The Rámáyan of Válmíki
Category: Hindu
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Ramayana (/rɑːˈmɑːjənə/; Sanskrit: रामायणम्, Rāmāyaṇam [ɽaːˈmaːjɐɳɐm]) is one of the two fictional Sanskrit epics of ancient India, the other being the Mahābhārata. Along with the Mahābhārata, it forms the Hindu Itihasa.

The Rámáyan of Válmíki

Translated into English Verse

BY

Ralph T. H. Griffith, M. A.,

[(Ralph Thomas Hotchkin Griffith), b. 1826 d. 1906]

PRINCIPAL OF THE BENARES COLLEGE

[1870-1874]

INVOCATION.

Praise to Válmíki, bird of charming song,
Who mounts on Poesy’s sublimest spray,
And sweetly sings with accent clear and strong
Ráma, aye Ráma, in his deathless lay.

Where breathes the man can listen to the strain
That flows in music from Válmíki’s tongue,
Nor feel his feet the path of bliss attain
When Ráma’s glory by the saint is sung!

The stream Rámáyan leaves its sacred fount
The whole wide world from sin and stain to free.
The Prince of Hermits is the parent mount,
The lordly Ráma is the darling sea.

Glory to him whose fame is ever bright!
Glory to him, Prachetas’ holy son!
Whose pure lips quaff with ever new delight
The nectar-sea of deeds by Ráma done.

Hail, arch-ascetic, pious, good, and kind!
Hail, Saint Válmíki, lord of every lore!
Hail, holy Hermit, calm and pure of mind!
Hail, First of Bards, Válmíki, hail once more!


Book I


Canto I: Nárad

OM

To sainted Nárad, prince of those
Whose lore in words of wisdom flows.
Whose constant care and chief delight
Were Scripture and ascetic rite,
The good Válmíki, first and best

Of hermit saints, these words addressed:
‘In all this world, I pray thee, who
Is virtuous, heroic, true?
Firm in his vows, of grateful mind,
To every creature good and kind?
Bounteous, and holy, just, and wise,
Alone most fair to all men’s eyes?
Devoid of envy, firm, and sage,
Whose tranquil soul ne’er yields to rage?
Whom, when his warrior wrath is high,
Do Gods embattled fear and fly?
Whose noble might and gentle skill
The triple world can guard from ill?
Who is the best of princes, he
Who loves his people’s good to see?
The store of bliss, the living mine
Where brightest joys and virtues shine?
Queen Fortune’s best and dearest friend,
Whose steps her choicest gifts attend?
Who may with Sun and Moon compare,
With Indra, Vishnu, Fire, and Air?
Grant, Saint divine, the boon I ask,
For thee, I ween, an easy task,
To whom the power is given to know
If such a man breathe here below.’

Then Nárad, clear before whose eye
The present, past, and future lie,
Made ready answer: ‘Hermit, where
Are graces found so high and rare?
Yet listen, and my tongue shall tell
In whom alone these virtues dwell.
From old Ikshváku’s line he came,
Known to the world by Ráma’s name:
With soul subdued, a chief of might,
In Scripture versed, in glory bright,
His steps in virtue’s paths are bent,
Obedient, pure, and eloquent.
In each emprise he wins success,
And dying foes his power confess.
Tall and broad-shouldered, strong of limb,
Fortune has set her mark on him.
Graced with a conch-shell’s triple line,
His threat displays the auspicious sign.

High destiny is clear impressed
On massive jaw and ample chest,
His mighty shafts he truly aims,
And foemen in the battle tames.
Deep in the muscle, scarcely shown,
Embedded lies his collar-bone.
His lordly steps are firm and free,
His strong arms reach below his knee;
All fairest graces join to deck
His head, his brow, his stately neck,
And limbs in fair proportion set:
The manliest form e’er fashioned yet.
Graced with each high imperial mark,
His skin is soft and lustrous dark.
Large are his eyes that sweetly shine
With majesty almost divine.
His plighted word he ne’er forgets;
On erring sense a watch he sets.
By nature wise, his teacher’s skill
Has trained him to subdue his will.
Good, resolute and pure, and strong,
He guards mankind from scathe and wrong,
And lends his aid, and ne’er in vain,
The cause of justice to maintain.
Well has he studied o’er and o’er
The Vedas and their kindred lore.

