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all the mansions of the great,

      And householders of wealth and state,

      Where’er the people loved to meet,

      Where’er a tree adorned the street,

      Gay banners floated to the wind,

      And ribands round the staves were twined.

      Then clear the singers’ voices rang,

      As, charming mind and ear, they sang.

      Here players shone in bright attire,

      There dancing women swelled the quire.

      Each with his friend had much to say

      Of Ráma’s consecration-day:

      Yea, even children, as they played

      At cottage doors beneath the shade.

      The royal street with flowers was strown

      Which loving hands in heaps had thrown,

      And here and there rich incense lent

      Its fragrance to the garland’s scent;

      And all was fresh and fair and bright

      In honour of the coming rite.

      With careful foresight to illume

      With borrowed blaze the midnight gloom,

      The crowds erected here and there

      Trees in each street gay lamps to bear.

      The city thus from side to side

      In festal guise was beautified.

      The people of the town who longed

      To view the rite together thronged,

      And filling every court and square

      Praised the good king in converse there:

      “Our high-souled king! He throws a grace

      On old Ikshváku’s royal race.

      He feels his years’ increasing weight,

      And makes his son associate.

      Great joy to us the choice will bring

      Of Ráma for our lord and king.

      The good and bad to him are known,

      And long will he protect his own.

      No pride his prudent breast may swell,

      Most just, he loves his brothers well,

      And to us all that love extends,

      Cherished as brothers and as friends.

      Long may our lord in life remain,

      Good Daśaratha, free from stain,

      By whose most gracious favour we

      Ráma anointed king shall see.”

      Such were the words the townsmen spoke

      Heard by the gathering countryfolk,

      Who from the south, north, east, and west,

      Stirred by the joyful tidings, pressed.

      For by their eager longing led

      To Ráma’s consecration sped

      The villagers from every side,

      And filled Ayodhyá‘s city wide.

      This way and that way strayed the crowd,

      While rose a murmur long and loud,

      As when the full moon floods the skies

      And Ocean’s waves with thunder rise.

      That town, like Indra’s city fair,

      While peasants thronged her ways,

      Tumultuous roared like Ocean, where

      Each flood-born monster plays.

      Canto 7. Manthará‘s Lament.

      It chanced a slave-born handmaid, bred

      With Queen Kaikeyí, fancy-led,

      Mounted the stair and stood upon

      The terrace like the moon that shone.

      Thence Manthará at ease surveyed

      Ayodhyá to her eyes displayed,

      Where water cooled the royal street,

      Where heaps of flowers were fresh and sweet,

      And costly flags and pennons hung

      On roof and tower their shadow flung;

      With covered ways prepared in haste,

      And many an awning newly placed;

      With sandal-scented streams bedewed,

      Thronged by a new bathed multitude:

      Whose streets were full of Bráhman bands

      With wreaths and sweetmeats in their hands.

      Loud instruments their music raised,

      And through the town, where’er she gazed,

      The doors of temples glittered white,

      And the maid marvelled at the sight.

      Of Ráma’s nurse who, standing by,

      Gazed with a joy-expanded eye,

      In robes of purest white attired,

      The wondering damsel thus inquired:

      “Does Ráma’s mother give away

      Rich largess to the crowds to-day,

      On some dear object fondly bent,

      Or blest with measureless content?

      What mean these signs of rare delight

      On every side that meet my sight?

      Say, will the king with joy elate

      Some happy triumph celebrate?”

      The nurse, with transport uncontrolled,

      Her glad tale to the hump-back told:

      “Our lord the king to-morrow morn

      Will consecrate his eldest-born,

      And raise, in Pushya’s favouring hour,

      Prince Ráma to the royal power.”

      As thus the nurse her tidings spoke,

      Rage in the hump-back’s breast awoke.

      Down from the terrace, like the head

      Of high Kailása’s hill, she sped.

      Sin in her thoughts, her soul aflame,

      Where Queen Kaikeyí slept, she came:

      “Why sleepest thou?” she cried, “arise,

      Peril is near, unclose thine eyes.

      Ah, heedless Queen, too blind to know

      What floods of sin above thee flow!

      Thy boasts of love and grace are o’er:

      Thine is the show and nothing more.

      His favour is an empty cheat,

      A torrent dried by summer’s heat.”

      Thus by the artful maid addressed

      In cruel words from raging breast,

      The queen, sore troubled, spoke in turn;

      “What

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