सर्ग ७४

The shades of falling night concealed The carnage of the battle field, Which, bearing each a blazing brand, Hanúmán and Vibhishaṇ scanned, Moving with slow and anxious tread Among the dying and the dead. Sad was the scene of slaughter shown Where’er the torches’ light was thrown. Here mountain forms of Vánars lay Whose heads and limbs were lopped away, Arms, legs and fingers strewed the ground, And severed heads lay thick around. The earth was moist with sanguine streams, And sighs were heard and groans and screams. There lay Sugríva still and cold, There Angad, once so brave and bold. There Jámbaván his might reposed, There Vegadarśí’s eyes were closed; There in the dust was Nala’s pride, And Dwivid lay by Mainda’s side. Where’er they looked the ensanguined plain Was strewn with myriads of the slain;(990) They sought with keenly searching eyes King Jámbaván supremely wise. His strength had failed by slow decay, And pierced with countless shafts he lay. They saw, and hastened to his side, And thus the sage Vibhishaṇ cried: “Thee, monarch of the bears, we seek: Speak if thou yet art living, speak.”

Slow came the aged chief’s reply; Scarce could he say with many a sigh: “Torn with keen shafts which pierce each limb, My strength is gone, my sight is dim; Yet though I scarce can raise mine eyes, Thy voice, O chief, I recognize. O, while these ears can hear thee, say, Has Hanúmán survived this day?”

“Why ask,” Vibhishaṇ cried, “for one Of lower rank, the Wind-God’s son? Hast thou forgotten, first in place, The princely chief of Raghu’s race? Can King Sugríva claim no care, And Angad, his imperial heir?”

“Yea, dearer than my noblest friends Is he on whom our hope depends. For if the Wind-God’s son survive, All we though dead are yet alive. But if his precious life be fled Though living still we are but dead: He is our hope and sure relief.” Thus slowly spoke the aged chief: Then to his side Hanúmán came, And with low reverence named his name. Cheered by the face he longed to view The wounded chieftain lived anew. “Go forth,” he cried, “O strong and brave, And in their woe the Vánars save. No might but thine, supremely great, May help us in our lost estate. The trembling bears and Vánars cheer, Calm their sad hearts, dispel their fear. Save Raghu’s noble sons, and heal The deep wounds of the winged steel. High o’er the waters of the sea To far Himálaya’s summits flee. Kailása there wilt thou behold, And Rishabh, with his peaks of gold. Between them see a mountain rise Whose splendour will enchant thine eyes; His sides are clothed above, below, With all the rarest herbs that grow. Upon that mountain’s lofty crest Four plants, of sovereign powers possessed, Spring from the soil, and flashing there Shed radiance through the neighbouring air. One draws the shaft: one brings again The breath of life to warm the slain; One heals each wound; one gives anew To faded cheeks their wonted hue. Fly, chieftain, to that mountain’s brow And bring those herbs to save us now.”

Hanúmán heard, and springing through The air like Vishṇu’s discus(991) flew. The sea was passed: beneath him, gay With bright-winged birds, the mountains lay, And brook and lake and lonely glen, And fertile lands with toiling men. On, on he sped: before him rose The mansion of perennial snows. There soared the glorious peaks as fair As white clouds in the summer air. Here, bursting from the leafy shade, In thunder leapt the wild cascade. He looked on many a pure retreat Dear to the Gods’ and sages’ feet: The spot where Brahmá dwells apart, The place whence Rudra launched his dart;(992) Vishṇu’s high seat and Indra’s home, And slopes where Yáma’s servants roam. There was Kuvera’s bright abode; There Brahmá’s mystic weapon glowed. There was the noble hill whereon Those herbs with wondrous lustre shone, And, ravished by the glorious sight, Hanúmán rested on the height. He, moving down the glittering peak, The healing herbs began to seek: But, when he thought to seize the prize, They hid them from his eager eyes. Then to the hill in wrath he spake: “Mine arm this day shall vengeance take, If thou wilt feel no pity, none, In this great need of Raghu’s son.” He ceased: his mighty arms he bent And from the trembling mountain rent His huge head with the life it bore, Snakes, elephants, and golden ore. O’er hill and plain and watery waste His rapid way again he traced. And mid the wondering Vánars laid His burthen through the air conveyed, The wondrous herbs’ delightful scent To all the host new vigour lent. Free from all darts and wounds and pain The sons of Raghu lived again, And dead and dying Vánars healed Rose vigorous from the battle field.