Well skilled is he the bow to draw,
Well trained in arts and versed in law;
High-souled and meet for happy fate,
Most tender and compassionate;
The noblest of all lordly givers,
Whom good men follow, as the rivers
Follow the King of Floods, the sea:
So liberal, so just is he.
The joy of Queen Kaus’alyá’s heart,
In every virtue he has part:
Firm as Himálaya’s snowy steep,
Unfathomed like the mighty deep:
The peer of Vishnu’s power and might,
And lovely as the Lord of Night;
Patient as Earth, but, roused to ire,
Fierce as the world-destroying fire;
In bounty like the Lord of Gold,
And Justice self is a human mould.

With him, his best and eldest son,
By all his princely virtues won
King Das’aratha willed to share
His kingdom as the Regent Heir.
But when Kaikeyí, youngest queen,
With eyes of envious hate had seen
The solemn pomp and regal state
Prepared the prince to consecrate,
She bade the hapless king bestow
Two gifts he promised long ago,
That Ráma to the woods should flee,
And that her child the heir should be.

By chains of duty firmly tied,
The wretched king perforce complied.

Ráma, to please Kaikeyí went
Obedient forth to banishment.
Then Lakshman’s truth was nobly shown,
Then were his love and courage known,
When for his brother’s sake he dared
All perils, and his exile shared.
And Sítá, Ráma’s darling wife,
Loved even as he loved his life,
Whom happy marks combined to bless,
A miracle of loveliness,
Of Janak’s royal lineage sprung,
Most excellent of women, clung
To her dear lord, like Rohiní
Rejoicing with the Moon to be.
The King and people, sad of mood,
The hero’s car awhile pursued.
But when Prince Ráma lighted down
At S’riugavera’s pleasant town,
Where Gangá’s holy waters flow,
He bade his driver turn and go.
Guha, Nishádas’ king, he met,
And on the farther bank was set.
Then on from wood to wood they strayed,
O’er many a stream, through constant shade,
As Bharadvája bade them, till
They came to Chitrakúta’s hill.
And Ráma there, with Lakshman’s aid,
A pleasant little cottage made,
And spent his days with Sítá, dressed

In coat of bark and deerskin vest.
And Chitrakuta grew to be
As bright with those illustrious three
An Meru’s sacred peaks that shine
With glory, when the Gods recline
Beneath them: Siva’s self between
The Lord of Gold and Beauty’s Queen.

The aged king for Rama pined,
And for the skies the earth resigned,
Bharat, his son, refused to reign,
Though urged by all the twice-born train.
Forth to the woods he fared to meet
Hia brother, fell before his feet,
And cried, ‘Thy claim all men allow:
O come, our lord and king be thou.’
But Rama nobly chose to be
Observant of his sire’s decree.
He placed his sandals in his hand
A pledge that he would rule the land:
And bade his brother turn again.
Then Bharat. finding prayer was vain,
The sandals took and went away;
Nor in Ayodhyá would he stay.
But turned to Nandigráma, where
He ruled the realm with watchful care,
Still longing eagerly to learn
Tidings of Ráma’s safe return.

Then lest the people should repeat
Their visit to his calm retreat,
Away from Chitrakúta’s hill
Fared Ráma ever onward till

Beneath the shady trees he stood
Of Dandaká’s primeval wood,
Virádha, giant fiend, he slew,
And then Agastya’s friendship knew.
Counselled by him he gained the sword
And bow of Indra, heavenly lord:
A pair of quivers too, that bore
Of arrows an exhaustless store.
While there he dwelt in greenwood shade
The trembling hermits sought his aid,
And bade him with his sword and bow
Destroy the fiends who worked them woe:
To come like Indra strong and brave,
A guardian God to help and save.
And Ráma’s falchion left its trace
Deep cut on Súrpanakhá’s face:
A hideous giantess who came
Burning for him with lawless flame.
Their sister’s cries the giants heard.
And vengeance in each bosom stirred:
The monster of the triple head.
And Dúshan to the contest sped.
But they and myriad fiends beside
Beneath the might of Ráma died.

