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from the welkin broke,

      That shook the spacious earth amain

      And hurled high trees upon the plain.

      The sun grew dark with murky cloud,

      And o’er the skies was cast a shroud,

      While o’er the army, faint with dread,

      A veil of dust and ashes spread.

      King, princes, saints their sense retained,

      Fear-stupefied the rest remained.

      At length, their wits returning, all

      Beneath the gloom and ashy pall

      Saw Jamadagni’s son with dread,

      His long hair twisted round his head,

      Who, sprung from Bhrigu, loved to beat

      The proudest kings beneath his feet.

      Firm as Kailása’s hill he showed,

      Fierce as the fire of doom he glowed.

      His axe upon his shoulder lay,

      His bow was ready for the fray,

      With thirsty arrows wont to fly

      Like Lightnings from the angry sky.

      A long keen arrow forth he drew,

      Invincible like those which flew

      From Śiva’s ever-conquering bow

      And Tripura in death laid low.

      When his wild form, that struck with awe,

      Fearful as ravening flame, they saw,

      Vaśishṭha and the saints whose care

      Was sacrifice and muttered prayer,

      Drew close together, each to each,

      And questioned thus with bated speech:

      “Indignant at his father’s fate

      Will he on warriors vent his hate,

      The slayers of his father slay,

      And sweep the loathed race away?

      But when of old his fury raged

      Seas of their blood his wrath assuaged:

      So doubtless now he has not planned

      To slay all warriors in the land.”

      Then with a gift the saints drew near

      To Bhrigu’s son whose look was fear,

      And Ráma! Ráma! soft they cried.

      The gift he took, no word replied.

      Then Bhrigu’s son his silence broke

      And thus to Ráma Ráma spoke:

1 This is another Ráma, son of Jamadagni, called Paraśuráma, or Ráma with the axe, from the weapon which he carried. He was while he lived the terror of the Warrior caste, and his name recalls long and fierce struggles between the sacerdotal and military order in which the latter suffered severely at the hands of their implacable enemy.

      Canto 75. The Parle.

      “Heroic Ráma, men proclaim

      The marvels of thy matchless fame,

      And I from loud-voiced rumour know

      The exploit of the broken bow,

      Yea, bent and broken, mighty Chief,

      A feat most wondrous, past belief.

      Stirred by thy fame thy face I sought:

      A peerless bow I too have brought.

      This mighty weapon, strong and dire,

      Great Jamadagni owned, my sire.

      Draw with its shaft my father’s bow,

      And thus thy might, O Ráma, show.

      This proof of prowess let me see —

      The weapon bent and drawn by thee;

      Then single fight our strength shall try,

      And this shall raise thy glory high.”

      King Daśaratha heard with dread

      The boastful speech, and thus he said;

      Raising his hands in suppliant guise,

      With pallid cheek and timid eyes:

      “Forgetful of the bloody feud

      Ascetic toils hast thou pursued;

      Then, Bráhman, let thy children be

      Untroubled and from danger free.

      Sprung of the race of Bhrigu, who

      Read holy lore, to vows most true,

      Thou swarest to the Thousand-eyed

      And thy fierce axe was cast aside.

      Thou turnedst to thy rites away

      Leaving the earth to Kaśyap’s sway,

      And wentest far a grove to seek

Beneath Mahendra’s1 mountain peak.

      Now, mighty Hermit, art thou here

      To slay us all with doom severe?

      For if alone my Ráma fall,

      We share his fate and perish all.”

      As thus the aged sire complained

      The mighty chief no answer deigned.

      To Ráma only thus he cried:

      “Two bows, the Heavenly Artist’s pride,

      Celestial, peerless, vast, and strong,

      By all the worlds were honoured long.

One to the Three-eyed God2 was given,

      By glory to the conflict driven,

      Thus armed fierce Tripura he slew:

      And then by thee ’twas burst in two.

      The second bow, which few may brave,

      The highest Gods to Vishṇu gave.

      This bow I hold; before it fall

      The foeman’s fenced tower and wall.

      Then prayed the Gods the Sire Most High

      By some unerring proof to try

      Were praise for might Lord Vishṇu’s due,

Or his whose Neck is stained with Blue.3

      The mighty Sire their wishes knew,

      And he whose lips are ever true

      Caused the two Gods to meet as foes.

      Then fierce the rage of battle rose:

      Bristled in dread each starting hair

      As Śiva strove with Vishṇu there.

      But Vishṇu raised his voice amain.

      And Śiva’s bowstring twanged in vain;

      Its master of the Three bright Eyes

      Stood fixt in fury and surprise.

      Then

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