सर्ग २१

His hands in reverence Ráma raised And southward o’er the ocean gazed; Then on the sacred grass that made His lowly couch his limbs he laid. His head on that strong arm reclined Which Sítá, best of womankind, Had loved in happier days to hold With soft arms decked with pearls and gold. Then rising from his bed of grass, “This day,” he cried, “the host shall pass Triumphant to the southern shore, Or Ocean’s self shall be no more.” Thus vowing in his constant breast Again he turned him to his rest, And there, his eyes in slumber closed, Silent beside the sea reposed. Thrice rose the Day-God thrice he set, The lord of Ocean came not yet, Thrice came the night, but Raghu’s son No answer by his service won. To Lakshmaṇ thus the hero cried, His eyes aflame with wrath and pride:

“In vain the softer gifts that grace The good are offered to the base. Long-suffering, patience, gentle speech Their thankless hearts can never reach. The world to him its honour pays Whose ready tongue himself can praise, Who scorns the true, and hates the right, Whose hand is ever raised to smite. Each milder art is tried in vain: It wins no glory, but disdain. And victory owns no softer charm Than might which nerves a warrior’s arm. My humble suit is still denied By Ocean’s overweening pride. This day the monsters of the deep In throes of death shall wildly leap. My shafts shall rend the serpents curled In caverns of the watery world, Disclose each sunless depth and bare The tangled pearl and coral there. Away with mercy! at a time Like this compassion is a crime. Welcome, the battle and the foe! My bow! my arrows and my bow! This day the Vánars’ feet shall tread The conquered Sea’s exhausted bed, And he who never feared before Shall tremble to his farthest shore.”

Red flashed his eyes with angry glow: He stood and grasped his mighty bow, Terrific as the fire of doom Whose quenchless flames the world consume. His clanging cord the archer drew, And swift the fiery arrows flew Fierce as the flashing levin sent By him who rules the firmament. Down through the startled waters sped Each missile with its flaming head. The foamy billows rose and sank, And dashed upon the trembling bank. Sea monsters of tremendous form With crash and roar of thunder storm. Still the wild waters rose and fell Crowned with white foam and pearl and shell. Each serpent, startled from his rest, Raised his fierce eyes and glowing crest. And prisoned Dánavs(933) where they dwelt In depths below the terror felt. Again upon his string he laid A flaming shaft, but Lakshmaṇ stayed His arm, with gentle reasoning tried To soothe his angry mood, and cried: “Brother, reflect: the wise control The rising passions of the soul. Let Ocean grant, without thy threat, The boon on which thy heart is set. That gracious lord will ne’er refuse When Ráma son of Raghu sues.” He ceased: and voices from the air Fell clear and loud, Spare, Ráma, spare.