Rámáyan of Válmíki (World's Classics Series). Valmiki

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when her flood whom all revere

      Rolls o’er the dust that moulders here,

      The sixty thousand, freed from sin,

      A home in Indra’s heaven shall win.

      Go, and with ceaseless labour try

      To draw the Goddess from the sky.

      Return, and with thee take the steed;

      So shall thy grandsire’s rite succeed.”

      Prince Anśumán the strong and brave

      The glorious hero took the horse,

      And homeward quickly bent his course.

      Straight to the anxious king he hied,

      Whom lustral rites had purified,

      The mournful story to unfold

      And all the king of birds had told.

      The tale of woe the monarch heard,

      Nor longer was the rite deferred:

      With care and just observance he

      Accomplished all, as texts decree.

      The rites performed, with brighter fame,

      Mighty in counsel, home he came.

      He longed to bring the river down,

      But found no plan his wish to crown.

      He pondered long with anxious thought

      But saw no way to what he sought.

      Thus thirty thousand years he spent,

      And then to heaven the monarch went.

      Canto 43. Bhagírath.

      When Sagar thus had bowed to fate,

      The lords and commons of the state

      Approved with ready heart and will

      Prince Anśumán his throne to fill.

      He ruled, a mighty king, unblamed,

      Sire of Dilípa justly famed.

      To him, his child and worthy heir,

      The king resigned his kingdom’s care,

      And on Himálaya’s pleasant side

      His task austere of penance plied.

      Bright as a God in clear renown

      He planned to bring pure Gangá down.

      There on his fruitless hope intent

      Twice sixteen thousand years he spent,

      And in the grove of hermits stayed

      Till bliss in heaven his rites repaid.

      Dilípa then, the good and great,

      Soon as he learnt his kinsmen’s fate,

      Bowed down by woe, with troubled mind,

      Pondering long no cure could find.

      “How can I bring,” the mourner sighed,

      “To cleanse their dust, the heavenly tide?

      How can I give them rest, and save

      Their spirits with the offered wave?”

      Long with this thought his bosom skilled

      In holy discipline was filled.

      A son was born, Bhagírath named,

      Above all men for virtue famed.

      Dilípa many a rite ordained,

      And thirty thousand seasons reigned.

      But when no hope the king could see

      His kinsmen from their woe to free,

      The lord of men, by sickness tried,

      Obeyed the law of fate, and died;

      He left the kingdom to his son,

      And gained the heaven his deeds had won.

      The good Bhagírath, royal sage,

      Had no fair son to cheer his age.

      He, great in glory, pure in will,

      Longing for sons was childless still.

      Then on one wish, one thought intent,

      Planning the heavenly stream’s descent,

      Leaving his ministers the care

      And burden of his state to bear,

      Engaged in long austerity.

      With senses checked, with arms upraised,

      Each weary month the hermit passed

      Breaking but once his awful fast.

      In winter’s chill the brook his bed,

      In rain, the clouds to screen his head.

      Thousands of years he thus endured

      Till Brahmá‘s favour was assured,

      And the high Lord of living things

      Looked kindly on his sufferings.

      With trooping Gods the Sire came near

      The king who plied his task austere:

      “Blest Monarch, of a glorious race,

      Thy fervent rites have won my grace.

      Well hast thou wrought thine awful task:

      Some boon in turn, O Hermit, ask.”

      Bhagírath, rich in glory’s light,

      The hero with the arm of might,

      Thus to the Lord of earth and sky

      Raised suppliant hands and made reply:

      “If the great God his favour deigns,

      And my long toil its fruit obtains,

      Let Sagar’s sons receive from me

      Libations that they long to see.

      Let Gangá with her holy wave

      The ashes of the heroes lave,

      That so my kinsmen may ascend

      To heavenly bliss that ne’er shall end.

      And give, I pray, O God, a son,

      Nor let my house be all undone.

      Sire of the worlds! be this the grace

      Bestowed upon Ikshváku’s race.”

      The Sire, when thus the king had prayed,

      In sweet kind words his answer made.

      “High, high thy thought and wishes are,

      Bhagírath of the mighty car!

      Ikshváku’s line is blest


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