सर्ग ३

The envoy in his faithful breast Pondered Sugríva’s high behest. From Rishyamúka’s peak he hied And placed him by the princes’ side. The Wind-God’s son with cautious art Had laid his Vánar form apart, And wore, to cheat the strangers eyes, A wandering mendicant’s disguise.(542) Before the heroes’ feet he bent And did obeisance reverent, And spoke, the glorious pair to praise, His words of truth in courteous phrase, High honour duly paid, the best Of all the Vánar kind addressed, With free accord and gentle grace, Those glories of their warrior race:

“O hermits, blest in vows, who shine Like royal saints or Gods divine, O best of young ascetics, say How to this spot you found your way, Scaring the troops of wandering deer And silvan things that harbour here Searching amid the trees that grow Where Pampá’s gentle waters flow. And lending from your brows a gleam Of glory to the lovely stream. Who are you, say, so brave and fair, Clad in the bark which hermits wear? I see you heave the frequent sigh, I see the deer before you fly. While you, for strength and valour dread, The earth, like lordly lions, tread, Each bearing in his hand a bow, Like Indra’s own, to slay the foe. With the grand paces of a bull, So bright and young and beautiful. The mighty arms you raise appear Like trunks which elephants uprear, And as you move this mountain-king(543) Is glorious with the light you bring. How have you reached, like Gods in face, Best lords of earth, this lonely place, With tresses coiled in hermit guise,(544) And splendours of those lotus eyes? As Gods who leave their heavenly sphere, Alike your beauteous forms appear. The Lords of Day and Night(545) might thus Stray from the skies to visit us. Heroic youth, so broad of chest, Fair with the beauty of the Blest, With lion shoulders, tall and strong, Like bulls who lead the lowing throng, Your arms, unmatched for grace and length, With massive clubs may vie in strength. Why do no gauds those limbs adorn Where priceless gems were meetly worn? Each noble youth is fit, I deem, To guard this earth, as lord supreme, With all her woods and seas, to reign From Meru’s peak to Vindhya’s chain. Your smooth bows decked with dyes and gold Are glorious in their masters’ hold, And with the arms of Indra(546) vie Which diamond splendours beautify. Your quivers glow with golden sheen, Well stored with arrows fleet and keen, Each gleaming like a fiery snake That joys the foeman’s life to take. As serpents cast their sloughs away And all their new born sheen display, So flash your mighty swords inlaid With burning gold on hilt and blade. Why are you silent, heroes? Why My questions hear nor deign reply? Sugríva, lord of virtuous mind, The foremost of the Vánar kind, An exile from his royal state, Roams through the land disconsolate. I, Hanumán, of Vánar race, Sent by the king have sought this place, For he, the pious, just, and true, In friendly league would join with you. Know, godlike youths, that I am one Of his chief lords, the Wind-God’s son. With course unchecked I roam at will, And now from Rishyamúka’s hill, To please his heart, his hope to speed, I came disguised in beggar’s weed.”

Thus Hanúmán, well trained in lore Of language, spoke, and said no more. The son of Raghu joyed to hear The envoy’s speech, and bright of cheer He turned to Lakshmaṇ by his side, And thus in words of transport cried:

“The counselor we now behold Of King Sugríva righteous-souled. His face I long have yearned to see, And now his envoy comes to me With sweetest words in courteous phrase Answer this mighty lord who slays His foemen, by Sugríva sent, This Vánar chief most eloquent. For one whose words so sweetly flow The whole Rig-veda(547) needs must know, And in his well-trained memory store The Yajush and the Sáman’s lore. He must have bent his faithful ear All grammar’s varied rules to hear. For his long speech how well he spoke! In all its length no rule he broke. In eye, on brow, in all his face The keenest look no guile could trace. No change of hue, no pose of limb Gave sign that aught was false in him. Concise, unfaltering, sweet and clear, Without a word to pain the ear. From chest to throat, nor high nor low, His accents came in measured flow. How well he spoke with perfect art That wondrous speech that charmed the heart, With finest skill and order graced In words that knew nor pause nor haste! That speech, with consonants that spring From the three seats of uttering,(548) Would charm the spirit of a foe Whose sword is raised for mortal blow. How may a ruler’s plan succeed Who lacks such envoy good at need? How fail, if one whose mind is stored With gifts so rare assist his lord? What plans can fail, with wisest speech Of envoy’s lips to further each?”

Thus Ráma spoke; and Lakshmaṇ taught In all the art that utters thought, To King Sugríva’s learned spy Thus made his eloquent reply: “Full well we know the gifts that grace Sugríva, lord of Vánar race, And hither turn our wandering feet That we that high-souled king may meet. So now our pleasant task shall be To do the words he speaks by thee.”

His prudent speech the Vánar heard, And all his heart with joy was stirred. And hope that league with them would bring Redress and triumph to his king.