When Bharat with each friend and peer Had heard that tale so full and clear, They went together to the tree The bed which Ráma pressed to see. Then Bharat to his mothers said: 'Behold the high-souled hero's bed: These tumbled heaps of grass betray Where he that night with Sitá lay:
Unmeet, the heir of fortune high Thus on the cold bare earth should lie, The monarch's son, in counsel sage, Of old imperial lineage. That lion-lord whose noble bed With finest skins of deer was spread,-- How can he now endure to press The bare earth, cold and comfortless!
This sudden fall from bliss to grief Appears untrue, beyond belief: My senses are distraught: I seem To view the fancies of a dream. There is no deity so great, No power in heaven can master Fate, If Ráma, Das'aratha's heir, Lay on the ground and slumbered there;
And lovely Sitá, she who springs From fair Videha's ancient kings, Ráma's dear wife, by all adored, Lay on the earth beside her lord. Here was his couch, upon this heap He tossed and turned in restless sleep: On the hard soil each manly limb Has stamped the grass with signs of him, That night, it seems, fair Sitá spent Arrayed in every ornament, For here and there my eyes behold Small particles of glistering gold.
She laid her outer garment here, For still some silken threads appear, How dear in her devoted eyes Must be the bed where Ráma lies, Where she so tender could repose And by his side forget her woes. Alas, unhappy, guilty me! For whom the prince was forced to flee, And chief of Raghu's sons and best, A bed like this with Sitá pressed.
Son of a royal sire whose hand Ruled paramount o'er every land, Could he who every joy bestows, Whose body like the lotus shows, The friend of all, who charms the sight, Whose flashing eyes are darkly bright. Leave the dear kingdom, his by right, Unmeet for woe, the heir of bliss, And lie upon a bed like this?
Great joy and happy fate are thine, O Lakshman, marked with each fair sign, Whose faithful footsteps follow still Thy brother in his hour of ill. And blest is Sitá, nobly good, Who dwells with Ráma in the wood. Ours is, alas, a doubtful fate Of Ráma reft and desolate.
My royal sire has gained the skies, In woods the high-souled hero lies; The state is wrecked and tempest-tossed, A vessel with her rudder lost. Yet none in secret thought has planned With hostile might to seize the land: Though forced in distant wilds to dwell, The hero's arm protects it well.
Unguarded, with deserted wall, No elephant or steed in stall, My father's royal city shows Her portals open to her foes, Of bold protectors reft and bare, Defenceless in her dark despair: But still her foes the wish restrain, As men from poisoned cates refrain.
I from this hour my nights will pass Couched on the earth or gathered grass, Eat only fruit and roots, and wear A coat of bark, and matted hair. I in the woods will pass, content, For him the term of banishment; So shall I still unbroken save The promise which the hero gave.
While I remain for Ráma there, S'atrnghna will my exile share, And Ráma in his home again, With Lakshman, o'er Ayodhyá reign, for him, to rule and guard the state, The twice-born men shall consecrate. O, may the Gods I serve incline To grant this earnest wish of mine!
If when I bow before his feet And with all moving arts entreat,
He still deny my prayer, Then with my brother will I live: He must, he must permission give,
