Good Bharat, by the river side, To virtuous Ráma's speech replied, And thus with varied lore addressed The prince, while nobles round him pressed: 'In all this world whom e'er can we Find equal, scourge of foes, to thee? No ill upon thy bosom weighs. No thoughts of joy thy spirit raise.
Approved art thou of sages old, To whom thy doubts are ever told. Alike in death and life, to thee The same to be and not to be. The man who such a soul can gain Can ne'er be crushed by woe or pain. Pure as the Gods, high-minded, wise, Concealed from thee no secret lies.
Such glorious gifts are all thine own, And birth and death to thee are known, That ill can ne'er thy soul depress With all-subduing bitterness. O let my prayer, dear brother, win Thy pardon for my mother's sin. Wrought for my sake who willed it not When absent in a distant spot.
Duty alone with binding chains The vengeancs due to crime restrains, Or on the sinner I should lift My hand in retribution swift. Can I who know the right, and spring From Das'aratha, purest king-- Can I commit a heinous crime, Abhorred by all through endless time?
The aged king I dare not blame, Who died so rich in holy fame, My honoured sire, my parted lord, E'en as a present God adored. Yet who in lore of duty skilled So foul a crime has ever willed, And dared defy both gain and right To gratify a woman's spite?
When death draws near, so people say, The sense af creatures dies away; And he has proved the ancient saw By acting thus in spite of law. But O my honoured lord, be kind. Dismiss the trespass from thy mind, The sin the king committed, led By haste, his consort's wrath, and dread.
For he who veils his sire's offence With tender care and reverence-- His sons approved by all shall live: Not so their fate who ne'er forgive. Be thou, my lord, the noble son, And the vile deed my sire has done, Abhorred by all the virtuous, ne'er Resent, lest thou the guilt too share.
Preserve us, for on thee we call. Our sire, Kaikeyi, me and all Thy citizens, thy kith and kin; Preserve us and reverse the sin. To live in woods a devotee Can scarce with royal tasks agree, Nor can the hermit's matted hair Suit fitly with a ruler's care.
Do not, my brother, do not still Pursue this life that suits thee ill. Mid duties, of a king we count His consecration paramount, That he with ready heart and hand May keep his people and his land. What Warrior born to royal sway From certain good would turn away, A doubtful duty to pursue, That mocks him with the distant view?
Thou wouldst to duty cleave, and gain The meed that follows toil and pain. In thy great task no labour spare: Rule the four castes with justest care. Mid all the four, the wise prefer The order of the householder: Canst thou, whose thoughts to duty cleave, The best of all the orders leave?
My better thou in lore divine, My birth, my sense must yield to thine: While thou, my lord, art here to reign, How shall my hands the rule maintain? O faithful lover of the right, Take with thy friends the royal might, Let thy sires' realm, from trouble free, Obey her rightful king in thee.
Here let the priests and lords of state Our monatch duly consecrate, With prayer and holy verses blessed By saint Vas'ishtha and the rest. Anointed king by us, again Seek fair Ayodhvá there to reign, And like imperial Indra girt By Gods of Storm, thy might assert.
From the three debts acquittance earn, And with thy wrath the wicked burn, O'er all of us thy rule extend, And cheer with boons each faithful friend. Let thine enthronement, lord, this day Make all thy lovers glad and gay, And let all those who hate thee flee To the ten winds for fear of thee.
Dear lord, my mother's words of hate With thy sweet virtues expiate, And from the stain of folly clear The father whom we both revere. Brother, to me compassion show, I pray thee with my head bent low, And to these friends who on thee call,-- As the Great Father pities all.
But if my tears and prayers be vain, And thou in woods wilt still remain, I will with thee my path pursue And make my home in forests too.'
Thus Bharat strove to bend his will
With suppliant head, but he, Earth's lord, inexorable still
Would keep his sire's decree. The firmness of the noble chief
The wondering people moved, And rapture mingling with their grief,
All wept and all approved. 'How firm his steadfast will,' they cried,
'Who Keeps his promise thus! Ah, to Ayodhyá's town,' they sighed,
'He comes not back with us' The holy priest, the swains who tilled
The earth, the sons of trade, And e'en the mournful queens were filled
With joy as Bharat prayed, And bent their heads, then weeping stilled
