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Ráma touched his senseless feet,

      And hers, for honour most unmeet;

      Round both his circling steps he bent,

      Then from the bower the hero went.

      Soon as he reached the gate he found

      His dear companions gathered round.

      Behind him came Sumitrá‘s child

      With weeping eyes so sad and wild.

      Then saw he all that rich array

      Of vases for the glorious day.

      Round them with reverent stops he paced,

      Nor vailed his eye, nor moved in haste.

      The loss of empire could not dim

      The glory that encompassed him.

So will the Lord of Cooling Rays1

      On whom the world delights to gaze,

      Through the great love of all retain

      Sweet splendour in the time of wane.

      Now to the exile’s lot resigned

      He left the rule of earth behind:

      As though all worldly cares he spurned

      No trouble was in him discerned.

      The chouries that for kings are used,

      And white umbrella, he refused,

      Dismissed his chariot and his men,

      And every friend and citizen.

      He ruled his senses, nor betrayed

      The grief that on his bosom weighed,

      And thus his mother’s mansion sought

      To tell the mournful news he brought.

      Nor could the gay-clad people there

      Who flocked round Ráma true and fair,

      One sign of altered fortune trace

      Upon the splendid hero’s face.

      Nor had the chieftain, mighty-armed,

      Lost the bright look all hearts that charmed,

      As e’en from autumn moons is thrown

      A splendour which is all their own.

      With his sweet voice the hero spoke

      Saluting all the gathered folk,

      Then righteous-souled and great in fame

      Close to his mother’s house he came.

      Lakshmaṇ the brave, his brother’s peer

      In princely virtues, followed near,

      Sore troubled, but resolved to show

      No token of his secret woe.

      Thus to the palace Ráma went

      Where all were gay with hope and joy;

      But well he knew the dire event

      That hope would mar, that bliss destroy.

      So to his grief he would not yield

      Lest the sad change their hearts might rend,

      And, the dread tiding unrevealed,

      Spared from the blow each faithful friend.

1 The Moon.

      Canto 20. Kausalyá‘s Lament.

      But in the monarch’s palace, when

      Sped from the bower that lord of men,

      Up from the weeping women went

      A mighty wail and wild lament:

      “Ah, he who ever freely did

      His duty ere his sire could bid,

      Our refuge and our sure defence,

      This day will go an exile hence,

      He on Kauśalyá loves to wait

      Most tender and affectionate,

      And as he treats his mother, thus

      From childhood has he treated us.

      On themes that sting he will not speak,

      And when reviled is calm and meek.

      He soothes the angry, heals offence:

      He goes to-day an exile hence.

      Our lord the king is most unwise,

      And looks on life with doting eyes,

      Who in his folly casts away

      The world’s protection, hope, and stay.”

      Thus in their woe, like kine bereaved

Of their young calves,1 the ladies grieved,

      And ever as they wept and wailed

      With keen reproach the king assailed.

      Their lamentation, mixed with tears,

      Smote with new grief the monarch’s ears,

      Who, burnt with woe too great to bear,

      Fell on his couch and fainted there.

      Then Ráma, smitten with the pain

      His heaving heart could scarce restrain,

      Groaned like an elephant and strode

      With Lakshmaṇ to the queen’s abode.

      A warder there, whose hoary eld

      In honour high by all was held,

      Guarding the mansion, sat before

      The portal, girt with many more.

      Swift to their feet the warders sprang,

      And loud the acclamation rang,

      Hail, Ráma! as to him they bent,

      Of victor chiefs preëminent.

      One court he passed, and in the next

      Saw, masters of each Veda text,

      A crowd of Bráhmans, good and sage,

      Dear to the king for lore and age.

      To these he bowed his reverent head,

      Thence to the court beyond he sped.

      Old dames and tender girls, their care

      To keep the doors, were stationed there.

      And all, when Ráma came in view,

      Delighted to the chamber flew,

      To bear to Queen Kauśalyá‘s ear

      The tidings that she loved to hear.

      The queen, on rites and prayer intent,

      In careful watch the night had spent,

      And at the dawn, her son to aid,

      To Vishṇu holy offerings made.

      Firm in her vows, serenely glad,

      In robes of spotless linen clad,

      As texts prescribe, with grace implored,

      Her offerings in the fire she poured.

      Within

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