dame
Bestow a blessing in poor Sítá’s name,
And bid them, in their love, kind pity take
Upon her offspring, for the father’s sake.
And speak my message in the monarch’s ear,
The last last words of mine that he shall hear:
“Say, was it worthy of thy noble race
Thy guiltless queen thus lightly to disgrace?
For idle tales to spurn thy faithful bride,
Whose constant truth the searching fire had tried?
Or may I hope thy soul refused consent,
And but thy voice decreed my banishment?
Hope that no care could turn, no love could stay
The lightning stroke that falls on me to-day?
That sins committed in the life that’s fled
Have brought this evil on my guilty head?
Think not I value now my widowed life,
Worthless to her who once was Ráma’s wife.
I only live because I hope to see
The dear dear babe that will resemble thee.
And then my task of penance shall be done,
With eyes uplifted to the scorching sun;
So shall the life that is to come restore
Mine own dear husband, to be lost no more.”
And Lakshmaṇ swore her every word to tell,
Then turned to go, and bade the queen farewell.
Alone with all her woes, her piteous cries
Rose like a butchered lamb’s that struggling dies.
The reverend sage who from his dwelling came
For sacred grass and wood to feed the flame,
Heard her loud shrieks that rent the echoing wood,
And, quickly following, by the mourner stood.
Before the sage the lady bent her low,
Dried her poor eyes, and strove to calm her woe.
With blessings on her hopes the blameless man
In silver tones his soothing speech began:
“First of all faithful wives, O Queen, art thou;
And can I fail to mourn thy sorrows now?
Rest in this holy grove, nor harbour fear
Where dwell in safety e’en the timid deer.
Here shall thine offspring safely see the light,
And be partaker of each holy rite.
Here, near the hermits’ dwellings, shall thou lave
Thy limbs in Tonse’s sin-destroying wave,
And on her isles, by prayer and worship, gain
Sweet peace of mind, and rest from care and pain.
Each hermit maiden with her sweet soft voice,
Shall soothe thy woe, and bid thy heart rejoice:
With fruit and early flowers thy lap shall fill,
And offer grain that springs for us at will.
And here, with labour light, thy task shall be
To water carefully each tender tree,
And learn how sweet a nursing mother’s joy
Ere on thy bosom rest thy darling boy.…”
That very night the banished Sítá bare
Two royal children, most divinely fair.…
The saint Válmíki, with a friend’s delight,
Graced Sítá’s offspring with each holy rite.
Kuśa and Lava—such the names they bore—
Learnt, e’en in childhood, all the Vedas’ lore;
And then the bard, their minstrel souls to train,
Taught them to sing his own immortal strain.
And Ráma’s deeds her boys so sweetly sang,
That Sítá’s breast forgot her bitterest pang.…
Then Sítá’s children, by the saint’s command,
Sang the Rámáyan, wandering through the land.
How could the glorious poem fail to gain
Each heart, each ear that listened to the strain!
So sweet each minstrel’s voice who sang the praise
Of Ráma deathless in Válmíki’s lays.
Ráma himself amid the wondering throng
Marked their fair forms, and loved the noble song,
While, still and weeping, round the nobles stood,
As, on a windless morn, a dewy wood.
On the two minstrels all the people gazed,
Praised their fair looks and marvelled as they praised;
For every eye amid the throng could trace
Ráma’s own image in each youthful face.
Then spoke the king himself and bade them say
Who was their teacher, whose the wondrous lay.
Soon as Válmíki, mighty saint, he saw,
He bowed his head in reverential awe.
“These are thy children” cried the saint, “recall
Thine own dear Sítá, pure and true through all.”
“O holy father,” thus the king replied,
“The faithful lady by the fire was tried;
But the foul demon’s too successful arts
Raised light suspicions in my people’s hearts.
Grant that their breasts may doubt her faith no more,
And thus my Sítá and her sons restore.”
_Raghuvaṇśa Cantos XIV, XV._
Parasuráma, Page 87.
“He cleared the earth thrice seven times of the Kshatriya caste, and
filled with their blood the five large lakes of Samanta, from which he
offered libations to the race of Bhrigu. Offering a solemn sacrifice to
the King of the Gods Paraśuráma presented the earth to the ministering
priests. Having given the earth to Kaśyapa, the hero of immeasurable
prowess retired to the Mahendra mountain, where he still resides; and in
this manner was there enmity between him and the race of the Kshatriyas,
and thus was the whole earth conquered by Paraśuráma.” The destruction of
the Kshatriyas by Paraśuráma had been provoked by the cruelty of the
Kshatriyas. _Chips from a German Workshop_, _Vol._ II. p. 334.
