---

Скачать книгу

---

spread through all the worlds his name.

      Be sure those fiends can never stand

      Before the might of Ráma’s hand,

      And mid the best and bravest none

      Can slay that pair but Raghu’s son.

      Entangled in the toils of Fate

      Those sinners, proud and obstinate,

      Are, in their fury overbold,

      No match for Ráma mighty-souled.

      Nor let a father’s breast give way

      Too far to fond affection’s sway.

      Count thou the fiends already slain:

      My word is pledged, nor pledged in vain.

      I know the hero Ráma well

      In whom high thoughts and valour dwell;

      So does Vaśishṭha, so do these

      Engaged in long austerities.

      If thou would do the righteous deed,

      And win high fame, thy virtue’s meed,

      Fame that on earth shall last and live,

      To me, great King, thy Ráma give.

      If to the words that I have said,

      With Saint Vaśishṭha at their head

      Thy holy men, O King, agree,

      Then let thy Ráma go with me.

      Ten nights my sacrifice will last,

      And ere the stated time be past

      Those wicked fiends, those impious twain,

      Must fall by wondrous Ráma slain.

      Let not the hours, I warn thee, fly,

      Fixt for the rite, unheeded by;

      Good luck have thou, O royal Chief,

      Nor give thy heart to needless grief.”

      Thus in fair words with virtue fraught

      The pious glorious saint besought.

      But the good speech with poignant sting

      Pierced ear and bosom of the king,

      Who, stabbed with pangs too sharp to bear,

      Fell prostrate and lay fainting there.

1 Great joy, according to the Hindu belief, has this effect, not causing each particular hair to stand on end, but gently raising all the down upon the body.

2 The Rákshasas, giants, or fiends who are represented as disturbing the sacrifice, signify here, as often elsewhere, merely the savage tribes which placed themselves in hostile opposition to Bráhmanical institutions.

      Canto 22. Dasaratha’s Speech.

      His tortured senses all astray,

      While the hapless monarch lay,

      Then slowly gathering thought and strength

      To Viśvámitra spoke at length:

      “My son is but a child, I ween;

      This year he will be just sixteen.

      How is he fit for such emprise,

      My darling with the lotus eyes?

      A mighty army will I bring

      That calls me master, lord, and king,

      And with its countless squadrons fight

      Against these rovers of the night.

      My faithful heroes skilled to wield

      The arms of war will take the field;

      Their skill the demons’ might may break:

      Ráma, my child, thou must not take.

      I, even I, my bow in hand,

      Will in the van of battle stand,

      And, while my soul is left alive,

      With the night-roaming demons strive.

      Thy guarded sacrifice shall be

      Completed, from all hindrance free.

      Thither will I my journey make:

      Ráma, my child, thou must not take.

      A boy unskilled, he knows not yet

      The bounds to strength and weakness set.

      No match is he for demon foes

      Who magic arts to arms oppose.

      O chief of saints, I have no power,

      Of Ráma reft, to live one hour:

      Mine aged heart at once would break:

      Ráma, my child, thou must not take.

      Nine thousand circling years have fled

      With all their seasons o’er my head,

      And as a hard-won boon, O sage,

      These sons have come to cheer mine age.

      My dearest love amid the four

      Is he whom first his mother bore,

      Still dearer for his virtues’ sake:

      Ráma, my child, thou must not take.

      But if, unmoved by all I say,

      Thou needs must bear my son away,

      Let me lead with him, I entreat,

A four-fold army1 all complete.

      What is the demons’ might, O Sage?

      Who are they? What their parentage?

      What is their size? What beings lend

      Their power to guard them and befriend?

      How can my son their arts withstand?

      Or I or all my armed band?

      Tell me the whole that I may know

      To meet in war each evil foe

      Whom conscious might inspires with pride.”

      And Viśvámitra thus replied:

      “Sprung from Pulastya’s race there came

      A giant known by Rávaṇ‘s name.

      Once favoured by the Eternal Sire

      He plagues the worlds in ceaseless ire,

      For peerless power and might renowned,

      By giant bands encompassed round.

      Viśravas for his sire they hold,

      His brother is the Lord of Gold.

      King of the giant hosts is he,

      And worst of all in cruelty.

      This Rávaṇ‘s dread commands impel

      Two demons who in might excel,

      Márícha and Suváhu hight,

      To trouble and impede the rite.”

      Then thus the king addressed the sage:

      “No power have I, my lord, to wage

      War with this evil-minded foe;

      Now

---

Скачать книгу