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when I see my Ráma near

      I feel my youth again renewed.

      There might be life without the sun,

      Yea, e’en if Indra sent no rain,

      But, were my Ráma banished, none

      Would, so I think, alive remain.

      A foe that longs my life to take,

      I brought thee here my death to be,

      Caressed thee long, a venomed snake,

      And through my folly die. Ah me!

      Ráma and me and Lakshmaṇ slay,

      And then with Bharat rule the state;

      So bring the kingdom to decay,

      And fawn on those thy lord who hate,

      Plotter of woe, for evil bred,

      For such a speech why do not all

      Thy teeth from out thy wicked head

      Split in a thousand pieces fall?

      My Ráma’s words are ever kind,

      He knows not how to speak in ire:

      Then how canst thou presume to find

      A fault in him whom all admire?

      Yield to despair, go mad, or die,

      Or sink within the rifted earth;

      Thy fell request will I deny,

      Thou shamer of thy royal birth.

      Thy longer life I scarce can bear,

      Thou ruin of my home and race,

      Who wouldst my heart and heartstrings tear,

      Keen as a razor, false and base.

      My life is gone, why speak of joy?

      For what, without my son, were sweet?

      Spare, lady, him thou canst destroy;

      I pray thee as I touch thy feet.”

      He fell and wept with wild complaint,

      Heart-struck by her presumptuous speech,

      But could not touch, so weak and faint,

      The cruel feet he strove to reach.

1 This story is told in the Mahábhárat. A free version of it may be found in Scenes from the Rámáyan, etc.

      Canto 13. Dasaratha’s Distress.

      Unworthy of his mournful fate,

      The mighty king, unfortunate,

      Lay prostrate in unseemly guise,

      As, banished from the blissful skies,

      Yayáti, in his evil day.

His merit all exhausted, lay.1

      The queen, triumphant in the power

      Won by her beauty’s fatal dower,

      Still terrible and unsubdued,

      Her dire demand again renewed:

      “Great Monarch, ’twas thy boast till now

      To love the truth and keep the vow;

      Then wherefore would thy lips refuse

      The promised boon ’tis mine to choose?”

      King Daśaratha, thus addressed,

      With anger raging in his breast,

      Sank for a while beneath the pain,

      Then to Kaikeyí spoke again:

      “Childless so long, at length I won,

      With mighty toil, from Heaven a son,

      Ráma, the mighty-armed; and how

      Shall I desert my darling now?

      A scholar wise, a hero bold,

      Of patient mood, with wrath controlled,

      How can I bid my Ráma fly,

      My darling of the lotus eye?

      In heaven itself I scarce could bear,

      When asking of my Ráma there,

      To hear the Gods his griefs declare,

      And O, that death would take me hence

      Before I wrong his innocence!”

      As thus the monarch wept and wailed,

      And maddening grief his heart assailed,

      The sun had sought his resting-place,

      And night was closing round apace.

      But yet the moon-crowned night could bring

      No comfort to the wretched king.

      As still he mourned with burning sighs

      And fixed his gaze upon the skies:

      “O Night whom starry fires adorn,

      I long not for the coming morn.

      Be kind and show some mercy: see,

      My suppliant hands are raised to thee.

      Nay, rather fly with swifter pace;

      No longer would I see the face

      Of Queen Kaikeyí, cruel, dread,

      Who brings this woe upon mine head.”

      Again with suppliant hands he tried

      To move the queen, and wept and sighed:

      “To me, unhappy me, inclined

      To good, sweet dame, thou shouldst be kind;

      Whose life is well-nigh fled, who cling

      To thee for succour, me thy king.

      This, only this, is all my claim:

      Have mercy, O my lovely dame.

      None else have I to take my part,

      Have mercy: thou art good at heart.

      Hear, lady of the soft black eye,

      And win a name that ne’er shall die:

      Let Ráma rule this glorious land,

      The gift of thine imperial hand.

      O lady of the dainty waist,

      With eyes and lips of beauty graced,

      Please Ráma, me, each saintly priest,

      Bharat, and all from chief to least.”

      She heard his wild and mournful cry,

      She saw the tears his speech that broke,

      Saw her good husband’s reddened eye,

      But, cruel still, no word she spoke.

      His eyes upon her face he bent,

      And sought for mercy, but in vain:

      She claimed his darling’s banishment,

      He swooned upon the ground again.

1 Only the highest merit obtains a home in heaven for ever. Minor degrees of merit procure only leases of heavenly mansions terminable after periods proportioned to the fund which buys them. King Yayáti went to

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