When Rávan, dreaded warrior, knew
The slaughter of his giant crew:
Rávan, the king, whose name of fear
Earth, hell, and heaven all shook to hear:
He bade the fiend Márícha aid
The vengeful plot his fury laid.
In vain the wise Márícha tried
To turn him from his course aside:
Not Rávan’s self, he said, might hope
With Ráma and his strength to cope.
Impelled by fate and blind with rage
He came to Ráma’s hermitage.
There, by Márícha’s magic art,
He wiled the princely youths apart,
The vulture slew, and bore away
The wife of Ráma as his prey.
The son of Raghu came and found
Jatáyu slain upon the ground.
He rushed within his leafy cot;
He sought his wife, but found her not.
Then, then the hero’s senses failed;
In mad despair he wept and wailed,
Upon the pile that bird he laid,
And still in quest of Sitá strayed.
A hideous giant then he saw,
Kabandha named, a shape of awe.

The monstrous fiend he smote and slew,
And in the flame the body threw;
When straight from out the funeral flame
In lovely form Kabandha came,
And bade him seek in his distress
A wise and holy hermitess.
By counsel of this saintly dame
To Pampá’s pleasant flood he came,
And there the steadfast friendship won
Of Hanumán the Wind-God’s son.
Counselled by him he told his grief
To great Sugríva, Vánar chief,
Who, knowing all the tale, before
The sacred flame alliance swore.
Sugríva to his new-found friend
Told his own story to the end:
His hate of Báli for the wrong
And insult he had borne so long.
And Ráma lent a willing ear
And promised to allay his fear.
Sugríva warned him of the might
Of Báli, matchless in the fight,
And, credence for his tale to gain,
Showed the huge fiend by Báli slain.
The prostrate corpse of mountain size
Seemed nothing in the hero’s eyes;
He lightly kicked it, as it lay,
And cast it twenty leagues away.
To prove his might his arrows through
Seven palms in line, uninjured, flew.
He cleft a mighty hill apart,
And down to hell he hurled his dart,
Then high Sugríva’s spirit rose,
Assured of conquest o’er his foes.
With his new champion by his side
To vast Kishkindhá’s cave he hied.
Then, summoned by his awful shout,
King Báli came in fury out,
First comforted his trembling wife,
Then sought Sugríva in the strife.
One shaft from Ráma’s deadly bow
The monarch in the dust laid low.
Then Ráma bade Sugríva reign
In place of royal Báli slain.
Then speedy envoys hurried forth
Eastward and westward, south and north,
Commanded by the grateful king
Tidings of Ráma’s spouse to bring.

Then by Sampáti’s counsel led,
Brave Hanumán, who mocked at dread,
Sprang at one wild tremendous leap
Two hundred leagues across the deep.
To Lanká’s town he urged his way,
Where Rávan held his royal sway.

There pensive ‘neath As’oka boughs
He found poor Sitá, Ráma’s spouse.
He gave the hapless girl a ring,
A token from her lord and king.
A pledge from her fair hand he bore;
Then battered down the garden door.
Five captains of the host be slew,
Seven sons of councillors o’erthrew;
Crushed youthful Aksha on the field,
Then to his captors chose to yield.
Soon from their bonds his limbs were free,
But honouring the high decree
Which Brahmá had pronounced of yore,
He calmly all their insults bore.
The town he burnt with hostile flame,
And spoke again with Ráma’s dame,
Then swiftly back to Ráma flew
With tidings of the interview.
Then with Sugríva for his guide,
Came Ráma to the ocean side.
He smote the sea with shafts as bright
As sunbeams in their summer height,
And quick appeared the Rivers’ King
Obedient to the summoning.
A bridge was thrown by Nala o’er
The narrow sea from shore to shore.
They crossed to Lanká’s golden town,
Where Ráma’s hand smote Rávan down.
Vibhishan there was left to reign
Over his brother’s wide domain.
To meet her husband Sitá came;
But Ráma, stung with ire and shame,
With bitter words his wife addressed
Before the crowd that round her pressed.
But Sitá, touched with noble ire,
Gave her fair body to the fire.
Then straight the God of Wind appeared,
And words from heaven her honour cleared.
And Ráma clasped his wife again,
Uninjured, pure from spot and stain,
Obedient to the Lord of Fire
And the high mandate of his sire.
Led by the Lord who rules the sky,
The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh,
And honoured him with worthy meed,
Rejoicing in each glorious deed.
His task achieved, his foe removed,

