The pillared mansion, high, compact,

  Must fall by Time’s strong hand attacked;

  So mortal men, the gradual prey

  Of old and ruthless death, decay.

  The night that flies no more returns:

  Yamuná for the Ocean yearns:

  Swift her impetuous waters flee,

  But roll not backward from the sea.

  The days and nights pass swiftly by

  And steal our moments as they fly,

  E’en as the sun’s unpitying rays

  Drink up the floods in summer blaze.

  Then for thyself lament and leave

  For death of other men to grieve,

  For if thou go or if thou stay,

  Thy life is shorter day by day.

  Death travels with us; death attends

  Our steps until our journey ends,

  Death, when the traveller wins the goal,

  Returns with the returning soul.

  The flowing hair grows white and thin,

  And wrinkles mark the altered skin.

  The ills of age man’s strength assail:

  Ah, what can mortal power avail?

  Men joy to see the sun arise,

  They watch him set with joyful eyes:

  But ne’er reflect, too blind to see,

  How fast their own brief moments flee.

  With lovely change for ever new

  The seasons’ sweet return they view,

  Nor think with heedless hearts the while

  That lives decay as seasons smile.

  As haply on the boundless main

  Meet drifting logs and part again,

  So wives and children, friends and gold,

  Ours for a little time we hold:

  Soon by resistless laws of fate

  To meet no more we separate.

  In all this changing world not one

  The common lot of all can shun:

  Then why with useless tears deplore

  The dead whom tears can bring no more?

  As one might stand upon the way

  And to a troop of travellers say:

  “If ye allow it, sirs, I too

  Will travel on the road with you:”

  So why should mortal man lament

  When on that path his feet are bent

  Which all men living needs must tread,

  Where sire and ancestors have led?

  Life flies as torrents downward fall

  Speeding away without recall,

  So virtue should our thoughts engage,

  For bliss382 is mortals’ heritage.

  By ceaseless care and earnest zeal

  For servants and for people’s weal,

  By gifts, by duty nobly done,

  Our glorious sire the skies has won.

  Our lord the king, o’er earth who reigned,

  A blissful home in heaven has gained

  By wealth in ample largess spent,

  And many a rite magnificent:

  With constant joy from first to last

  A long and noble life he passed,

  Praised by the good, no tears should dim

  Our eyes, O brother dear, for him.

  His human body, worn and tried

  By length of days, he cast aside,

  And gained the godlike bliss to stray

  In Brahmá’s heavenly home for aye.

  For such the wise as we are, deep

  In Veda lore, should never weep.

  Those who are firm and ever wise

  Spurn vain lament and idle sighs.

  Be self-possessed: thy grief restrain:

  Go, in that city dwell again.

  Return, O best of men, and be

  Obedient to our sire’s decree,

  While I with every care fulfil

  Our holy father’s righteous will,

  Observing in the lonely wood

  His charge approved by all the good.”

  Thus Ráma of the lofty mind

  To Bharat spoke his righteous speech,

  By every argument designed

  Obedience to his sire to teach.

  Canto CVI. Bharat’s Speech.

  GOOD BHARAT, BY the river side,

  To virtuous Ráma’s speech replied,

  And thus with varied lore addressed

  The prince, while nobles round him pressed:

  “In all this world whom e’er can we

  Find equal, scourge of foes, to thee?

  No ill upon thy bosom weighs,

  No thoughts of joy thy spirit raise.

  Approved art thou of sages old,

  To whom thy doubts are ever told.

  Alike in death and life, to thee

  The same to be and not to be.

  The man who such a soul can gain

  Can ne’er be crushed by woe or pain.

  Pure as the Gods, high-minded, wise,

  Concealed from thee no secret lies.

  Such glorious gifts are all thine own,

  And birth and death to thee are known,

  That ill can ne’er thy soul depress

  With all-subduing bitterness.

  O let my prayer, dear brother, win

  Thy pardon for my mother’s sin.

  Wrought for my sake who willed it not

  When absent in a distant spot.

  Duty alone with binding chains

  The vengeance due to crime restrains,

  Or on the sinner I should lift

  My hand in retribution swift.

  Can I who know the right, and spring

  From Daśaratha, purest king —

  Can I commit a heinous crime,

  Abhorred by all through endless time?

  The aged king I dare not blame,

  Who died so rich in holy fame,

  My honoured sire, my parted lord,

  E’en as a present God adored.

  Yet who in lore of duty skilled

  So foul a crime has ever willed,

  And dared defy both gain and right

  To gratify a woman’s spite?

  When death draws near, so people say,

  The sense of creatures dies away;

  And he has proved the ancient saw

  By acting thus in spite of law.

  But O my honoured lord, be kind,

  Dismiss the trespass from thy mind,

  The sin the king committed, led

  By haste, his consort’s wrath, and dread.

