{"collection":"Hinduism","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/hin/rama/ry245.htm","path":"hin/rama/ry245.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/hin/rama/ry245.htm","text":"As, clad in mendicant's disguise,\n He questioned thus his destined prize,\n She to the seeming saintly man\n The story of her life began.\n 'My guest is he,' she thought, 'and I,\n To 'scape his curse, must needs reply:'\n 'Child of a noble sire I spring\n From Janak, fair Videha's king.\n May every good be thine! my name\n Is S\u00edt\u00e1, R\u00e1ma's cherished dame.\n Twelve winters with my lord I spent\n Most happily with sweet content\n In the rich home of Raghu's line,\n And every earthly joy was mine.\n Twelve pleasant years flew by, and then\n His peers advised the king of men,\n R\u00e1ma, my lord, to consecrate\n Joint ruler of his ancient state.\n But when the rites were scarce begun,\n To consecrate Ikshv\u00e1ku's son,\n The queen Kaikey\u00ed, honoured dame,\n Sought of her lord an ancient claim.\n Her plea of former service pressed,\n And made him grant her new request,\n To banish R\u00e1ma to the wild\n And consecrate instead her child.\n This double prayer on him, the best\n And truest king, she strongly pressed\n 'Mine eyes in sleep I will not close,\n Nor eat, nor drink, nor take repose.\n This very day my death shall bring\n If R\u00e1ma be anointed king.'\n As thus she spake in envious ire,\n The aged king, my husband's sire,\n Besought with fitting words, but she\n Was cold and deaf to every plea.\n As yet my days are few; eighteen\n The years of life that I have seen;\n And R\u00e1ma, best of all alive,\n Has passed of years a score and five-\n R\u00e1ma the great and gentle, through\n All region famed as pure and true,\n Large-eyed and mighty-armed and tall.\n With tender heart that cares for all.\n But Das'aratha, led astray\n By woman's wile and passion's sway,\n By his strong love of her impelled,\n The consecrating rites withheld.\n When, hopeful of the promised grace,\n My R\u00e1ma sought his father's face,\n The queen Kaikey\u00ed, ill at ease,\n Spoke to my lord brief words like these:\n 'Hear, son of Raghu, hear from me\n The words thy father says to thee:\n 'I yield this day to Bharat's hand,\n Free from all foes, this ancient land.\n Fly from this home no longer thine,\n And dwell in woods five years and nine.\n Live in the forest and maintain\n Mine honour pure from falsehood's stain.'\n Then R\u00e1ma spoke, untouched by dread;\n 'Yea, it shall be as thou hast said '.\n And answered, faithful to his vows,\n Obeying Das'aratha's spouse:\n 'The offered realm I would not take,\n But still keep true the words he spake.'\n Thus, gentle Br\u00e1hman, R\u00e1ma still\n Clung to his vow with firmest will.\n And valiant Lakshman, dear to fame,\n His brother by a younger dame,\n Bold victor in the deadly fray,\n Would follow R\u00e1ma on his way.\n On sternest vows his heart was set,\n And he, a youthful anchoret,\n Bound up in twisted coil his hair\n And took the garb which hermits wear;\n Then with his bow to guard us, he\n Went forth with R\u00e1ma and with me.\n By Queen Kaikey\u00ed's art bereft\n The kingdom and our home we left,\n And bound by stern religious vows\n We sought this shade of forest boughs.\n Now, best of Br\u00e1hmans, here we tread\n These pathless regions dark and dread.\n But come, refresh thy soul, and rest\n Here for a while an honoured guest.\n For he, my lord, will soon be here\n With fresh supply of woodland cheer,\n Large store of venison of the buck,\n Or some great boar his hand has struck.\n Meanwhile, O stranger, grant my prayer:\n Thy name, thy race, thy birth declare,\n And why with no companion thou\n Roamest in Dandak forest now.'\n Thus questioned S\u00edt\u00e1, R\u00e1ma's dame.\n Then fierce the stranger's answer came:\n 'Lord of the giant legions, he\n From whom celestial armies flee,--\n The dread of hell and earth and sky,\n R\u00e1van the R\u00e1kshas king am I.\n Now when thy gold-like form I view\n Arrayed in silks of amber hue,\n My love, O thou of perfect mould,\n For all my dames is dead and cold.