He triumphed, by the Gods approved,
By grace of Heaven he raised to life
The chieftains slain in mortal strife;
Then in the magic chariot through
The clouds to Nandigráma flew.
Met by his faithful brothers there,
He loosed his votive coil of hair:
Thence fair Ayodhyá’s town he gained,
And o’er his father’s kingdom reigned.
Disease or famine ne’er oppressed
His happy people, richly blest
With all the joys of ample wealth,
Of sweet content and perfect health.
No widow mourned her well-loved mate,
No sire his son’s untimely fate.
They feared not storm or robber’s hand;
No fire or flood laid waste the land:
The Golden Age had come again
To bless the days of Ráma’s reign.
From him, the great and glorious king,
Shall many a princely scion spring.
And he shall rule, beloved by men,
Ten thousand years and hundreds ten,
And when his life on earth is past
To Brahmá’s world shall go at last.’
Whoe’er this noble poem reads
That tells the tale of Ráma’s deeds,
Good as the Scriptures, he shall be
From every sin and blemish free.
Whoever reads the saving strain,
With all his kin the heavens shall gain.
Bráhmans who read shall gather hence
The highest praise for eloquence.
The warrior, o’er the laud shall reign,
The merchant, luck in trade obtain;
And S’údras listening ne’er shall fail
To reap advantage from the tale.


Canto II: Brahmá’s Visit

Válmíki, graceful speaker, heard,
To highest admiration stirred.
To him whose fame the tale rehearsed
He paid his mental worship first;
Then with his pupil humbly bent
Before the saint most eloquent.
Thus honoured and dismissed the seer
Departed to his heavenly sphere.
Then from his cot Válmíki hied
To Tamasá’s sequestered side,
Not far remote from Gangáa’s tide.
He stood and saw the ripples roll
Pellucid o’er a pebbly shoal.
To Bharadvája by his side
He turned in ecstasy, and cried:
‘See, pupil dear, this lovely sight,
The smooth-floored shallow, pure and bright,
With not a speck or shade to mar,
And clear as good men’s bosoms are.
Here on the brink thy pitcher lay,
And bring my zone of bark, I pray.
Here will I bathe: the rill has not,
To lave the limbs a fairer spot.
Do quickly as I bid, nor waste
The precious time; away, and haste.’
Obedient to his master’s best
Quick from the cot he brought the vest;
The hermit took it from his hand,
And tightened round his waist the band;
Then duly dipped and bathed him there,
And muttered low his secret prayer.
To spirits and to Gods he made
Libation of the stream, and strayed
Viewing the forest deep and wide
That spread its shade on every side.
Close by the bank he saw a pair
Of curlews sporting fearless there.
But suddenly with evil mind
An outcast fowler stole behind,
And, with an aim too sure and true,
The male bird near the hermit slew.

