'Yet more remain, brave chiefs who stake Their noble lives for Ráma's sake. See, glorious, golden-coated, one Who glisters like the morning sun, Whom thousands of his race surround, 'Tis Hara for his strength renowned, Next comes a mighty chieftain, he Whose legions, armed with rock and tree, Press on, in numbers passing tale, The ramparts of our town to scale.
O Rávan, see the king advance Terrific with his fiery glance, Girt by the bravest of his train, Majestic as the God of Rain, Parjanya, when his host of clouds About the king, embattled, crowds: On Rikshaván's high mountain nursed, In Narmadá he slakes his thirst, Dhúmra, proud ursine chief, who leads Wild warriors whom the forest breeds.
His brother, next in strength and age, In Jámbaván the famous sage. Of yore his might and skill he lent To him who rules the firmament, And Indra's liberal boons repaid The chieftain for the timely aid. There like a gloomy cloud that flies Borne by the tempest through the skies, Pramáthí stands: he roamed of yore The forest wilds on Gangá's shore, Where elephants were struck with dread And trembling at his coming fled.
There on his foes he loved to sate The old hereditary hate. Look, Gaja and Gaváksha show Their lust of battle with the foe. See Nala burning for the fray, And Níla chafing at delay, Behind the eager captains press Wild hosts in numbers numberless, And each for Ráma's sake would fall Or force his way through Lanká's wall.'
