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      Filled Ráma with unrest,

      As Ocean’s pulses rise and swell

      When the great moon he loves so well

      Shines full upon his breast.

      So grieving for his father’s sake,

      To his own heart the hero spake:

      “Why will the king my sire to-day

      No kindly word of greeting say?

      At other times, though wroth he be,

      His eyes grow calm that look on me.

      Then why does anguish wring his brow

      To see his well-beloved now?”

      Sick and perplexed, distraught with woe,

      To Queen Kaikeyí bowing low,

      While pallor o’er his bright cheek spread,

      With humble reverence he said:

      “What have I done, unknown, amiss

      To make my father wroth like this?

      Declare it, O dear Queen, and win

      His pardon for my heedless sin.

      Why is the sire I ever find

      Filled with all love to-day unkind?

      With eyes cast down and pallid cheek

      This day alone he will not speak.

      Or lies he prostrate neath the blow

      Of fierce disease or sudden woe?

      For all our bliss is dashed with pain,

      And joy unmixt is hard to gain.

      Does stroke of evil fortune smite

      Dear Bharat, charming to the sight,

      Or on the brave Śatrughna fall,

      Or consorts, for he loves them all?

      Against his words when I rebel,

      Or fail to please the monarch well,

      When deeds of mine his soul offend,

      That hour I pray my life may end.

      How should a man to him who gave

      His being and his life behave?

      The sire to whom he owes his birth

      Should be his deity on earth.

      Hast thou, by pride and folly moved,

      With bitter taunt the king reproved?

      Has scorn of thine or cruel jest

      To passion stirred his gentle breast?

      Speak truly, Queen, that I may know

      What cause has changed the monarch so.”

      Thus by the high-souled prince addressed,

      Of Raghu’s sons the chief and best,

      She cast all ruth and shame aside,

      And bold with greedy words replied:

      “Not wrath, O Ráma, stirs the king,

      Nor misery stabs with sudden sting;

      One thought that fills his soul has he,

      But dares not speak for fear of thee.

      Thou art so dear, his lips refrain

      From words that might his darling pain.

      But thou, as duty bids, must still

      The promise of thy sire fulfil.

      He who to me in days gone by

      Vouchsafed a boon with honours high,

      Dares now, a king, his word regret,

      And caitiff-like disowns the debt.

      The lord of men his promise gave

      To grant the boon that I might crave,

      And now a bridge would idly throw

      When the dried stream has ceased to flow.

      His faith the monarch must not break

      In wrath, or e’en for thy dear sake.

      From faith, as well the righteous know,

      Our virtue and our merits flow.

      Now, be they good or be they ill,

      Do thou thy father’s words fulfil:

      Swear that his promise shall not fail,

      And I will tell thee all the tale.

      Yes, Ráma, when I hear that thou

      Hast bound thee by thy father’s vow,

      Then, not till then, my lips shall speak,

      Nor will he tell what boon I seek.”

      He heard, and with a troubled breast

      This answer to the queen addressed:

      “Ah me, dear lady, canst thou deem

      That words like these thy lips beseem?

      I, at the bidding of my sire,

      Would cast my body to the fire,

      A deadly draught of poison drink,

      Or in the waves of ocean sink:

      If he command, it shall be done —

      My father and my king in one.

      Then speak and let me know the thing

      So longed for by my lord the king.

      It shall be done: let this suffice;

      Ráma ne’er makes a promise twice.”

      He ended. To the princely youth

      Who loved the right and spoke the truth,

      Cruel, abominable came

      The answer of the ruthless dame:

      “When Gods and Titans fought of yore,

      Transfixed with darts and bathed in gore

      Two boons to me thy father gave

      For the dear life ’twas mine to save.

      Of him I claim the ancient debt,

      That Bharat on the throne be set,

      And thou, O Ráma, go this day

      To Daṇḍak forest far away.

      Now, Ráma, if thou wilt maintain

      Thy father’s faith without a stain,

      And thine own truth and honour clear,

      Then, best of men, my bidding hear.

      Do thou thy father’s word obey,

      Nor from the pledge he gave me stray.

      Thy life in Daṇḍak forest spend

      Till nine long years and five shall end.

      Upon my Bharat’s princely head

      Let consecrating drops be shed,

      With all the royal pomp for thee

      Made ready by the king’s decree.

      Seek Daṇḍak forest and resign

      Rites that would make the empire thine,

      For twice seven years of exile wear

      The coat of bark and matted hair.

      Then

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