The wretched hen in wild despair
With fluttering pinions beat the air,
And shrieked a long and bitter cry
When low on earth she saw him lie,
Her loved companion, quivering, dead,
His dear wings with his lifeblood red;
And for her golden crested mate
She mourned, and was disconsolate.
The hermit saw the slaughtered bird,
And all his heart with ruth was stirred.
The fowler’s impious deed distressed
His gentle sympathetic breast,
And while the curlew’s sad cries rang
Within his ears, the hermit sang:
‘No fame be thine for endless time,
Because, base outcast, of thy crime,
Whose cruel hand was fain to slay
One of this gentle pair at play!’
E’en as he spoke his bosom wrought
And laboured with the wondering thought
What was the speech his ready tongue
Had uttered when his heart was wrung.
He pondered long upon the speech,
Recalled the words and measured each,
And thus exclaimed the saintly guide
To Bharadvája by his side:
‘With equal lines of even feet,
With rhythm and time and tone complete,
The measured form of words I spoke
In shock of grief be termed a s’loke.’
And Bharadvája, nothing slow
His faithful love and zeal to show,
Answered those words of wisdom, ‘Be
The name, my lord, as pleases thee.’
As rules prescribe the hermit took
Some lustral water from the brook.
But still on this his constant thought
Kept brooding, as his home he sought;
While Bharadvája paced behind,
A pupil sage of lowly mind,
And in his hand a pitcher bore
With pure fresh water brimming o’er.
Soon as they reached their calm retreat
The holy hermit took his seat;
His mind from worldly cares recalled,
And mused in deepest thought enthralled.
Then glorious Brahmá, Lord Most High.
Creator of the earth and sky,

The four-faced God, to meet the sage
Came to Válmíki’s hermitage.
Soon as the mighty God he saw,
Up sprang the saint in wondering awe.
Mute, with clasped hands, his head he bent,
And stood before him reverent.
His honoured guest he greeted well,
Who bade him of his welfare tell;
Gave water for his blessed feet,
Brought offerings, and prepared a seat,
In honoured place the God Most High
Sate down, and bade the saint sit nigh.
There sate before Válmíki’s eyes
The Father of the earth and skies;
But still the hermit’s thoughts were bent
On one thing only, all intent
On that poor curlew’s mournful fate
Lamenting for her slaughtered mate;
And still his lips, in absent mood,
The verse that told his grief, renewed:
‘Woe to the fowler’s impious hand
That did the deed that folly planned;
That could to needless death devote
The curlew of the tuneful throat!’
The heavenly Father smiled in glee,
And said, ‘O best of hermits’, see,
A verse, unconscious thou hast made;
No longer be the task delayed.
Seek not to trace, with labour vain,
The unpremeditated strain.
The tuneful lines thy lips rehearsed
Spontaneous from thy bosom burst,
Then come, O best of seers, relate
The life of Ráma good and great,
The tale that saintly Nárad told,
In all its glorious length unfold.
Of all the deeds his arm has done
Upon this earth, omit not one,
And thus the noble life record
Of that wise, brave, and virtuous lord.

His every act to day displayed,
His secret life to none betrayed:
How Lakshman, how the giants fought;
With high emprise and hidden thought:
And all that Janak’s child befell
Where all could see, where none could tell,
The whole of this shall truly be
Made known, O best of saints, to thee.
In all thy poem, through my grace,
No word of falsehood shall have place.
Begin the story, aud rehearse
The tale divine in charming verse.
As long as in this firm-set land
The streams shall flow, the mountains stand,
So long throughout the world, be sure,
The great Rámáyan shall endure.
While the Rámáyan’s ancient strain
Shall glorious in the earth remain,
To higher spheres shalt thou arise
And dwell with me above the skies!
He spoke, and vanished into air,
And left Válmíki wondering there.
The pupils of the holy man,
Moved by their love of him, began
To chant that verse, and ever more
They marvelled as they sang it o’er:
‘Behold, the four-lined balanced rime,
Repeated over many a time,
In words that from the hermit broke
In shock of grief, becomes a s’loke.’
This measure now Válmíki chose
Wherein his story to compose.
In hundreds of such verses, sweet
With equal lines and even feet,
The saintly poet, lofty-souled,
The glorious deeds of Ráma told.


Canto III: The Argument

The hermit thus with watchful heed
Received the poem’s pregnant seed,
And looked with eager thought around
If fuller knowledge might be found.