The scene in which he appears is probably interpolated for the sake of
making him declare Ráma to be Vishṇu. “Herr von Schlegel has often
remarked to me,” says Lassen, “that without injuring the connexion of the
story all the chapters [of the Rámáyan] might be omitted in which Ráma is
regarded as an incarnation of Vishṇu. In fact, where the incarnation of
Vishṇu as the four sons of Daśaratha is described, the great sacrifice is
already ended, and all the priests remunerated at the termination, when
the new sacrifice begins at which the Gods appear, then withdraw, and then
first propose the incarnation to Vishṇu. If it had been an original
circumstance of the story, the Gods would certainly have deliberated on
the matter earlier, and the celebration of the sacrifice would have
continued without interruption.” LASSEN, _Indische Alterthumskunde, Vol.
I._ p. 489.
Yáma, Page 68.
Son of Vivasvat=Jima son of Vivanghvat, the Jamshíd of the later Persians.
Fate, Page 68.
“The idea of fate was different in India from that which prevailed in
Greece. In Greece fate was a mysterious, inexorable power which governed
men and human events, and from which it was impossible to escape. In India
Fate was rather an inevitable consequence of actions done in births
antecedent to one’s present state of existence, and was therefore
connected with the doctrine of metempsychosis. A misfortune was for the
most part a punishment, an expiation of ancient faults not yet entirely
cancelled.” GORRESIO.
Visvámitra, Page 76.
“Though of royal extraction, Viśvámitra conquered for himself and his
family the privileges of a Brahman. He became a Brahman, and thus broke
through all the rules of caste. The Brahmans cannot deny the fact, because
it forms one of the principal subjects of their legendary poems. But they
have spared no pains to represent the exertions of Viśvámitra, in his
struggle for Brahmanhood, as so superhuman that no one would easily be
tempted to follow his example. No mention is made of these monstrous
penances in the Veda, where the struggle between Viśvámitra, the leader of
the Kuśikas or Bharatas, and the Brahman Vaśishtha, the leader of the
white-robed Tritsus, is represented as the struggle of two rivals for the
place of Purohita or chief priest and minister at the court of King Sudás,
the son of Pijavana.” _Chips from a German Workshop_, _Vol. II._ p. 336.
Household Gods, Page 102.
“No house is supposed to be without its tutelary divinity, but the notion
attached to this character is now very far from precise. The deity who is
the object of hereditary and family worship, the _Kuladevatá_, is always
one of the leading personages of the Hindu mythology, as Śiva, Vishṇu or
Durgá, but the _Grihadevatá_ rarely bears any distinct appellation. In
Bengal, the domestic god is sometimes the _Sálagrám_ stone, sometimes the
_tulasi_ plant, sometimes a basket with a little rice in it, and sometimes
a water-jar—to either of which a brief adoration is daily addressed, most
usually by the females of the family. Occasionally small images of Lakshmi
or Chaṇdi fulfil the office, or should a snake appear, he is venerated as
the guardian of the dwelling. In general, however, in former times, the
household deities were regarded as the unseen spirits of ill, the ghosts
and goblins who hovered about every spot, and claimed some particular
sites as their own. Offerings were made to them in the open air, by
scattering a little rice with a short formula at the close of all
ceremonies to keep them in good humour.
“The household gods correspond better with the genii locorum than with the
lares or penates of autiquity.”
H. H. WILSON.
Page 107.
_Śaivya, a king whom earth obeyed,_
_Once to a hawk a promise made._
The following is a free version of this very ancient story which occurs
more than once in the _Mahábhárat_:
THE SUPPLIANT DOVE.
Chased by a hawk there came a dove
With worn and weary wing,
And took her stand upon the hand
Of Káśí’s mighty king.
The monarch smoothed her ruffled plumes
And laid her on his breast,
And cried, “No fear shall vex thee here,
Rest, pretty egg-born, rest!
Fair Káśí’s realm is rich and wide,
With golden harvests gay,
But all that’s mine will I resign
Ere I my guest betray.”
But panting for his half won spoil
The hawk was close behind.
And with wild cry and eager eye
Came swooping down the wind:
“This bird,” he cried, “my destined prize,
’Tis not for thee to shield:
’Tis mine by right and toilsome flight
O’er hill and dale and field.
Hunger and thirst oppress me sore,
And I am faint with toil:
Thou shouldst not stay a bird of prey
Who claims his rightful spoil.
They say thou art a glorious king,
And justice is thy care:
Then justly reign in thy domain,
Nor rob the birds of air.”
Then cried the king: “A cow or deer
For thee shall straightway bleed,
Or let a ram or tender lamb
Be slain, for thee to feed.
Mine oath forbids me to betray
My little twice-born guest:
See how she clings with trembling wings
To her protector’s breast.”
“No flesh of lambs,” the hawk replied,
“No blood of deer for me;
The falcon loves to feed on doves
And such is Heaven’s decree.
But if affection for the dove
Thy pitying heart has stirred,
Let thine own flesh my maw refresh,
Weighed down against the bird.”
He carved the flesh from off his side,
And threw it in the scale,
While women’s cries smote on the skies
With loud lament and wail.
He hacked the flesh from side and arm,
From chest and back and thigh,
But still above the little dove
The monarch’s scale stood high.
He heaped the scale with piles of flesh,
With sinews, blood and skin,