Canto XI: Râma's Triumph and Marriage with Sîtâ, and his Defeat of Paraçu Râma

Hear now my tale:—While Râma still was young,
And wore a boy's dark curls, came Kauçika
To beg him from the King, those foes to curb
Who marred his sacrifice: in hero-souls
Mere age is not regarded. Him the King,
Though hardly he had won him, honouring
The perfect Sage, with Lakshman gave at once:
No suppliant ere went back ungratified
From Lord of Raghu's race, not though he asked
As boon the Monarch's life. Forthwith the King
Bade deck the highways for their passing out,
Forthwith the clouds wind-driven arched the sky,
And rained down flowers. That mighty warrior-pair,
Swift to obey their Father's will, bent low
Before his feet, and as they bowed his tears
Fell on them passing forth to far-off toils.
Now, deeming that the Saint had only craved
Râma with Lakshmaṇ following, the great King
His all-prevailing prayers bestowed as guard,
But not an armèd host. The archer-boys,
Their locks bedewed with tears their Father shed,
Went with the Saint, the people's anxious looks
Half-shading all their way. The Hero-pair,
Their mothers leaving, kissed their royal feet,
Then followed where the glorious Saint led on,—
Like summer months that course behind the Sun.
Childlike, unsteady paced they, fair to see,
With lissom arms like crested waves that dance,
As streams, when rain-clouds gather, work and whirl,
As suits their name. Till now they only trode
Smooth inlaid floors, yet by the potent spells,
Balâ, Atibalâ named, which the Saint
Had taught them on the road, they walked untired
As at their mother's side. Time-olden tales,
Told by their Father's friend, in legend skilled,
So lifted them and carried, scarce they felt
That now they walked—nor missed a chariot's ease.
The lakes sweet waters gave, and birds gay songs,
Winds scented pollen waved, and clouds spread shade
For them so passing. More than lakes that stretch
Bright with the lotus, more than restful trees,
They beamed on hermits' eyes, and cheered their hearts.
The grove of penance when with lifted bow
Sweet Râma entered, by his lovely shape—
But not by wanton act—he showed like Love
Whom Çiva scorched. Then passing on the way
Which thrice-accursèd Târakâ laid waste,
(For so the Saint had taught them), all in sport
They bent their bows and strung them. At the sound
The Demon-maid appeared, black as dark night
When wanes the moon—her ear-drops polished skulls,
That on her swarthy neck gleamed white as cranes
Lined 'gainst a dense cloud-bank. On Râma then
She swooped, and rushing shook the wayside trees,
In ghostly grave-clothes clad, with gruesome screech,
As whirlwind issuing from a charnel-house.
But Râma, when he marked her onslaught fell,—
One lean arm raised, men's entrails hanging low
Down to her waist—at once let fly his shaft,
Nor shamed to slay a woman. Such a wound
His arrow in her flinty bosom made,
That Death therethrough among the Demon-hosts
First won an entrance. For the arrow cleft
Her heart; she clanging fell, and shook the Earth;
Not only so, but Râvaṇ's kingdom too
Her falling shook—the Master of the worlds.
Struck to the heart by lovely Râma's shaft
Resistless, spite of all her horrid charms,
Her sandal-wood and gore, the Demon-queen
Passed to the home where Death reigns Lord of life.
When Târakâ was slain, the Saint, well-pleased
With Râma's prowess, gave the missile dread,
Spell-wielded, Demon-slaying,—as the Sun
Gives to the Sun-gem flaming fire to hold.
Thereafter Râma, coming to the grove
Once hallowed by the Dwarf, as told the Saint,
Unwitting of his former life, was natheless seized
With eager longing. Thence the Sage passed on
To where himself did penance, where his host
Of pupils sacrificed, and as in prayer
The tree-tops lowly bowed, and deer looked up
To greet their coming. There the Princely boys
Stood firm to guard the duly-cleansèd Saint
From all disturbing foes, as Moon and Sun
Alternate rising with their radiance save
The world from blinding darkness. Sudden fell
A terror on the priests, for they beheld
The altar-floor defiled with blood-gouts, broad
As Bandhujîva blossoms—at which sight
They ceased their pious rites, and cast away
The sacrificial ladles. Instantly
Upgazing, Râma from his quiver drew
His arrow, saw in air a Demon-host
With banners waving, fanned by vulture's wings.