His lips with water first bedewed,
He sate, in reverent attitude
On holy grass, the points all bent
Together toward the orient;
And thus in meditation he
Entered the path of poesy.
Then clearly, through his virtue’s might,
All lay discovered to his sight,
Whate’er befell, through all their life,
Ráma, his brother, and his wife:
And Das’aratha and each queen
At every time, in every scene:
His people too, of every sort;
The nobles of his princely court:
Whate’er was said, whate’er decreed,
Each time they sate each plan and deed:
For holy thought and fervent rite
Had so refined his keener sight
That by his sanctity his view
The present, past, and future knew,
And he with mental eye could grasp,
Like fruit within his fingers clasp,
The life of Ráma, great and good,
Roaming with Sitá in the wood.
He told, with secret piercing eyes,
The tale of Ráma’s high emprise.
Each listening ear that shall entice,
A sea of pearls of highest price.
Thus good Válmíki, sage divine,
Rehearsed the tale of Raghu’s line,
As Nárad, heavenly saint, before
Had traced the story’s outline o’er.
He sang of Ráma’s princely birth,
His kindness and heroic worth;
His love for all, his patient youth,
His gentleness and constant truth,
And many a tale and legend old
By holy Vis’vámitra told.
How Janak’s child he wooed and won,
Aud broke the bow that bent to none.
How he with every virtue fraught
His namesake Ráma met and fought.
The choice of Ráma for the throne;
The malice by Kalseyí shown,
Whose evil counsel marred the plan
And drove him forth a banisht man.
How the king grieved and groaned, and cried,

And swooned away and pining died.
The subjects’ woe when thus bereft;
And how the following crowds he left:
With Guha talked, and firmly stern
Ordered his driver to return.
How Gangá’s farther shore he gained;
By Bharadvája entertained,
By whose advice be journeyed still
And came to Chitrakúta’s hill.
How there he dwelt and built a cot;
How Bharat journeyed to the spot;
His earnest supplication made;
Drink-offerings to their father paid;
The sandals given by Ráma’s hand,
As emblems of his right to stand:
How from his presence Bharat went
And years in Nandigráma spent.
How Ráma entered Dandak wood
And in Sutíkhna’s presence stood.
The favour Anasúyá showed,
The wondrous balsam she bestowed.
How Sárabhangá’s dwelling place
They sought; saw Indra face to face;
The meeting with Agastya gained;
The heavenly bow from him obtained.
How Ráma with Virádha met;
Their home in Panchavata set.
How S’úrpanakhá underwent
The mockery and disfigurement.
Of Trígirá’s and Khara’s fall,
Of Rávan roused at vengeance call,
Máricha doomed, without escape;
The fair Videhan lady’s rape.
How Ráma wept and raved in vain,
And how the Vulture-king was slain.
How Ráma fierce Kabandha slew;
Then to the side of Pampá drew.
Met Hanumán, and her whose vows
Were kept beneath the greenwood boughs.
How Raghu’s son the lofty-souled,
On Pampá’s bank wept uncontrolled,
Then journeyed, Rishyamúk to reach,
And of Sugríva then had speech.
The friendship made, which both had sought:
How Báli and Sugríva fought.
How Báli in the strife was slain,
And how Sugríva came to reign.
The treaty, Tára’s wild lament;
The rainy nights in watching spent.
The wrath of Raghu’s lion son;
The gathering of the hosts in one.
The sending of the spies about,
And all the regions pointed out.
The ring by Ráma’s hand bestowed;
The cave wherein the bear abode.
The fast proposed, their lives to end;
Sampati gained to be their friend.

