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by our great forefathers lay

      A treasure and a pride for aye.

      Once, as it chanced, I ploughed the ground,

      When sudden, ‘neath the share was found

      An infant springing from the earth,

Named Sítá from her secret birth.2

      In strength and grace the maiden grew,

      My cherished daughter, fair to view.

      I vowed her, of no mortal birth,

      Meet prize for noblest hero’s worth.

      In strength and grace the maiden grew,

      And many a monarch came to woo.

      To all the princely suitors I

      Gave, mighty Saint, the same reply:

      “I give not thus my daughter, she

Prize of heroic worth shall be.3

      To Míthilá the suitors pressed

      Their power and might to manifest.

      To all who came with hearts aglow

      I offered Śiva’s wondrous bow.

      Not one of all the royal band

      Could raise or take the bow in hand.

      The suitors’ puny might I spurned,

      And back the feeble princes turned.

      Enraged thereat, the warriors met,

      With force combined my town beset.

      Stung to the heart with scorn and shame,

      With war and threats they madly came,

      Besieged my peaceful walls, and long

      To Míthilá did grievous wrong.

      There, wasting all, a year they lay,

      And brought my treasures to decay,

      Filling my soul, O Hermit chief,

      With bitter woe and hopeless grief.

      At last by long-wrought penance I

      Won favour with the Gods on high,

      Who with my labours well content

      A four-fold host to aid me sent.

      Then swift the baffled heroes fled

      To all the winds discomfited —

      Wrong-doers, with their lords and host,

      And all their valour’s idle boast.

      This heavenly bow, exceeding bright,

      These youths shall see, O Anchorite.

      Then if young Ráma’s hand can string

      The bow that baffled lord and king,

      To him I give, as I have sworn,

      My Sítá, not of woman born.”

1 “Daksha was one of the ancient Progenitors or Prajápatis created by Brahmá. The sacrifice which is here spoken of and in which Śankar or Śiva (called also here Rudra and Bhava) smote the Gods because he had not been invited to share the sacred oblations with them, seems to refer to the origin of the worship of Śiva, to its increase and to the struggle it maintained with other older forms of worship.” Gorresio.

2 Sítá means a furrow.

      “Great Erectheus swayed,

      That owed his nurture to the blue-eyed maid,

      But from the teeming furrow took his birth,

      The mighty offspring of the foodful earth.”

      Iliad, Book II.

3 “The whole story of Sítá, as will be seen in the course of the poem has a great analogy with the ancient myth of Proserpine.” Gorresio.

      Canto 67. The Breaking Of The Bow.

      Then spoke again the great recluse:

      “This mighty bow, O King, produce.”

      King Janak, at the saint’s request,

      This order to his train addressed:

      “Let the great bow be hither borne,

      Which flowery wreaths and scents adorn.”

      Soon as the monarch’s words were said,

      His servants to the city sped,

      Five thousand youths in number, all

      Of manly strength and stature tall,

      The ponderous eight-wheeled chest that held

      The heavenly bow, with toil propelled.

      At length they brought that iron chest,

      And thus the godlike king addressed:

      “This best of bows, O lord, we bring,

      Respected by each chief and king,

      And place it for these youths to see,

      If, Sovereign, such thy pleasure be.”

      With suppliant palm to palm applied

      King Janak to the strangers cried:

      “This gem of bows, O Bráhman Sage,

      Our race has prized from age to age,

      Too strong for those who yet have reigned,

      Though great in might each nerve they strained.

      Titan and fiend its strength defies,

      God, spirit, minstrel of the skies.

      And bard above and snake below

      Are baffled by this glorious bow.

      Then how may human prowess hope

      With such a bow as this to cope?

      What man with valour’s choicest gift

      This bow can draw, or string, or lift?

      Yet let the princes, holy Seer,

      Behold it: it is present here.”

      Then spoke the hermit pious-souled:

      “Ráma, dear son, the bow behold.”

      Then Ráma at his word unclosed

      The chest wherein its might reposed,

      Thus crying, as he viewed it: “Lo!

      I lay mine hand upon the bow:

      May happy luck my hope attend

      Its heavenly strength to lift or bend.”

      “Good luck be thine,” the hermit cried:

      “Assay the task!” the king replied.

      Then Raghu’s son, as if in sport,

      Before the thousands of the court,

      The weapon by the middle raised

      That all the crowd in wonder gazed.

      With steady arm the string he drew

      Till burst the mighty bow in two.

      As

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