Then at the two Chiefs only, not the rest,
He launched his shaft: so Vishṇu's bird, whose might
Mates Çesha, Serpent-King, deigns not to war
On water-snakes. Skilled archer, on his string
He laid the keen, swift shaft, the Wind-god's child,
And at Mârîcha loosed it; like a stone,
Or withered leaf, the ponderous Demon fell,
The second leader then, Subâhu named,
Who flitted to and fro, by magic art,
With steel-shod shafts the cunning Archer smote,
And gave him to the woodland birds a prey.
Then, freed from fear and unimpeded now,
The pious Priests praised both the hero-boys,
Next in due order all the sacred rites
Performed for their great Chief, to silence vowed.
He, purified and hallowed, solemnly
Blessed both the Princes, bowing reverently
With waving locks, and on them laid his hand,
Pierced by the holy grass:—Age blessing Youth.

But now the King of Mithilâ had made
A mighty sacrifice, and bade the Sage.
He thither went, and with him Raghu's sons,
Whose keen desire he spurred to see the Bow
World-famous. And at night they took their rest
Where wave the pleasant trees of Gautama,
Sainted Ascetic, whose fair spouse—deceived—
Short space to Indra yielded. For that sin
She turned to stone, nor sooner her fair form
Regained, till, after ages, holy dust
From Râma's blessed feet fell on her limbs.
Now, when King Janaka had heard the Saint
Was come, with Raghu's sons attending, straight
He went to meet them, showing honour due
To Virtue's self, with Wealth and Pleasure joined.
The dwellers in Videha, glad at heart,
With longing looks devoured the Princes twain,
Like Punarvâsu come once more to earth,
Nor dared to wink, lest haply they might miss
One moment's joy. Now, when the Sacrifice
And altar-rites were over, Kauçika—
Who knew all fitting seasons—told the King
How Râma longed to try the mighty Bow.
He, when he saw the lovely, high-born Boy,
And knew the Bow, how stiff it was to bend,
Grieved he had set his daughter's hand a prize
For thews and sinews:—"Nay," he soon replied,
"Great Saint, it were not meet a noble calf
Should vainly try a task which all the strength
Demands of full-grown forest elephants.
For, Sire and Saint! thou knowest—many kings,
Skilled archers, brawny-armed from bowstring's use,
Have failed to draw the Bow, and wrung their hands,
And crying—'Fie!' departed." But the Sage
Quick answered:—"Know, O King, this Hero's might
Transcends all words: thyself shalt see the proof
Upon thy Bow—as shows a shattered rock
The lightning's power." The Monarch, soon convinced
Of Râma's might, though veiled in boyish mien—
As Indra's beetle holds the power of flame—
Gave order that the attendant host should bring
The Bow renowned, as Indra thousand-eyed
Commands the rangèd clouds to show his Bow
Mild-beaming. Soon as Râma saw the Arm,
Fell as great Çesha sleeping, eagerly
He seized it: 'twas the Bow that Çiva used,
That mighty God whose standard bears a bull,
To shoot the escaping Victim as it fled.
On Râma wondering all the assembly gazed
With fixed eyes, and saw him string the Bow,
Unyielding as a rock, not using more
Of strength (it seemed) than Love puts forth to string
His own soft bow of flowers. Nay more, that Bow,
Drawn by the Hero's careless hand too far,
Snapped with harsh thunderous sound, proclaiming loud
To wrathful Bhṛigu's son the Warrior-race
Again had raised its head. The Monarch, glad
To hail such might transcendent, snapping thus
Great Çiva's Bow, to Râma gave Sîtâ,
His lovely daughter, not of woman born,
Like Lakshmî born on earth. His child the King,
Fulfilling so his promise, straight bestowed
In presence of the Saint:—fit witness he,
Not less than sacred Fire, to bind their vows.