\n A thousand fairest women, torn\n From many a land my home adorn.\n But come, loveliest lady, be\n The queen of every dame and me.\n My city Lank\u00e1, glorious town,\n Looks from a mountain's forehead down\n \n \n Where ocean with his flash and foam\n Beats madly on mine island home.\n With me, O S\u00edt\u00e1, shalt thou rove\n Delighted through each shady grove,\n Nor shall thy happy breast retain\n Fond memory of this life of pain.\n In gay attire, a glittering band*,\n Five thousand maids shall round thee stand,\n And serve thee at thy beck and sign,\n If thou, fair S\u00edt\u00e1, wilt be mine.'\n \u00a0\u00a0 Then forth her noble passion broke\n As thus in turn the lady spoke:\n 'Me, me the wife of R\u00e1ma, him\n The lion lord with lion's limb,\n Strong as the sea, firm as the rock,\n Like Indra in the battle shook.\n Tue lord of each auspicious sign,\n The glory of his princely line,\n Like some fair Bodh tree strong and tall,\n The noblest and the best of all,\n R\u00e1ma, the heir of happy fate\n Who keeps his word inviolate,\n Lord of the lion gait, possessed\n Of mighty arm and ample chest,\n Rama the lion-warrior, him\n Whose moon bright face no fear can dim,\n R\u00e1ma, his bridled passions' lord,\n The darling whom his sire adored,--\n Me, me the true and loving dame\n Of R\u00e1ma, prince of deathless fame--\n Me wouldst, thou vainly woo and press?\n A jackal woo a lioness!\n Steal from the sun his glory! such\n Thy hope Lord R\u00e1ma's wife to touch.\n Ha! Thou hast seen the trees of gold,\n The sign which dying eyes behold,\n Thus seeking, weary of thy life,\n To win the love of R\u00e1ma's wife.\n Fool! wilt thou dare to rend away\n The famished lion's bleeding prey,\n Or from the threatening jaws to take\n The fang of some envenomed snake?\n What, wouldst thou shake with puny hand\n Mount Mandar,\u00a01 towering o'er the laud,\n Put poison to thy lips and think\n The deadly cup a harmless drink?\n With pointed needle touch thine eye,\n A razor to thy tongue apply,\n Who wouldst pollute with impious touch\n The wife whom R\u00e1ma loves so much?\n Be round thy neck a millstone tied,\n And swim the sea from side to side;\n Or raising both thy hands on high\n Pluck sun and moon from yonder sky;\n Or let the kindled flame be pressed,\n Wrapt in thy garment, to thy breast;\n \n \n More wild the thought that seeks to win\n R\u00e1ma's dear wife who knows not sin.\n The fool who thinks with idle aim\n To gain the love of Rama's dame,\n With dark and desperate footing makes\n His way o'er points of iron stakes.\n As Ocean to a bubbling spring,\n The lion to a fox, the king\n Of all the birds that ply the wing\n \u00a0\u00a0 To an ignoble crow\n As gold to lead of little price,\n As to the drainings of the rice\n The drink they quaff in Paradise,\n \u00a0\u00a0 The Amrit's heavenly flow,\n As sandal dust with perfume sweet\n Is to the mire that soils our feet,\n \u00a0\u00a0 A tiger to a cat,\n As the white swan is to the owl,\n The peacock to the waterfowl,\n \u00a0\u00a0 An eagle to a bat,\n Such is my lord compared with thee;\n And when with bow and arrows he,\n Mighty as Indra's self shall see\n \u00a0\u00a0 His foeman, armed to slay.\n Thou, death-doomed like the fly that sips\n The oil that on the altar drips,\n Shalt cast the morsel from thy lips\n \u00a0\u00a0 And lose thy half-won prey.'\n Thus in high scorn the lady flung\n The biting arrows of her tongue\n In bitter words that pierced and stung\n \u00a0\u00a0 The rover of the night.\n She ceased. Her gentle cheek grew pale,\n Her loosened limbs began to fail,\n And like a plantain in the gale\n \u00a0\u00a0 She trembled with affright.\n He terrible as Death stood nigh,\n And watched with fierce exulting eye\n \u00a0\u00a0 The fear that shook her frame.\n To terrify the lady more,\n He counted all his triumphs o'er,\n Proclaimed the titles that he bore,\n \u00a0\u00a0 His pedigree and name.\n \n \n \n \n285:1 The mountain which was used by the Gods as a churning stick at the Churning of the Ocean.","title":"BOOK III: Canto XLVII: R\u00e1van's Wooing.","type":"page"}