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      Behold the demon hard to smite,

      Defended by her magic might.

      My hand shall stay her course to-day,

      And shear her nose and ears away.

      No heart have I her life to take:

      I spare it for her sex’s sake.

      My will is but, with minished force,

      To check her in her evil course.”

      While thus he spoke, by rage impelled

      Roaring as she came nigh,

      The fiend her course at Ráma held

      With huge arms tossed on high.

      Her, rushing on, the seer assailed

      With a loud cry of hate;

      And thus the sons of Raghu hailed:

      “Fight, and be fortunate.”

      Then from the earth a horrid cloud

      Of dust the demon raised,

      And for awhile in darkling shroud

      Wrapt Raghu’s sons amazed.

      Then calling on her magic power

      The fearful fight to wage,

      She smote him with a stony shower,

      Till Ráma burned with rage.

      Then pouring forth his arrowy rain

      That stony flood to stay,

      With winged darts, as she charged amain,

      He shore her hands away.

      As Táḍaká still thundered near

      Thus maimed by Ráma’s blows,

      Lakshmaṇ in fury severed sheer

      The monster’s ears and nose.

      Assuming by her magic skill

      A fresh and fresh disguise,

      She tried a thousand shapes at will,

      Then vanished from their eyes.

      When Gádhi’s son of high renown

      Still saw the stony rain pour down

      Upon each princely warrior’s head,

      With words of wisdom thus he said:

      “Enough of mercy, Ráma, lest

      This sinful evil-working pest,

      Disturber of each holy rite,

      Repair by magic arts her might.

      Without delay the fiend should die,

      For, see, the twilight hour is nigh.

      And at the joints of night and day

      Such giant foes are hard to slay.”

      Then Ráma, skilful to direct

      His arrow to the sound,

      With shafts the mighty demon checked

      Who rained her stones around.

      She sore impeded and beset

      By Ráma and his arrowy net,

      Though skilled in guile and magic lore,

      Rushed on the brothers with a roar.

      Deformed, terrific, murderous, dread,

      Swift as the levin on she sped,

      Like cloudy pile in autumn’s sky,

      Lifting her two vast arms on high,

      When Ráma smote her with a dart,

      Shaped like a crescent, to the heart.

      Sore wounded by the shaft that came

      With lightning speed and surest aim,

      Blood spouting from her mouth and side,

      She fell upon the earth and died.

      Soon as the Lord who rules the sky

      Saw the dread monster lifeless lie,

      He called aloud, Well done! well done!

      And the Gods honoured Raghu’s son.

      Standing in heaven the Thousand-eyed,

      With all the Immortals, joying cried:

      “Lift up thine eyes, O Saint, and see

      The Gods and Indra nigh to thee.

      This deed of Ráma’s boundless might

      Has filled our bosoms with delight,

      Now, for our will would have it so,

      To Raghu’s son some favour show.

      Invest him with the power which naught

      But penance gains and holy thought,

      Those heavenly arms on him bestow

      To thee entrusted long ago

      By great Kriśáśva best of kings,

      Son of the Lord of living things.

      More fit recipient none can be

      Than he who joys it following thee;

      And for our sakes the monarch’s seed

      Has yet to do a mighty deed.”

      He spoke; and all the heavenly train

      Rejoicing sought their homes again,

      While honour to the saint they paid.

      Then came the evening’s twilight shade,

      The best of hermits overjoyed

      To know the monstrous fiend destroyed,

      His lips on Ráma’s forehead pressed,

      And thus the conquering chief addressed:

      “O Ráma gracious to the sight.

      Here will we pass the present night,

      And with the morrow’s earliest ray

      Bend to my hermitage our way.”

      The son of Daśaratha heard,

      Delighted, Viśvámitra’s word,

      And as he bade, that night he spent

      In Táḍaká‘s wild wood, content.

      And the grove shone that happy day,

      Freed from the curse that on it lay,

Like Chaitraratha1 fair and gay.

1 The famous pleasure-garden of Kuvera the God of Wealth.

      Canto 29. The Celestial Arms.

      That night they slept and took their rest;

      And then the mighty saint addressed,

      With pleasant smile and accents mild

      These words to Raghu’s princely child:

      “Well pleased am I. High fate be thine,

      Thou scion of a royal line.

      Now will I, for I love thee so,

      All heavenly arms on thee bestow.

      Victor with these, whoe’er oppose,

      Thy hand

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