सर्ग ९३

They sought the king, a mournful train, And cried, “My lord, thy son is slain. By Lakshmaṇ’s hand, before these eyes, The warrior fell no more to rise. No time is this for vain regret: Thy hero son a hero met; And he whose might in battle pressed Lord Indra and the Gods confessed, Whose power was stranger to defeat, Has gained in heaven a blissful seat.”

The monarch heard the mournful tale: His heart was faint, his cheek was pale; His fleeting sense at length regained, In trembling tones he thus complained: “Ah me, my son, my pride: the boast And glory of the giant host. Could Lakshmaṇ’s puny might defeat The foe whom Indra feared to meet? Could not thy deadly arrows split Proud Mandar’s peaks, O Indrajít, And the Destroyer’s self destroy? And wast thou conquered by a boy? I will not weep: thy noble deed Has blessed thee with immortal meed Gained by each hero in the skies Who fighting for his sovereign dies. Now, fearless of all meaner foes, The guardian Gods(993) will taste repose: But earth to me, with hill and plain, Is desolate, for thou art slain. Ah, whither hast thou fled, and left Thy mother, Lanká, me bereft; Left pride and state and wives behind, And lordship over all thy kind? I fondly hoped thy hand should pay Due honours on my dying day: And couldst thou, O beloved, flee And leave thy funeral rites to me? Life has no comfort left me, none, O Indrajít my son, my son.”

Thus wailed he broken by his woes: But swift the thought of vengeance rose. In awful wrath his teeth he gnashed, And from his eyes red lightning flashed. Hot from his mouth came fire and smoke, As thus the king in fury spoke:

“Through many a thousand years of yore The penance and the pain I bore, And by fierce torment well sustained The highest grace of Brahmá gained, His plighted word my life assured, From Gods of heaven and fiends secured. He armed my limbs with burnished mail Whose lustre turns the sunbeams pale, In battle proof gainst heavenly bands With thunder in their threatening hands. Armed in this mail myself will go With Brahmá’s gift my deadly bow, And, cleaving through the foes my way, The slayers of my son will slay.”

Then, by his grief to frenzy wrought, The captive in the grove he sought. Swift through the shady path he sped: Earth trembled at his furious tread. Fierce were his eyes: his monstrous hand Held drawn for death his glittering brand. There weeping stood the Maithil dame: She shuddered as the giant came. Near drew the rover of the night And raised his sword in act to smite; But, by his nobler heart impelled, One Rákshas lord his arm withheld: “Wilt thou, great Monarch,” thus he cried, “Wilt thou, to heavenly Gods allied, Blot for all time thy glorious fame, The slayer of a gentle dame? What! shall a woman’s blood be spilt To stain thee with eternal guilt, Thee deep in all the Veda’s lore? Far be the thought for evermore. Ah look, and let her lovely face This fury from thy bosom chase.”

He ceased: the prudent counsel pleased The monarch, and his wrath appeased; Then to his council hall in haste The giant lord his steps retraced.

[I omit two Cantos in the first of which Ráma with an enchanted Gandharva weapon deals destruction among the Rákshases sent out by Rávaṇ, and in the second the Rákshas dames lament the slain and mourn over the madness of Rávaṇ.]