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the king that I am here,

      Here ready by my side behold

      These sacred vessels made of gold,

      Which water for the rite contain

      From Gangá and each distant main.

      Here for installing I have brought

      The seat prescribed of fig-wood wrought,

      All kinds of seed and precious scent

      And many a gem and ornament;

      Grain, sacred grass, the garden’s spoil,

      Honey and curds and milk and oil;

      Eight radiant maids, the best of all

      War elephants that feed in stall;

      A four-horse car, a bow and sword.

      A litter, men to bear their lord;

      A white umbrella bright and fair

      That with the moon may well compare;

      Two chouries of the whitest hair;

      A golden beaker rich and rare;

      A bull high-humped and fair to view,

      Girt with gold bands and white of hue;

      A four-toothed steed with flowing mane,

      A throne which lions carved sustain;

      A tiger’s skin, the sacred fire,

      Fresh kindled, which the rites require;

      The best musicians skilled to play,

      And dancing-girls in raiment gay;

      Kine, Bráhmans, teachers fill the court,

      And bird and beast of purest sort.

      From town and village, far and near,

      The noblest men are gathered here;

      Here merchants with their followers crowd,

      And men in joyful converse loud,

      And kings from many a distant land

      To view the consecration stand.

      The dawn is come, the lucky day;

      Go bid the monarch haste away,

      That now Prince Ráma may obtain

      The empire, and begin his reign.”

      Soon as he heard the high behest

      The driver of the chariot pressed

      Within the chambers of the king,

      His lord with praises honouring.

      And none of all the warders checked

      His entrance for their great respect

      Of him well known, in place so high,

      Still fain their king to gratify.

      He stood beside the royal chief,

      Unwitting of his deadly grief,

      And with sweet words began to sing

      The praises of his lord and king:

      “As, when the sun begins to rise,

      The sparkling sea delights our eyes,

      Wake, calm with gentle soul, and thus

      Give rapture, mighty King, to us.

As Mátali3 this selfsame hour

      Sang lauds of old to Indra’s power,

      When he the Titan hosts o’erthrew,

      So hymn I thee with praises due.

      The Vedas, with their kindred lore,

      Brahmá their soul-born Lord adore,

      With all the doctrines of the wise,

      And bid him, as I bid thee, rise.

      As, with the moon, the Lord of Day

      Wakes with the splendour of his ray

      Prolific Earth, who neath him lies,

      So, mighty King, I bid thee rise.

      With blissful words, O Lord of men,

      Rise, radiant in thy form, as when

      The sun ascending darts his light

      From Meru’s everlasting height.

      May Śiva, Agni, Sun, and Moon

      Bestow on thee each choicest boon,

      Kuvera, Varuṇa, Indra bless

      Kakutstha’s son with all success.

      Awake, the holy night is fled,

      The happy light abroad is spread;

      Awake, O best of kings, and share

      The glorious task that claims thy care.

      The holy sage Vaśishṭha waits,

      With all his Bráhmans, at the gate.

      Give thy decree, without delay,

      To consecrate thy son today.

      As armies, by no captain led,

      As flocks that feed unshepherded,

      Such is the fortune of a state

      Without a king and desolate.”

      Such were the words the bard addressed,

      With weight of sage advice impressed;

      And, as he heard, the hapless king

      Felt deeper yet his sorrow’s sting.

      At length, all joy and comfort fled,

      He raised his eyes with weeping red,

      And, mournful for his Ráma’s sake,

      The good and glorious monarch spake:

      “Why seek with idle praise to greet

      The wretch for whom no praise is meet?

      Thy words mine aching bosom tear,

      And plunge me deeper in despair.”

      Sumantra heard the sad reply,

      And saw his master’s tearful eye.

      With reverent palm to palm applied

      He drew a little space aside.

      Then, as the king, with misery weak,

      With vain endeavour strove to speak,

      Kaikeyí, skilled in plot and plan,

      To sage Sumantra thus began:

      “The king, absorbed in joyful thought

      For his dear son, no rest has sought:

      Sleepless to him the night has past,

      And now o’erwatched he sinks at last.

      Then go, Sumantra, and with speed

      The glorious Ráma hither lead:

      Go, as I pray, nor longer wait;

      No time is this to hesitate.”

      “How can I go, O Lady fair,

      Unless my lord his will declare?”

      “Fain would I see him,” cried the king,

      “Quick, quick, my beauteous Ráma bring.”

      Then rose the happy thought to cheer

      The

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