Then noble Janaka—his household Priest
Revered—as envoy sent to Koçala,
This message bearing:—"Grant me, noble King,
That through my daughter's marriage Nimi's race
Be made thy servants!"
Now the Father's heart
Was set for Râma e'en on such a bride,
When lo! the Brâhman came, and crowned his wish:
So speedily a good man's thoughts bear fruit,
As doth the Wishing-Tree! The Brâhman's speech,
With lowly words due prefaced, when he heard,
Great Indra's friend, the Ascetic-King, set forth,—
The Sun eclipsing with his army's dust.
Surrounding Mithîlâ, he pressed the woods
That girt it round, with close-investing host,—
A friendly pressure, which the capital
Endured, as brides their bridegrooms' close embrace
Rejoice in. Those two Kings, like Varuṇa
And Indra meeting, skilled to mark fit times,
Then son with daughter wedded, in such state
As suited with their splendour. Raghu's Fame
Earth's daughter took to wife; and Urmilâ,
Her younger sister, Bharat; while the Twins,
Their mighty younger brethren, mated them
With Kuçadhvaja's slender-waisted maids.
So wedded to fair brides the Princes four,
With Râma chief, shone glorious,—as in States
Successful Kingcraft shines by peace or war,
Or bribing foes, or sowing discord dire.
Harmonious matched, King's daughters with King's sons,
Each in the other found their bliss complete,
In closest union joined, as words unite
In ordered speech. The King of Koçala,
The Princes four thus wedded, well content,
Three marches by the King of Mithîlâ
Escorted on his journey, homeward passed.
The host swept on:—but fierce opposing winds
Blew down the flagstaffs, made the march a toil,
As river-torrents overflow their banks,
And tear the fallow. Then a stormy ring,
Portentous, clasped the Sun,—as 'twere a gem
Borne by a snake the King of Birds had slain
Amid the lissom coils. The expanse of heaven,
Swept by grey vulture-wings, and hung with clouds
Blood-dripping, awed the sight. Grim jackal-troops
With hideous howling hied them to the west,
To rouse (it seemed) fierce Bhrigu's Son, long used
To appease his father's ghost with Warrior-blood.
At these ill omens, this tempestuous wind,
Awestruck, the prudent King besought his Priest
To read the portents: soothing, he replied—
"All will be well, my King!" Then suddenly
A dazzling splendour rose before the host,
Which soon with clearer sight they pierced, and saw
A glorious Warrior-shape. The Hero bore
His Brâhman father's cord, a mighty bow
Proclaimed his mother born of Warrior-blood,—
Like Sun and Moon together met he seemed,
Or snake-girt sandal-tree. For he it was
Who, when his Sire's fierce rage burst bounds of right,
And bade him slay his mother, did the deed,—
First triumphed o'er his heart, then o'er the world.
From his right ear a string of Aksha seeds
Hung down, a score and one, as numbering
The times he had destroyed the Warrior-race,
An awful chaplet. Then the King despaired
At sight of Bhṛigu's Son, in whom fell wrath
(Stirred by his father's fate) worked to destroy
The Warrior-seed; for yet his sons were boys,
And he defenceless. Joy and dread at once
The name of Râma brought him, borne alike
By his loved son and by the mighty foe,—
So snakes and chaplets bear one common name.
