सर्ग १००

The plain with bleeding limbs was spread, And heaps of dying and of dead. His mighty bow still Ráma strained, And shafts upon the giants rained. Still Angad and Sugríva, wrought To fury, for the Vánars fought. Crushed with huge rocks through chest and side Mahodar, Mahápárśva died, And Virúpáksha stained with gore Dropped on the plain to rise no more. When Rávaṇ saw the three o’erthrown He cried aloud in furious tone: “Urge, urge the car, my charioteer, The haughty Vánars’ death is near. This very day shall end our griefs For leaguered town and slaughtered chiefs. Ráma the tree whose lovely fruit Is Sítá, shall this arm uproot,— Whose branches with protecting shade Are Vánar lords who lend him aid.”

Thus cried the king: the welkin rang As forth the eager coursers sprang, And earth beneath the chariot shook With flowery grove and hill and brook. Fast rained his shafts: where’er he sped The conquered Vánars fell or fled, On rolled the car in swift career Till Raghu’s noble sons were near. Then Ráma looked upon the foe And strained and tried his sounding bow, Till earth and all the region rang Re-echoing to the awful clang. His bow the younger chieftain bent, And shaft on shaft at Rávaṇ sent. He shot: but Rávaṇ little recked; Each arrow with his own he checked, And headless, baffled of its aim, To earth the harmless missile came; And Lakshmaṇ stayed his arm o’erpowered By the thick darts the giant showered. Fierce waxed the fight and fiercer yet, For Rávaṇ now and Ráma met, And each on other poured amain The tempest of his arrowy rain. While all the sky above was dark With missiles speeding to their mark Like clouds, with flashing lightning twined About them, hurried by the wind. Not fiercer was the wondrous fight When Vritra fell by Indra’s might. All arts of war each foeman knew, And trained alike, his bowstring drew. Red-eyed with fury Lanká’s king Pressed his huge fingers on the string, And fixed in Ráma’s brows a flight Of arrows winged with matchless flight. Still Raghu’s son endured, and bore That crown of shafts though wounded sore. O’er a dire dart a spell he spoke With mystic power to aid the stroke. In vain upon the foe it smote Rebounding from the steelproof coat. The giant armed his bow anew, And wondrous weapons hissed and flew, Terrific, deadly, swift of flight, Beaked like the vulture and the kite, Or bearing heads of fearful make, Of lion, tiger, wolf and snake.(995) Then Ráma, troubled by the storm Of flying darts in every form Shot by an arm that naught could tire, Launched at the foe his dart of fire, Which, sacred to the Lord of Flame, Burnt and consumed where’er it came. And many a blazing shaft beside The hero to his string applied. With fiery course of dazzling hue Swift to the mark each missile flew, Some flashing like a shooting star, Some as the tongues of lightning are; One like a brilliant plant, one In splendour like the morning sun. Where’er the shafts of Ráma burned The giant’s darts were foiled and turned. Far into space his weapons fled, But as they flew struck thousands dead.