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his father’s death.

      Mine aged bosom she will wring

      And kill me with her sorrowing,

      Sad as a fair nymph left to weep

      Deserted on Himálaya’s steep.

      For short will be my days, I ween,

      When I with mournful eyes have seen

      My Ráma wandering forth alone

      And heard dear Sítá sob and moan.

      Ah me! my fond belief I rue.

      Vile traitress, loved as good and true,

      As one who in his thirst has quaffed,

      Deceived by looks, a deadly draught.

      Ah! thou hast slain me, murderess, while

      Soothing my soul with words of guile,

      As the wild hunter kills the deer

      Lured from the brake his song to hear.

      Soon every honest tongue will fling

      Reproach on the dishonest king;

      The people’s scorn in every street

      The seller of his child will meet,

      And such dishonour will be mine

      As whelms a Bráhman drunk with wine.

      Ah me, for my unhappy fate,

      Compelled thy words to tolerate!

      Such woe is sent to scourge a crime

      Committed in some distant time.

      For many a day with sinful care

      I cherished thee, thou sin and snare,

      Kept thee, unwitting, like a cord

      Destined to bind its hapless lord.

      Mine hours of ease I spent with thee,

      Nor deemed my love my death would be,

      While like a heedless child I played,

      On a black snake my hand I laid.

      A cry from every mouth will burst

      And all the world will hold me curst,

      Because I saw my high-souled son

      Unkinged, unfathered, and undone;

      “The king by power of love beguiled

      Is weaker than a foolish child,

      His own beloved son to make

      An exile for a woman’s sake.

      By chaste and holy vows restrained,

      By reverend teachers duly trained.

      When he his virtue’s fruit should taste

      He falls by sin and woe disgraced.”

      Two words will all his answer be

      When I pronounce the stern decree,

      “Hence, Ráma, to the woods away,”

      All he will say is, I obey.

      O, if he would my will withstand

      When banished from his home and land,

      This were a comfort in my woe;

      But he will ne’er do this, I know.

      My Ráma to the forest fled,

      And curses thick upon my head,

      Grim Death will bear me hence away,

      His world-abominated prey.

      When I am gone and Ráma too.

      How wilt thou those I love pursue?

      What vengeful sin will be designed

      Against the queens I leave behind?

      When thou hast slain her son and me

      Kauśalyá soon will follow: she

      Will sink beneath her sorrows’ weight,

      And die like me disconsolate.

      Exist, Kaikeyí, in thy pride,

      And let thy heart be gratified,

      When thou my queens and me hast hurled,

      And children, to the under world.

      Soon wilt thou rule as empress o’er

      My noble house unvext before.

      But then to wild confusion left,

      Of Ráma and of me bereft.

      If Bharat to thy plan consent

      And long for Ráma’s banishment,

      Ne’er let his hands presume to pay

      The funeral honours to my clay.

      Vile foe, thou cause of all mine ill,

      Obtain at last thy cursed will.

      A widow soon shalt thou enjoy

      The sweets of empire with thy boy.

      O Princess, sure some evil fate

      First brought thee here to devastate,

      In whom the night of ruin lies

      Veiled in a consort’s fair disguise.

      The scorn of all and deepest shame

      Will long pursue my hated name,

      And dire disgrace on me will press,

      Misled by thee to wickedness.

      How shall my Ráma, whom, before,

      His elephant or chariot bore,

      Now with his feet, a wanderer, tread

      The forest wilds around him spread?

      How shall my son, to please whose taste,

      The deftest cooks, with earrings graced,

      With rivalry and jealous care

      The dainty meal and cates prepare —

      How shall he now his life sustain

      With acid fruit and woodland grain?

      He spends his time unvext by cares,

      And robes of precious texture wears:

      How shall he, with one garment round

      His limbs recline upon the ground?

      Whose was this plan, this cruel thought

      Unheard till now, with ruin fraught,

      To make thy son Ayodhyá‘s king,

      And send my Ráma wandering?

      Shame, shame on women! Vile, untrue,

      Their selfish ends they still pursue.

      Not all of womankind I mean.

      But more than all this wicked queen.

      O worthless, cruel, selfish dame,

      I brought thee home, my plague and woe.

      What fault in me hast thou to blame,

      Or in my son who loves thee so?

      Fond wives may from their husbands flee,

      And fathers may their sons desert,

      But all the world would rave to see

      My Ráma touched with deadly hurt.

      I joy his very step to hear,

      As

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