---

Скачать книгу

---

down to earth.

      Canto 14. Ráma Summoned.

      The wicked queen her speech renewed,

      When rolling on the earth she viewed

      Ikshváku’s son, Ayodhyá‘s king,

      For his dear Ráma sorrowing:

      “Why, by a simple promise bound,

      Liest thou prostrate on the ground,

      As though a grievous sin dismayed

      Thy spirit! Why so sore afraid?

      Keep still thy word. The righteous deem

      That truth, mid duties, is supreme:

      And now in truth and honour’s name

      I bid thee own the binding claim.

      Śaivya, a king whom earth obeyed,

      Once to a hawk a promise made,

      Gave to the bird his flesh and bone,

And by his truth made heaven his own.1

      Alarka, when a Bráhman famed

      For Scripture lore his promise claimed,

      Tore from his head his bleeding eyes

      And unreluctant gave the prize.

      His narrow bounds prescribed restrain

      The Rivers’ Lord, the mighty main,

      Who, though his waters boil and rave,

      Keeps faithful to the word he gave.

      Truth all religion comprehends,

      Through all the world its might extends:

      In truth alone is justice placed,

      On truth the words of God are based:

      A life in truth unchanging past

      Will bring the highest bliss at last.

      If thou the right would still pursue,

      Be constant to thy word and true:

      Let me thy promise fruitful see,

      For boons, O King, proceed from thee.

      Now to preserve thy righteous fame,

      And yielding to my earnest claim —

      Thrice I repeat it — send thy child,

      Thy Ráma, to the forest wild.

      But if the boon thou still deny,

      Before thy face, forlorn, I die.”

      Thus was the helpless monarch stung

      By Queen Kaikeyí‘s fearless tongue,

      As Bali strove in vain to loose

      His limbs from Indra’s fatal noose.

      Dismayed in soul and pale with fear,

      The monarch, like a trembling steer

      Between the chariot’s wheel and yoke,

      Again to Queen Kaikeyí spoke,

      With sad eyes fixt in vacant stare,

      Gathering courage from despair:

      “That hand I took, thou sinful dame,

      With texts, before the sacred flame,

      Thee and thy son, I scorn and hate,

      And all at once repudiate.

      The night is fled: the dawn is near:

      Soon will the holy priests be here

      To bid me for the rite prepare

      That with my son the throne will share,

      The preparation made to grace

      My Ráma in his royal place —

      With this, e’en this, my darling for

      My death the funeral flood shall pour.

      Thou and thy son at least forbear

      In offerings to my shade to share,

      For by the plot thy guile has laid

      His consecration will be stayed.

      This very day how shall I brook

      To meet each subject’s altered look?

      To mark each gloomy joyless brow

      That was so bright and glad but now?”

      While thus the high-souled monarch spoke

      To the stern queen, the Morning broke,

      And holy night had slowly fled,

      With moon and stars engarlanded.

      Yet once again the cruel queen

      Spoke words in answer fierce and keen,

      Still on her evil purpose bent,

      Wild with her rage and eloquent:

      “What speech is this? Such words as these

      Seem sprung from poison-sown disease.

      Quick to thy noble Ráma send

      And bid him on his sire attend.

      When to my son the rule is given;

      When Ráma to the woods is driven;

      When not a rival copes with me,

      From chains of duty thou art free.”

      Thus goaded, like a generous steed

      Urged by sharp spurs to double speed,

      “My senses are astray,” he cried,

      “And duty’s bonds my hands have tied.

      I long to see mine eldest son,

      My virtuous, my beloved one.”

      And now the night had past away;

      Out shone the Maker of the Day,

      Bringing the planetary hour

      And moment of auspicious power.

      Vaśishṭha, virtuous, far renowned,

      Whose young disciples girt him round,

      With sacred things without delay

      Through the fair city took his way.

      He traversed, where the people thronged,

      And all for Ráma’s coming longed,

      The town as fair in festive show

As his who lays proud cities low.2

      He reached the palace where he heard

      The mingled notes of many a bird,

      Where crowded thick high-honoured bands

      Of guards with truncheons in their hands.

      Begirt by many a sage, elate,

      Vaśishṭha reached the royal gate,

      And standing by the door he found

      Sumantra, for his form renowned,

      The king’s illustrious charioteer

      And noble counsellor and peer.

      To him well skilled in every part

      Of his hereditary art

      Vaśishṭha

---

Скачать книгу