Yet, "Welcome, Saint!" he cried: the cruel foe
Disdained his greeting, rolling baleful eyes,
That blazed with wrath 'gainst all the Kshatriya race,
To where young Râma stood,—and thus addressed
The Prince advancing fearless, while his bow
He firmly grasped, and 'twixt his fingers laid
The arrow on the string, as hot for strife:—
"I hate the Warrior-brood: they wronged me first,
And I destroyed them, winning rest; but now
Thy valour and renown have stirred my wrath,
As when a sleeping snake at blow of staff
Starts up enraged. 'Tis rumoured thou hast broke
The Bow of Mithilâ, not bent before,
Though oft attempted: exploit this, I deem,
Which blunts my horn of glory. Yea, my name,
The name of Râma, famous through the world,
Thou also bearest, and thy thirst for fame
Must cast reproach on me. Know then, I hate
With equal hatred only two,—the King
Who stole away the sacred Calf, and thee,
Offending equally, whose hand would snatch
My honour from me: yet I bear an Axe
That splits the stubborn rock, and my renown
Is stablished on the smiting of thy race,—
Which yet delights me not if thou be left
Unconquered; for the might of Fire is shown
By blazing in the waves no less than when
Dry tinder feeds it. Know that Çiva's bow,
Which thou didst break, had lost through Vishṇu's power
Its primal virtue: so a soft-breathed gale
Lays low a tree which, on the river's brink,
The stream has undermined. But take my bow
(Be this the test!), string it, and draw when strung,
The arrow firmly laid: then, only then,
Will I confess thee Victor, and avow
Thy prowess mates my own. But, if thou blench
And dread my flaming Axe-edge, then submit!
And sue for mercy, though that prayer be vain."
So spake with aspect fierce great Bhṛigu's Son:
But Râma, while a soft smile curved his lips,
For fitting answer stretched his hand to grasp
The offered bow:—that weapon, once his own,
Again he clasped, and laughed for joy: so clouds,
In new-born beauty smile, but tenfold fair
Shine when the Bow of Indra lends its hues.
Then, resting the great bow a moment's space
Upon the ground to string it, high aloft
The mighty Hero raised it: but the foe
Of all the Warrior-race, like dying lamp,
Lost all his lustre. Wondering gazed the host
Upon the twain, while one in splendour grew
And waned the other fast, like Sun and Moon,
When sets the Sun and rises the Full Moon.
With mild-eyed pity Râma saw his foe
Bereft of strength, and saw the fatal shaft
Which on the string he laid,—not less in might
Than Çiva's peerless son,—and thus he spake:—
"O Brâhman-hero! not without remorse
Can I resolve to smite thee, though thyself
Wast first the aggressor: choose thou then thy doom!
Shall this my shaft destroy for thee this world,
Or that beyond, thy pious actions' meed?"
The humbled Saint replied:—"I know Thee now,
The Soul Supreme incarnate! wherefore, Lord,
Shouldst Thou be angry that I longed to see
Great Vishṇu's majesty in Thee come down
To earth? My chastisement by Thee, my Lord,
Itself exalts me, though my Father's foes
By me were burnt to ashes, and I deemed
'Twas but a little thing to give away
The World of land and ocean. Wherefore now,
O Sage Divine! I pray Thee, leave me free
To haunt Earth's holy places: loss of Heaven
Will scarce affect whom pleasure least attracts."
And Râma answered:—"Have thy wish!" and turned,
And shot his arrow Eastward, barring so,
Spite of his merits, for all time to come,
To Bhṛigu's Son the path to Paradise.
Then Râma clasped his feet, and pardon craved:
To bear him humbly toward a conquered foe
Fits well a Hero! Then that Saint replied:—
"My mother's sinful nature now at length
Is cast off wholly; peace I win from strife,
My Sire's blest state; yea, loss itself bears fruit
Matured and perfect, by Thy favour, Lord!
Now I depart:—unhindered be Thy course
To work deliv'rance for the Blessed Gods!
The Brother-princes thus the Saint addressed,
And vanished from men's sight. Then Râma's Sire
Embraced his Hero-son, in pride and love,
As snatched from Death; and now new-born delight
Dispelled his transient fear, as cooling showers
Soon quench a forest-fire around a tree,
The woodland's pride. So, after certain nights
Spent on the march in pleasant rustic bowers.
The Monarch, far-renowned as Çiva's self,
Reached his Ayodhyâ, where the city-dames
Came crowding fast, and filled the lattices
With eager eyes, to gaze on Sîtâ fair!