The scaling of the hill, the leap
Of Hanumán across the deep.
Ocean’s command that bade them seek
Maináka of the lofty peak.
The death of Sinhiká, the sight
Of Lanká with her palace bright
How Hanuman stole in at eve;
His plan the giants to deceive.
How through the square he made his way
To chambers where the women lay,
Within the As’oka garden came
And there found Ráma’s captive dame,
His colloquy with her he sought,
And giving of the ring he brought.
How Sítá gave a gem o’erjoyed;
How Hanumán the grove destroyed,
How giantesses trembling fled,
And servant fiends were smitten dead.
How Hanumán was seized; their ire
When Lanká blazed with hostile fire.
His leap across the sea once more;
The eating of the honey store,
How Ráma he consoled, and how
He showed the gem from Sítá’s brow,
With Ocean, Ráma’s interview;
The bridge that Nala o’er it threw.
The crossing, and the sitting down
At night round Lanká’s royal town.
The treaty with Vibhíshan made:
The plan for Rávan’s slaughter laid.
How Kumbhakarna in his pride
And Meghanáda fought and died.
How Rávan in the fight was slain,
And captive Sítá brought again.
Vibhíshan set upon the throne;
The flying chariot Pushpak shown.
How Brahmá and the Gods appeared,
And Sítá’s doubted honour cleared.
How In the flying car they rode
To Bháradvája’s cabin abode,
The Wind-God’s son sent on afar;
How Bharat met the flying car.
How Ráma then was king ordained;
The legions their discharge obtained.
How Ráma cast his queen away;
How grew the people’s love each day.
Thus did the saint Válmíki tell
Whate’er in Ráma’s life befell,
And in the closing verse all
That yet to come will once befall


Canto IV: The Rhapsodists.

When to the end the tale was brought,
Rose in the sage’s mind the thought;
Now who throughout this earth will go,
And tell it forth that all may know?’

As thus he mused with anxious breast,
Behold, in hermit’s raiment dressed,
Kus’a and Lava came to greet
Their master and embrace his feet.
The twins he saw, that princely pair
Sweet-voiced, who dwelt beside him there
None for the task could be more fit,
For skilled were they in Holy Writ;
And so the great Rámáyan, fraught
With lore divine, to them he taught:
The lay whose verses sweet and clear
Take with delight the listening ear,
That tell of Sítá’s noble life
And Rávan’s fall in battle strife.
Great joy to all who hear they bring,
Sweet to recite and sweet to sing.
For music’s sevenfold notes are there,
And triple measure, wrought with care
With melody and tone and time,
And flavours that enhance the rime:
Heroic might has ample place,
And loathing of the false and base,
With anger, mirth, and terror, blent
With tenderness, surprise, content.
When, half the hermit’s grace to gain,
And half because they loved the strain,
The youth within their hearts had stored
The poem that his lips outpoured,
Válmíki kissed them on the head,
As at his feet they bowed, and said
‘Recite ye this heroic song
In tranquil shades where sages throng
Recite it where the good resort,
In lowly home and royal court,’
The hermit ceased. The tuneful pair
Like heavenly minstrels sweet and fair
In music’s art divinely skilled,
Their saintly master’s word fulfilled.
Like Ráma’s self, from whom they came,
They shared their size in face and frame,

As though from some fair sculptured stone
Two selfsame images had grown.
Sometimes the pair rose up to sing,
Surrounded by a holy ring,
Where seated on the grass bad met
Full many a musing anchoret.
Then tears bedimmed those gentle eyes,
As transport took them and surprise,
And as they listened every one
Cried in delight, Well done! Well done!
Those sages versed in holy lore
Praised the sweet minstrels more and more:
And wondered at the singers’ skill,
And the bard’s verses sweeter still,
Which laid so clear before the eye
The glorious deeds of days gone by.
Thus by the virtuous hermits praised,
Inspirited their voice they raised.
Pleased with the song this holy man
Would give the youths a water-can;
One gave a fair ascetic dress,
Or sweet fruit from the wilderness.
One saint a black-deer’s hide would bring,
And one a sacrificial string:
One, a clay pitcher from his hoard,
And one, a twisted munja cord.
One in his joy an axe would find,
One, braid, their plaited locks to bind.
One gave a sacrificial cup,
One rope to tie their fagots up;
While fuel at their feet was laid,
Or hermit’s stool of fig-tree made.
All gave, or if they gave not, none
Forgot at least a benison.
Some saints, delighted with their lays,
Would promise health and length of days;
Others with surest words would add
Some boon to make their spirit glad.
In such degree of honour then
That song was held by holy men:
That living song which life can give,
By which shall many a minstrel live.
In seat of kings, in crowded hall,
They sang the poem, praised of all.
And Ráma chanced to hear their lay,
While he the votive steed would slay,
And sent fit messengers to bring
The minstrel pair before the king.
They came, and found the monarch high
Enthroned in gold, his brothers nigh;
While many a minister below,
And noble, sate in lengthened row.

