Then, all his thoughts on Sítá bent, The Vánar chieftain made lament: 'The queen to Ráma's soul endeared, By Lakshman's pious heart revered, Lies here,--for none may strive with Fate, A captive, sad and desolate. The brothers' might full well she knows, And bravely bears the storm of woes, As swelling Gangá in the rains The rush of every flood sustains.
Her lord, for her, fierce Báli slew, Virádha's monstrous might o'erthrew, For her the fourteen thousand slain In Janasthán bedewed the plain. And if for her Ikshváku's son Destroyed the world 'twere nobly done. This, this is she, so far renowned, Who sprang from out the furrowed ground, Child of the high-souled king whose sway The men of Mithilá obey;
The glorious lady wooed and won By Das'aratha's noblest son; And now these sad eyes look on her Mid hostile fiends a prisoner. From home and every bliss she fled By wifely love and duty led, And heedless of a wanderer's woes, A life in lonely forests chose.
This, this is she so fair of mould. Whose limbs are bright as burnished gold. Whose voice was ever soft and mild. Who sweetly spoke and sweetly smiled. O, what is Ráma's misery! how He longs to see his darling now! Pining for one of her fond looks As one athirst for water brooks.
Absorbed in woe the lady sees No Rákshas guard, no blooming trees. Her eyes are with her thoughts, and they Are fixed on Ráma far away.'
