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wrought with care,

      And precious jewels shalt thou wear:

      Two lovely robes around thee fold,

      And walk a Goddess to behold,

      Bidding the moon himself compare

      His beauty with a face so fair.

      With scent of precious sandal sweet

      Down to the nails upon thy feet,

      First of the household thou shalt go

      And pay with scorn each battled foe.”

      Kaikeyí‘s praise the damsel heard,

      And thus again her lady stirred,

      Who lay upon her beauteous bed

      Like fire upon the altar fed:

      “Dear Queen, they build the bridge in vain

      When swollen streams are dry again.

      Arise, thy glorious task complete,

      And draw the king to thy retreat.”

      The large-eyed lady left her bower

      Exulting in her pride of power,

      And with the hump-back sought the gloom

      And silence of the mourner’s room.

      The string of priceless pearls that hung

      Around her neck to earth she flung,

      With all the wealth and lustre lent

      By precious gem and ornament.

      Then, listening to her slave’s advice,

      Lay, like a nymph from Paradise.

      As on the ground her limbs she laid

      Once more she cried unto the maid:

      “Soon must thou to the monarch say

      Kaikeyí‘s soul has past away,

      Or, Ráma banished as we planned,

      My son made king shall rule the land.

      No more for gold and gems I care,

      For brave attire or dainty fare.

      If Ráma should the throne ascend,

      That very hour my life will end.”

      The royal lady wounded through

      The bosom with the darts that flew

      Launched from the hump-back’s tongue

      Pressed both her hands upon her side,

      And o’er and o’er again she cried

      With wildering fury stung:

      “Yes, it shall be thy task to tell

      That I have hurried hence to dwell

      In Yáma’s realms of woe,

      Or happy Bharat shall be king,

      And doomed to years of wandering

      Kauśalyá‘s son shall go.

      I heed not dainty viands now

      Fair wreaths of flowers to twine my brow,

      Soft balm or precious scent:

      My very life I count as naught,

      Nothing on earth can claim my thought

      But Ráma’s banishment.”

      She spoke these words of cruel ire;

      Then stripping off her gay attire,

      The cold bare floor she pressed.

      So, falling from her home on high,

      Some lovely daughter of the sky

      Upon the ground might rest.

      With darkened brow and furious mien,

      Stripped of her gems and wreath, the queen

      In spotless beauty lay,

      Like heaven obscured with gathering cloud,

      When shades of midnight darkness shroud

      Each star’s expiring ray.

1 Literally the chamber of wrath, a “growlery,” a small, dark, unfurnished room to which it seems, the wives and ladies of the king betook themselves when offended and sulky.

2 In these four lines I do not translate faithfully, and I do not venture to follow Kaikeyí farther in her eulogy of the hump-back’s charms.

      Canto 10. Dasaratha’s Speech.

      As Queen Kaikeyí thus obeyed

      The sinful counsel of her maid

      She sank upon the chamber floor,

      As sinks in anguish, wounded sore,

      An elephant beneath the smart

      Of the wild hunter’s venomed dart.

      The lovely lady in her mind

      Revolved the plot her maid designed,

      And prompt the gain and risk to scan

      She step by step approved the plan.

      Misguided by the hump-back’s guile

      She pondered her resolve awhile,

      As the fair path that bliss secured

      The miserable lady lured,

      Devoted to her queen, and swayed

      By hopes of gain and bliss, the maid

      Rejoiced, her lady’s purpose known,

      And deemed the prize she sought her own.

      Then bent upon her purpose dire,

      Kaikeyí with her soul on fire,

      Upon the floor lay, languid, down,

      Her brows contracted in a frown.

      The bright-hued wreath that bound her hair,

      Chains, necklets, jewels rich and rare,

      Stripped off by her own fingers lay

      Spread on the ground in disarray,

      And to the floor a lustre lent

      As stars light up the firmament.

      Thus prostrate in the mourner’s cell,

      In garb of woe the lady fell,

      Her long hair in a single braid,

Like some fair nymph of heaven dismayed.1

      The monarch, Ráma to install,

      With thoughtful care had ordered all,

      And now within his home withdrew,

      Dismissing first his retinue.

      Now all the town has heard, thought he,

      What joyful rite the morn will see.

      So turned he to her bower to cheer

      With the glad news his darling’s ear.

      Majestic, as the Lord of Night,

      When threatened by the Dragon’s might,

      Bursts radiant on the evening sky

      Pale with the

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