Canto XIX: Agnivarma's voluptuous Reign and Death

Now after years of wise and glorious rule,
The Son of Raghu placed upon his throne
His son, great Agnivarma, bright as Fire,
And, first 'mid pious students, self-restrained,
In life's last stage passed to Naimisha's grove.
There washed he from his soul all earthly thoughts:—
Instead of pleasure-halls sought Holy ponds,
Strewed on the ground a couch of sacred grass
Instead of silken cushions, dwelt apart
In lowly hut instead of Palace-home,
And careless of reward stored merit up.
No toil he left his son to guard his realm,—
To whom he gave Earth, where all foes were crushed
Beneath his mighty arm,—to eat the fruit,
Not labour to produce. This Prince's mind
Was turned to pleasure: wherefore for some years
Himself dealt justice to the subject World,
Then to his Elders turned the charge of rule,
And gave his own fresh youth to Love's delights.
Then through the Palace of the amorous King
Fair women thronged, the lute's soft music rolled,
And each day's splendid festival was chased
By feast more splendid. Day and night he spent
In love's soft raptures, careless of his folk;—
And when, much urged by faithful Councillors,
He yielded to his loyal people's wish
To show himself, 'twas but one foot he showed,
Hung from the palace-window; to that foot,
Resplendent with the beauty of its nails,
A lotus touched with rays of morning-sun,
They did obeisance,—then went home content.
So, plunged in sensual pleasure, recking not
Of royal duty, goaded on by Love,
The King passed through the seasons of each year
Diversified, but still the same to him.
Yet was his valour dreaded; rival Kings
Durst not attack him, maddened though he seemed;
But, as the curse of Daksha wastes the Moon,
Disease, by passion bred, consumed his life.
Still he pursued all pleasure-seeking ways,
Nor hearkened to wise counsel, though he saw
The fatal consequence:—no easy task
Have they who would a man from Pleasure turn,
When once it has seduced him. Pale he grew,
And fell consumption ravaged all his limbs;
He left his ornaments, and walking, leaned
His weight upon his servants,—while his speech,
Weak, hollow, marked the ruin wrought by Love,
And as he slowly wasted in disease,
His race was like the sky when wanes the Moon,
Or as a lake when only mud is left—
Its waters dried, or as a dying lamp.
His Ministers long hid the fatal truth,
And told the people, struck with heavy fears:—
"The King makes Sacrifice to win a son,
And therefore lives retired!" Untrue their words;
For He, though Lord of many wives, unblest,
Died miserably ere he paid the debt
Due to his mighty Sires; and fell disease,
Defying treatment, snapped his thread of life,
Ere yet he saw his son: so dies a lamp
Before the chilling blast. In darkling grove
Hard by the palace met the Senators,
And with a Priest well-skilled in funeral-rites
In secret laid the body on a pyre:—
Nor told the people what was done, but feigned
Some hope of healing. Next in haste they called
The Chiefs to council, seated on the Throne
The rightful Queen, in whose bright body shone
The hope of Royal seed. That unborn Child,—
Whom with hot tears of sorrow for her Spouse,
Untimely dead, she scalded in her womb,—
Was soon revived by healing waters poured
(Such was the tribal rite!) from golden jars,
To consecrate the Babe. The widowed Queen,
Who carried 'neath her breast the Royal seed,
Which ripened for the universal weal,
As Earth hides in her womb the late-sown grain,—
Longed for her time to come:—meanwhile she sat
High on her golden throne, and sagely ruled
(Advised by loyal Senators) the State,—
Where all the people honoured her commands!