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length, when slowly strength returned,

      He answered as his eyeballs burned

      With the wild fury of his ire

      Consuming her, as ’twere, with fire:

      “Fell traitress, thou whose thoughts design

      The utter ruin of my line,

      What wrong have I or Ráma done?

      Speak murderess, speak thou wicked one,

      Seeks he not evermore to please

      Thee with all sonlike courtesies?

      By what persuasion art thou led

      To bring this ruin on his head?

      Ah me, that fondly unaware

      I brought thee home my life to share,

      Called daughter of a king, in truth

      A serpent with a venomed tooth!

      What fault can I pretend to find

      In Ráma praised by all mankind,

      That I my darling should forsake?

      No, take my life, my glory take:

      Let either queen be from me torn,

      But not my well-loved eldest-born.

      Him but to see is highest bliss,

      And death itself his face to miss.

      The world may sunless stand, the grain

      May thrive without the genial rain,

      But if my Ráma be not nigh

      My spirit from its frame will fly.

      Enough, thine impious plan forgo,

      O thou who plottest sin and woe.

      My head before thy feet, I kneel,

      And pray thee some compassion feel.

      O wicked dame, what can have led

      Thy heart to dare a plot so dread?

      Perchance thy purpose is to sound

      The grace thy son with me has found;

      Perchance the words that, all these days,

      Thou still hast said in Ráma’s praise,

      Were only feigned, designed to cheer

      With flatteries a father’s ear.

      Soon as thy grief, my Queen, I knew,

      My bosom felt the anguish too.

      In empty halls art thou possessed,

      And subject to anothers’ hest?

      Now on Ikshváku’s ancient race

      Falls foul disorder and disgrace,

      If thou, O Queen, whose heart so long

      Has loved the good should choose the wrong.

      Not once, O large-eyed dame, hast thou

      Been guilty of offence till now,

      Nor said a word to make me grieve,

      Now will I now thy sin believe.

      With thee my Ráma used to hold

      Like place with Bharat lofty-souled.

      As thou so often, when the pair

      Were children yet, wouldst fain declare.

      And can thy righteous soul endure

      That Ráma glorious, pious, pure,

      Should to the distant wilds be sent

      For fourteen years of banishment?

      Yea, Ráma Bharat’s self exceeds

      In love to thee and sonlike deeds,

      And, for deserving love of thee,

      As Bharat, even so is he.

      Who better than that chieftain may

      Obedience, love, and honour pay,

      Thy dignity with care protect,

      Thy slightest word and wish respect?

      Of all his countless followers none

      Can breathe a word against my son;

      Of many thousands not a dame

      Can hint reproach or whisper blame.

      All creatures feel the sweet control

      Of Ráma’s pure and gentle soul.

      The pride of Manu’s race he binds

      To him the people’s grateful minds.

      He wins the subjects with his truth,

      The poor with gifts and gentle ruth,

      His teachers with his docile will,

      The foemen with his archer skill.

      Truth, purity, religious zeal,

      The hand to give, the heart to feel,

      The love that ne’er betrays a friend,

      The rectitude that naught can bend,

      Knowledge, and meek obedience grace

      My Ráma pride of Raghu’s race.

      Canst thou thine impious plot design

      ‘Gainst him in whom these virtues shine,

      Whose glory with the sages vies,

      Peer of the Gods who rule the skies!

      From him no harsh or bitter word

      To pain one creature have I heard,

      And how can I my son address,

      For thee, with words of bitterness?

      Have mercy, Queen: some pity show

      To see my tears of anguish flow,

      And listen to my mournful cry,

      A poor old man who soon must die.

      Whate’er this sea-girt land can boast

      Of rich and rare from coast to coast,

      To thee, my Queen, I give it all:

      But O, thy deadly words recall:

      O see, my suppliant hands entreat,

      Again my lips are on thy feet:

      Save Ráma, save my darling child,

      Nor kill me with this sin defiled.”

      He grovelled on the ground, and lay

      To burning grief a senseless prey,

      And ever and anon, assailed

      By floods of woe he wept and wailed,

      Striving with eager speed to gain

      The margent of his sea of pain.

      With fiercer words she fiercer yet

      The hapless father’s pleading met:

      “O Monarch, if thy soul repent

      The promise and thy free consent,

      How wilt thou in the world maintain

      Thy fame for truth unsmirched with stain?

      When gathered kings with thee converse,

      And bid thee all the tale rehearse,

      What wilt thou say, O truthful King,

      In answer to their questioning?

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