The giants bent, in rage and grief, Their eyes upon the fallen chief: Then flying wild with fear and pale To Rávan bore the mournful tale. He heard how Atikáya died, Then turned him to his lords, and cried: 'Where are they now--my bravest--where, Wise to consult and prompt to dare?
Where is Dhúmráksha, skilled to wield All weapons in the battle field? Akampan, and Prahasta's might, And Kumbhakarna hold in fight? These, these and many a Rákshas more, Each master of the arms he bore, Who every foe in fight o'erthrew, The victors none could e'er subdue, Have perished by the might of one, The vengeful arm of Raghu's son.
In vain I cast mine eyes around, No match for Ráma here is found, No chief to stand before that bow Whose deadly shafts have caused our woe. Now, warriors, to your stations hence; Provide ye for the wall's defence, And be the As'oka garden, where The lady lies, your special care.
Be every lane and passage barred, Set at each gate a chosen guard. And with your troops, where danger calls, Be ready to defend the walls. Each movement of the Vánars mark; Observe them when the sides grow dark; Be ready in the dead of night, And ere the morning bring the light.
Taught by our loss we may not scorn These legions of the forest-born." He ceased: the Rákshas lords obeyed; Each at his post his troops arrayed: And, torn with pangs that pierced him through The monarch from the hall withdrew.
