सर्ग ५८

The piteous tears his eye bedewed As thus his speech the bird renewed; “Alas my brother, slain in fight By Rávaṇ’s unresisted might! I, old and wingless, weak and worn, O’er his sad fate can only mourn. Fled is my youth: in life’s decline My former strength no more is mine. Once on the day when Vritra(765) died, We brothers, in ambitious pride, Sought, mounting with adventurous flight, The Day-God garlanded with light. On, ever on we urged our way Where fields of ether round us lay, Till, by the fervent heat assailed, My brother’s pinions flagged and failed. I marked his sinking strength, and spread My stronger wings to screen his head, Till, all my feathers burnt away, On Vindhya’s hill I fell and lay. There in my lone and helpless state I heard not of my brother’s fate.”

Thus King Sampáti spoke and sighed: And royal Angad thus replied: “If, brother of Jatáyus, thou Hast heard the tale I told but now, Obedient to mine earnest prayer The dwelling of that fiend declare. O, say where cursed Rávaṇ dwells, Whom folly to his death impels.”

He ceased. Again Sampáti spoke, And hope in every breast awoke: “Though lost my wings, and strength decayed, Yet shall my words lend Ráma aid. I know the worlds where Vishṇu trod,(766) I know the realm of Ocean’s God; How Asurs fought with heavenly foes, And Amrit from the churning rose.(767) A mighty task before me lies, To prosper Ráma’s enterprise, A task too hard for one whom length Of days has rifled of his strength. I saw the cruel Rávaṇ bear A gentle lady through the air. Bright was her form, and fresh and young, And sparkling gems about her hung. “O Ráma, Ráma!” cried the dame, And shrieked in terror Lakshmaṇ’s name, As, struggling in the giant’s hold, She dropped her gauds of gems and gold. Like sun-light on a mountain shone The silken garments she had on, And glistened o’er his swarthy form As lightning flashes through the storm. That giant Rávaṇ, famed of old, Is brother of the Lord of Gold.(768) The southern ocean roars and swells Round Lanká, where the robber dwells In his fair city nobly planned And built by Viśvakarmá’s(769) hand. Within his bower securely barred, With monsters round her for a guard, Still in her silken vesture clad Lies Sítá, and her heart is sad. A hundred leagues your course must be Beyond this margin of the sea. Still to the south your way pursue, And there the giant Rávaṇ view. Then up, O Vánars, and away! For by my heavenly lore I say, There will you see the lady’s face, And hither soon your steps retrace. In the first field of air are borne The doves and birds that feed on corn. The second field supports the crows And birds whose food on branches grows. Along the third in balanced flight Sail the keen osprey and the kite. Swift through the fourth the falcon springs The fifth the slower vulture wings. Up to the sixth the gay swans rise, Where royal Vainateya(770) flies. We too, O chiefs, of vulture race, Our line from Vinatá may trace, Condemned, because we wrought a deed Of shame, on flesh and blood to feed. But all Suparṇa’s(771) wondrous powers And length of keenest sight are ours, That we a hundred leagues away Through fields of air descry our prey. Now from this spot my gazing eye Can Rávaṇ and the dame descry. Devise some plan to overleap This barrier of the briny deep. Find the Videhan lady there, And joyous to your home repair. Me too, O Vánars, to the side Of Varuṇ’s(772) home the ocean, guide, Where due libations shall be paid To my great-hearted brother’s shade.”