  For he who veils his sire’s offence

  With tender care and reverence —

  His sons approved by all shall live:

  Not so their fate who ne’er forgive.

  Be thou, my lord, the noble son,

  And the vile deed my sire has done,

  Abhorred by all the virtuous, ne’er

  Resent, lest thou the guilt too share.

  Preserve us, for on thee we call,

  Our sire, Kaikeyí, me and all

  Thy citizens, thy kith and kin;

  Preserve us and reverse the sin.

  To live in woods a devotee

  Can scarce with royal tasks agree,

  Nor can the hermit’s matted hair

  Suit fitly with a ruler’s care.

  Do not, my brother, do not still

  Pursue this life that suits thee ill.

  Mid duties of a king we count

  His consecration paramount,

  That he with ready heart and hand

  May keep his people and his land.

  What Warrior born to royal sway

  From certain good would turn away,

  A doubtful duty to pursue,

  That mocks him with the distant view?

  Thou wouldst to duty cleave, and gain

  The meed that follows toil and pain.

  In thy great task no labour spare:

  Rule the four castes with justest care.

  Mid all the four, the wise prefer

  The order of the householder:383

  Canst thou, whose thoughts to duty cleave,

  The best of all the orders leave?

  My better thou in lore divine,

  My birth, my sense must yield to thine:

  While thou, my lord, art here to reign,

  How shall my hands the rule maintain?

  O faithful lover of the right,

  Take with thy friends the royal might,

  Let thy sires’ realm, from trouble free,

  Obey her rightful king in thee.

  Here let the priests and lords of state

  Our monarch duly consecrate,

  With prayer and holy verses blessed

  By saint Vaśishṭha and the rest.

  Anointed king by us, again

  Seek fair Ayodhyá, there to reign,

  And like imperial Indra girt

  By Gods of Storm, thy might assert.

  From the three debts384 acquittance earn,

  And with thy wrath the wicked burn,

  O’er all of us thy rule extend,

  And cheer with boons each faithful friend.

  Let thine enthronement, lord, this day

  Make all thy lovers glad and gay,

  And let all those who hate thee flee

  To the ten winds for fear of thee.

  Dear lord, my mother’s words of hate

  With thy sweet virtues expiate,

  And from the stain of folly clear

  The father whom we both revere.

  Brother, to me compassion show,

  I pray thee with my head bent low,

  And to these friends who on thee call, —

  As the Great Father pities all.

  But if my tears and prayers be vain,

  And thou in woods wilt still remain,

  I will with thee my path pursue

  And make my home in forests too.”

  Thus Bharat strove to bend his will

  With suppliant head, but he,

  Earth’s lord, inexorable still

  Would keep his sire’s decree.

  The firmness of the noble chief

  The wondering people moved,

  And rapture mingling with their grief,

  All wept and all approved.

  “How firm his steadfast will,” they cried,

  “Who Keeps his promise thus!

  Ah, to Ayodhyá’s town,” they sighed,

  “He comes not back with us.”

  The holy priest, the swains who tilled

  The earth, the sons of trade,

  And e’en the mournful queens were filled

  With joy as Bharat prayed,

  And bent their heads, then weeping stilled

  A while, his prayer to aid.

  Canto CVII. Ráma’s Speech.

  THUS, BY HIS friends encompassed round,

  He spoke, and Ráma, far renowned,

  To his dear brother thus replied,

  Whom holy rites had purified:

  “O thou whom Queen Kaikeyí bare

  The best of kings, thy words are fair,

  Our royal father, when of yore

  He wed her, to her father swore

  The best of kingdoms to confer,

  A noble dowry meet for her;

  Then, grateful, on the deadly day

  Of heavenly Gods’ and demons’ fray,

  A future boon on her bestowed

  To whose sweet care his life he owed.

  She to his mind that promise brought,

  And then the best of kings besought

  To bid me to the forest flee,

  And give the rule, O Prince, to thee.

  Thus bound by oath, the king our lord

  Gave her those boons of free accord,

  And bade me, O thou chief of men,

  Live in the woods four years and ten.

  I to this lonely wood have hied

  With faithful Lakshmaṇ by my side,

  And Sítá by no tears deterred,

  Resolved to keep my father’s word.

  And thou, my noble brother, too

  Shouldst keep our father’s promise true:

  Anointed ruler of the state

  Maintain his word inviolate.

  From his great debt, dear brother, free

  Our lord the king for love of me,

  Thy mother’s breast with joy inspire,

  And from all woe preserve thy sire.

  ’Tis said, near Gayá’s holy town385

  Gayá, great saint of high renown,

  This text recited when he paid

  Due rites to each ancestral shade:

  “A son is born his sire to free

  From Put’s infernal pains:

  Hence, saviour of his father, he

  The name of Puttra gains.”386

  Thus numerous sons are sought by prayer,

  In Scripture trained with graces fair,

  That of the number one some day

  May funeral rites at Gayá pay.