The youthful pair awhile he viewed
Graceful in modest attitude,
And then in words like these addressed
His brother Lakshman and the rest:
‘Come, listen to the wondrous strain
Recited by these godlike twain.
Sweet singers of a story fraught
With melody and lofty thought.’
The pair, with voices sweet and strong,
Rolled the full tide of noble song,
With tone and accent deftly blent
To suit the changing argument.
Mid that assembly loud and clear
Rang forth that lay so sweet to hear,
That universal rapture stole
Through each man’s frame and heart and soul.
‘These minstrels, blest with every sign
That marks a high and princely line,
In holy shades who dwell,
Enshrined in Saint Válmiki’s lay,
A monument to live for aye,
My deeds in song shall tell.’
Thus Ráma spoke: their breasts were fired,
And the great tale, as if inspired,
The youths began to sing,
While every heart with transport swelled,
And mute and rapt attention held
The concourse and the king,


Canto V: Ayodhyá

‘Ikshváku’s sons from days of old
Were ever brave and mighty-souled.
The land their arms had made their own
Was bounded by the sea alone.
Their holy works have won them praise,
Through countless years, from Manu’s days.
Their ancient sire was Sagar, he
Whose high command dug out the sea:
With sixty thousand sons to throng
Around him as he marched along.
From them this glorious tale proceeds;
The great Rámáyan tells their deeds.
This noble song whose lines contain,
Lessons of duty, love, and gain,
We two will now at length recite,
While good men listen with delight.
On Sarjú’s bank, of ample size,
The happy realm of Kos’al lies,

With fertile length of fair champaign
And flocks and herds and wealth of grain.
There, famous in her old renown,
Ayodhyá
stands, the royal town,
In bygone ages built and planned
By sainted Manu’s princely hand.
Imperial seat! her walls extend
Twelve measured leagues from end to end,
And three in width from side to side,
With square and palace beautified.
Her gates at even distance stand;
Her ample roads are wisely planned.
Right glorious is her royal street
Where streams allay the dust and heat.
On level ground in even row
Her houses rise in goodly show:
Terrace and palace, arch and gate
The queenly city decorate.
High are her ramparts, strong and vast,
By ways at even distance passed,
With circling moat, both deep and wide,
And store of weapons fortified.

King Das’aratha, lofty-souled,
That city guarded and controlled,
With towering Sál trees belted round,
And many a grove and pleasure ground,
As royal Indra, throned on high,
Rules his fair city in the sky.
She seems a painted city, fair
With chess-board line and even square.
And cool boughs shade the lovely lake

Where weary men their thirst may slake.
There gilded chariots gleam and shine,
And stately piles the Gods enshrine.
There gay sleek people ever throng
To festival and dance and song.
A mine is she of gems and sheen,
The darling home of Fortune’s Queen.
With noblest sort of drink and meat,
The fairest rice and golden wheat,
And fragrant with the chaplet’s scent
With holy oil and incense blent.
With many an elephant and steed,
And wains for draught and cars for speed.
With envoys sent by distant kings,
And merchants with their precious things,
With banners o’er her roofs that play,
And weapons that a hundred slay;
All warlike engines framed by man,
And every class of artisan.
A city rich beyond compare
With bards and minstrels gathered there,
And men and damsels who entrance
The soul with play and song and dance.
In every street is heard the lute,
The drum, the tabret, and the flute,
The Veda chanted soft and low,
The ringing of the archer’s bow;
With bands of godlike heroes skilled
In every warlike weapon, filled,
And kept by warriors from the foe,
As Nágas guard their home below.
There wisest Bráhmans evermore
The flame of worship feed,
And versed in all the Vedas’ lore,
Their lives of virtue lead.
Truthful and pure, they freely give;
They keep each sense controlled,
And in their holy fervour live
Like the great saints of old.


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