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been loved by me

      For reverence of the devotee.

      But demons haunt it, prompt to stay

      Each holy offering I would pay.

      Be thine, O lion-lord, to kill

      These giants that delight in ill.

      This day, beloved child, our feet

      Shall rest within the calm retreat:

      And know, thou chief of Raghu’s line,

      My hermitage is also thine.”

      He spoke; and soon the anchorite,

      With joyous looks that beamed delight,

      With Ráma and his brother stood

      Within the consecrated wood.

      Soon as they saw the holy man,

      With one accord together ran

      The dwellers in the sacred shade,

      And to the saint their reverence paid,

      And offered water for his feet,

      The gift of honour and a seat;

      And next with hospitable care

      They entertained the princely pair.

      The royal tamers of their foes

      Rested awhile in sweet repose:

      Then to the chief of hermits sued

      Standing in suppliant attitude:

      “Begin, O best of saints, we pray,

      Initiatory rites to-day.

      This Perfect Grove shall be anew

      Made perfect, and thy words be true.”

      Then, thus addressed, the holy man,

      The very glorious sage, began

      The high preliminary rite.

      Restraining sense and appetite.

      Calmly the youths that night reposed,

      And rose when morn her light disclosed,

      Their morning worship paid, and took

      Of lustral water from the brook.

      Thus purified they breathed the prayer,

      Then greeted Viśvámitra where

      As celebrant he sate beside

      The flame with sacred oil supplied.

1 I omit, after this line, eight ślokes which, as Schlegel allows, are quite out of place.

2 This is the fifth of the avatárs, descents or incarnations of Vishṇu.

3 This is a solar allegory. Vishṇu is the sun, the three steps being his rising, culmination, and setting.

      Canto 32. Visvámitra’s Sacrifice.

      That conquering pair, of royal race,

      Skilled to observe due time and place,

      To Kuśik’s hermit son addressed,

      In timely words, their meet request:

      “When must we, lord, we pray thee tell,

      Those Rovers of the Night repel?

      Speak, lest we let the moment fly,

      And pass the due occasion by.”

      Thus longing for the strife, they prayed,

      And thus the hermits answer made:

      “Till the fifth day be come and past,

      O Raghu’s sons, your watch must last.

The saint his Dikshá1 has begun,

      And all that time will speak to none.”

      Soon as the steadfast devotees

      Had made reply in words like these,

      The youths began, disdaining sleep,

      Six days and nights their watch to keep.

      The warrior pair who tamed the foe,

      Unrivalled benders of the bow,

      Kept watch and ward unwearied still

      To guard the saint from scathe and ill.

      ’Twas now the sixth returning day,

      The hour foretold had past away.

      Then Ráma cried: “O Lakshmaṇ, now

      Firm, watchful, resolute be thou.

      The fiends as yet have kept afar

      From the pure grove in which we are:

      Yet waits us, ere the day shall close,

      Dire battle with the demon foes.”

      While thus spoke Ráma borne away

      By longing for the deadly fray,

      See! bursting from the altar came

      The sudden glory of the flame.

      Round priest and deacon, and upon

      Grass, ladles, flowers, the splendour shone,

      And the high rite, in order due,

      With sacred texts began anew.

      But then a loud and fearful roar

      Re-echoed through the sky;

      And like vast clouds that shadow o’er

      The heavens in dark July,

      Involved in gloom of magic might

      Two fiends rushed on amain,

      Márícha, Rover of the Night,

      Suváhu, and their train.

      As on they came in wild career

      Thick blood in rain they shed;

      And Ráma saw those things of fear

      Impending overhead.

      Then soon as those accursed two

      Who showered down blood be spied,

      Thus to his brother brave and true

      Spoke Ráma lotus-eyed:

      “Now, Lakshmaṇ, thou these fiends shalt see,

      Man-eaters, foul of mind,

      Before my mortal weapon flee

      Like clouds before the wind.”

      He spoke. An arrow, swift as thought,

      Upon his bow he pressed,

      And smote, to utmost fury wrought,

      Márícha on the breast.

      Deep in his flesh the weapon lay

      Winged by the mystic spell,

      And, hurled a hundred leagues away,

      In ocean’s flood he fell.

      Then Ráma, when he saw the foe

      Convulsed and mad with pain

      Neath the chill-pointed weapon’s blow,

      To Lakshmaṇ spoke again:

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