  The mighty saints who lived of old

  This holy doctrine ever hold.

  Then, best of men, our sire release

  From pains of hell, and give him peace.

  Now Bharat, to Ayodhyá speed,

  The brave Śatrughna with thee lead,

  Take with thee all the twice-born men,

  And please each lord and citizen.

  I now, O King, without delay

  To Daṇḍak wood will bend my way,

  And Lakshmaṇ and the Maithil dame

  Will follow still, our path the same.

  Now, Bharat, lord of men be thou,

  And o’er Ayodhyá reign:

  The silvan world to me shall bow,

  King of the wild domain.

  Yea, let thy joyful steps be bent

  To that fair town to-day,

  And I as happy and content,

  To Daṇḍak wood will stray.

  The white umbrella o’er thy brow

  Its cooling shade shall throw:

  I to the shadow of the bough

  And leafy trees will go.

  Śatrughna, for wise plans renowned,

  Shall still on thee attend;

  And Lakshmaṇ, ever faithful found,

  Be my familiar friend.

  Let us his sons, O brother dear,

  The path of right pursue,

  And keep the king we all revere

  Still to his promise true.”

  Canto CVIII. Jáváli’s Speech.

  THUS RÁMA SOOTHED his brother’s grief:

  Then virtuous Jáváli, chief

  Of twice-born sages, thus replied

  In words that virtue’s law defied:

  “Hail, Raghu’s princely son, dismiss

  A thought so weak and vain as this.

  Canst thou, with lofty heart endowed,

  Think with the dull ignoble crowd?

  For what are ties of kindred? can

  One profit by a brother man?

  Alone the babe first opes his eyes,

  And all alone at last he dies.

  The man, I ween, has little sense

  Who looks with foolish reverence

  On father’s or on mother’s name:

  In others, none a right may claim.

  E’en as a man may leave his home

  And to a distant village roam,

  Then from his lodging turn away

  And journey on the following day,

  Such brief possession mortals hold

  In sire and mother, house and gold,

  And never will the good and wise

  The brief uncertain lodging prize.

  Nor, best of men, shouldst thou disown

  Thy sire’s hereditary throne,

  And tread the rough and stony ground

  Where hardship, danger, woes abound.

  Come, let Ayodhyá rich and bright

  See thee enthroned with every rite:

  Her tresses bound in single braid387

  She waits thy coming long delayed.

  O come, thou royal Prince, and share

  The kingly joys that wait thee there,

  And live in bliss transcending price

  As Indra lives in Paradise.

  The parted king is naught to thee,

  Nor right in living man has he:

  The king is one, thou, Prince of men,

  Another art: be counselled then.

  Thy royal sire, O chief, has sped

  On the long path we all must tread.

  The common lot of all is this,

  And thou in vain art robbed of bliss.

  For those — and only those — I weep

  Who to the path of duty keep;

  For here they suffer ceaseless woe,

  And dying to destruction go.

  With pious care, each solemn day,

  Will men their funeral offerings pay:

  See, how the useful food they waste:

  He who is dead no more can taste.

  If one is fed, his strength renewed

  Whene’er his brother takes his food,

  Then offerings to the parted pay:

  Scarce will they serve him on his way.

  By crafty knaves these rules were framed,

  And to enforce men’s gifts proclaimed:

  “Give, worship, lead a life austere,

  Keep lustral rites, quit pleasures here.”

  There is no future life: be wise,

  And do, O Prince, as I advise.

  Enjoy, my lord, the present bliss,

  And things unseen from thought dismiss.

  Let this advice thy bosom move,

  The counsel sage which all approve;

  To Bharat’s earnest prayer incline,

  And take the rule so justly thine.”

  Canto CIX. The Praises Of Truth.

  BY SAGE JÁVÁLI thus addressed,

  Ráma of truthful hearts the best,

  With perfect skill and wisdom high

  Thus to his speech made fit reply:

  “Thy words that tempt to bliss are fair,

  But virtue’s garb they falsely wear.

  For he from duty’s path who strays

  To wander in forbidden ways,

  Allured by doctrine false and vain,

  Praise from the good can never gain.

  Their lives the true and boaster show,

  Pure and impure, and high and low,

  Else were no mark to judge between

  Stainless and stained and high and mean;

  They to whose lot fair signs may fall

  Were but as they who lack them all,

  And those to virtuous thoughts inclined

  Were but as men of evil mind.

  If in the sacred name of right

  I do this wrong in duty’s spite;

  The path of virtue meanly quit,

  And this polluting sin commit,

  What man who marks the bounds between

  Virtue and vice with insight keen,

 

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