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to the southern land he sped

      Where Daṇḍak’s mighty wilds are spread,

      To Vaijayanta’s city swayed

      By Śambara, whose flag displayd

      The hugest monster of the sea.

      Lord of a hundred wiles was be;

      With might which Gods could never blame

      Against the King of Heaven he came.

      Then raged the battle wild and dread,

      And mortal warriors fought and bled;

      The fiends by night with strength renewed

      Charged, slew the sleeping multitude.

      Thy lord, King Daśaratha, long

      Stood fighting with the demon throng,

      But long of arm, unmatched in strength,

      Fell wounded by their darts at length.

      Thy husband, senseless, by thine aid

      Was from the battle field conveyed,

      And wounded nigh to death thy lord

      Was by thy care to health restored.

      Well pleased the grateful monarch sware

      To grant thy first and second prayer.

      Thou for no favour then wouldst sue,

      The gifts reserved for season due;

      And he, thy high-souled lord, agreed

      To give the boons when thou shouldst need.

      Myself I knew not what befell,

      But oft the tale have heard thee tell,

      And close to thee in friendship knit

      Deep in my heart have treasured it.

      Remind thy husband of his oath,

      Recall the boons and claim them both,

      That Bharat on the throne be placed

      With rites of consecration graced,

      And Ráma to the woods be sent

      For twice seven years of banishment.

Go, Queen, the mourner’s chamber1 seek,

      With angry eye and burning cheek;

      And with disordered robes and hair

      On the cold earth lie prostrate there.

      When the king comes still mournful lie,

      Speak not a word nor meet his eye,

      But let thy tears in torrent flow,

      And lie enamoured of thy woe.

      Well do I know thou long hast been,

      And ever art, his darling queen.

      For thy dear sake, O well-loved dame,

      The mighty king would brave the flame,

      But ne’er would anger thee, or brook

      To meet his favourite’s wrathful look.

      Thy loving lord would even die

      Thy fancy, Queen, to gratify,

      And never could he arm his breast

      To answer nay to thy request.

      Listen and learn, O dull of sense,

      Thine all-resistless influence.

      Gems he will offer, pearls and gold:

      Refuse his gifts, be stern and cold.

      Those proffered boons at length recall,

      And claim them till he grants thee all.

      And O my lady, high in bliss,

      With heedful thought forget not this.

      When from the ground his queen he lifts

      And grants again the promised gifts,

      Bind him with oaths he cannot break

      And thy demands unflnching, make.

      That Ráma travel to the wild

      Five years and nine from home exiled,

      And Bharat, best of all who reign,

      The empire of the land obtain.

      For when this term of years has fled

      Over the banished Ráma’s head,

      Thy royal son to vigour grown

      And rooted firm will stand alone.

      The king, I know, is well inclined,

      And this the hour to move his mind.

      Be bold: the threatened rite prevent,

      And force the king from his intent.”

      She ceased. So counselled to her bane

      Disguised beneath a show of gain,

      Kaikeyí in her joy and pride

      To Manthará again replied:

      “Thy sense I envy, prudent maid;

      With sagest lore thy lids persuade.

      No hump-back maid in all the earth,

      For wise resolve, can match thy worth.

      Thou art alone with constant zeal

      Devoted to thy lady’s weal.

      Dear girl, without thy faithful aid

      I had not marked the plot he laid.

      Full of all guile and sin and spite

      Misshapen hump-backs shock the sight:

      But thou art fair and formed to please,

      Bent like a lily by the breeze.

      I look thee o’er with watchful eye,

      And in thy frame no fault can spy;

      The chest so deep, the waist so trim,

So round the lines of breast and limb.2

      Thy cheeks with moonlike beauty shine,

      And the warm wealth of youth is thine.

      Thy legs, my girl, are long and neat,

      And somewhat long thy dainty feet,

      While stepping out before my face

      Thou seemest like a crane to pace.

      The thousand wiles are in thy breast

      Which Śambara the fiend possessed,

      And countless others all thine own,

      O damsel sage, to thee are known.

      Thy very hump becomes thee too,

      O thou whose face is fair to view,

      For there reside in endless store

      Plots, wizard wiles, and warrior lore.

      A golden chain I’ll round it fling

      When Ráma’s flight makes Bharat king:

      Yea, polished links of finest gold,

      When once the wished for prize I hold

      With naught to fear and none to hate,

      Thy hump, dear maid, shall decorate.

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