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mortal dart

      That strikes a numbing chill,

      Hath struck him senseless with the smart,

      But left him breathing still.

      But these who love the evil way,

      And drink the blood they spill,

      Rejoicing holy rites to stay,

      Fierce plagues, my hand shall kill.”

      He seized another shaft, the best,

      Aglow with living flame;

      It struck Suváhu on the chest,

      And dead to earth he came.

      Again a dart, the Wind-God’s own,

      Upon his string he laid,

      And all the demons were o’erthrown,

      The saints no more afraid.

      When thus the fiends were slain in fight,

      Disturbers of each holy rite,

      Due honour by the saints was paid

      To Ráma for his wondrous aid:

      So Indra is adored when he

      Has won some glorious victory.

      Success at last the rite had crowned,

      And Viśvámitra gazed around,

      And seeing every side at rest,

      The son of Raghu thus addressed:

      “My joy, O Prince, is now complete:

      Thou hast obeyed my will:

      Perfect before, this calm retreat

      Is now more perfect still.”

1 Certain ceremonies preliminary to a sacrifice.

      Canto 33. The Sone.

      Their task achieved, the princes spent

      That night with joy and full content.

      Ere yet the dawn was well displayed

      Their morning rites they duly paid,

      And sought, while yet the light was faint,

      The hermits and the mighty saint.

      They greeted first that holy sire

      Resplendent like the burning fire,

      And then with noble words began

      Their sweet speech to the sainted man:

      “Here stand, O Lord, thy servants true:

      Command what thou wouldst have us do.”

      The saints, by Viśvámitra led,

      To Ráma thus in answer said:

      “Janak the king who rules the land

      Of fertile Míthilá has planned

      A noble sacrifice, and we

      Will thither go the rite to see.

      Thou, Prince of men, with us shalt go,

      And there behold the wondrous bow,

      Terrific, vast, of matchless might,

      Which, splendid at the famous rite,

      The Gods assembled gave the king.

      No giant, fiend, or God can string

      That gem of bows, no heavenly bard:

      Then, sure, for man the task were hard.

      When lords of earth have longed to know

      The virtue of that wondrous bow,

      The strongest sons of kings in vain

      Have tried the mighty cord to strain.

      This famous bow thou there shalt view,

      And wondrous rites shalt witness too.

      The high-souled king who lords it o’er

      The realm of Míthilá of yore

      Gained from the Gods this bow, the price

      Of his imperial sacrifice.

      Won by the rite the glorious prize

      Still in the royal palace lies,

      Laid up in oil of precious scent

      With aloe-wood and incense blent.”

      Then Ráma answering, Be it so,

      Made ready with the rest to go.

      The saint himself was now prepared,

      But ere beyond the grove he fared,

      He turned him and in words like these

      Addressed the sylvan deities:

      “Farewell! each holy rite complete,

      I leave the hermits’ perfect seat:

      To Gangá‘s northern shore I go

      Beneath Himálaya’s peaks of snow.”

      With reverent steps he paced around

      The limits of the holy ground,

      And then the mighty saint set forth

      And took his journey to the north.

      His pupils, deep in Scripture’s page,

      Followed behind the holy sage,

      And servants from the sacred grove

      A hundred wains for convoy drove.

      The very birds that winged that air,

      The very deer that harboured there,

      Forsook the glade and leafy brake

      And followed for the hermit’s sake.

      They travelled far, till in the west

      The sun was speeding to his rest,

      And made, their portioned journey o’er,

Their halt on Śona’s1 distant shore.

      The hermits bathed when sank the sun,

      And every rite was duly done,

      Oblations paid to Fire, and then

      Sate round their chief the holy men.

      Ráma and Lakshmaṇ lowly bowed

      In reverence to the hermit crowd,

      And Ráma, having sate him down

      Before the saint of pure renown,

      With humble palms together laid

      His eager supplication made:

      “What country, O my lord, is this,

      Fair-smiling in her wealth and bliss?

      Deign fully, O thou mighty Seer,

      To tell me, for I long to hear.”

      Moved by the prayer of Ráma, he

      Told forth the country’s history.

1 A river which rises in Budelcund and falls into the Ganges near Patna. It is called also Hiraṇyaráhu, Golden-armed, and Hiraṇyaráha, Auriferous.

      Canto 34. Brahmadatta.

      “A

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