Canto IX: The Prosperous Reign of Daçaratha, and his Fatal Hunting

So mighty Daçaratha to his Sire
Succeeded, self-controlled: in Koçala,
Of royal Sages first, he ruled his folk,
Who knew him noble Kârtikeya's peer
In righteous glory, spreading wide his power.
Great Sages tell that Indra and this King
Poured forth their bounties duly: Bali's foe
And he who sprang of Manu's royal line,
Untiring, 'mongst whose folk no illness set
Its foot, while Earth brought forth her generous fruit
For him, the pride of Aja, peaceful King.
Broad Earth's ten regions Raghu had subdued,
Succeeding Aja made them fairer still,
And after him his son, that ruler sage,
Increased its lustre. Just, dispensing wealth,
Chastising ill men,—Yama, Varuṇa,
He rivalled, and Kuvera: as the Sun
Drives Dawn before him, so him, self-restrained
For Glory's winning, neither women's love,
Nor dice, nor youth's fair spring-time led astray,
Nor wine moon-mirroring. No abject word,
Not even to Lord Indra, would he use;
Nor, even jesting, falsely speak; nor foes
Would he with passion meet, nor nurse revenge.
Earth's Kings received from Aja's son the fates
That raised them or destroyed; for he was friend
To such as did his bidding, harsh and stern
To all who dared defy. He with strong bow
Went conquering in one car sea-girdled Earth,—
While elephants and horses, huge and swift,
Did but proclaim his triumph. Thus the World
Alone he, mighty archer, quite subdued,
Rich as Kuvera, while the thunderous sea
Beat drums auspicious. Indra with his bolt,
One-hundred-pointed, clipped the mountains' wings:
He, lotus-faced, poured forth from sounding bow
A rain of arrows, breaking hostile ranks.
By hundreds Kings did homage,—Maruts so
Bow down to glorious Indra,—while the pearls
That decked their diadems fresh lustre won
From his bright toe-nails. Wives disconsolate
Of foemen pitied he, whose infant sons
The counsellors taught to bow: so turned he back
From Ocean's shores to where Ayodhyâ's towers,
As Alakâ's resplendent, ruled the plain.
Yet, though o'er Earth he power supreme had won,
Nor rival raised his canopy towards heaven,
He sank not back in sloth, whose glory blazed
Like fire, or moon-like beamed: for still he thought
The pinnacle of fame was not yet won.
Clear-minded King, he made the river-banks
With golden altar-posts to flash, where flowed
Sarâyû's streams or Tamasâ,—and doffed
His crown to sacrifice the Horse, and spent
All wealth late yielded by the conquered World.
Such Çiva's self might seem, in deerskin clad,
With Kuça girdled, staff and horn in hand,
With voice restrained, and dight for sacrifice,—
Incarnate, crowned with matchless lustre, pure,
By due ablutions cleansed, and fit to move
Among the blessèd Gods. He Indra served,
But served none other. Vishṇu, Highest Lord,
And him from Raghu sprung, the poor man's stay,
Did lotus-handed Lakshmî serve, for so
She kept her vow. But he, the mighty Lord,
Oft side by side with Indra led Heaven's host,
And by his archery freed from fear the hearts
Of maids Divine, who hymned his warlike fame.
Oft too that matchless Hero, bowman skilled,
In front of Indra fighting, laid with blood
Of vanquished Demons dust that veiled the Sun.
The King, whose arrows pierced his foemen's breasts,
Espoused the virtuous daughters of three Kings,—
Of Koçala, Kekaya, Magadha,—
As rivers from the mountains wed the Sea.
So, threefold wedded, skilled to smite the foe,
Like Indra's self he seemed, with Virtues three
Come down to earth, to rule the world in peace!

Came in his season Spring, that gracious Lord,
In might all-worshipful, the peer alike
Of Gods of Earth, and Sky, and Wealth, and Sea,
To deck the world with new-born flowers. The Sun
Turned towards Kuvera's realms his steeds, and cleared
The morning-hours of frost, and left the slopes
Of well-loved Malaya. First burst the buds,
Then sprouted fresh green twigs, with hum of bees
And cuckoos' wooing note:—through tree-clad glade
In order due thus Spring revealed himself.
At Winter's ending smiled the glowing year:
The Kinçuka took on her wealth of buds,
Like red scars laid by fingers of a bride,
With wine deep-drunk and passion, on her spouse.
Not yet the Sun dispelled, but made less keen
The frost by women hated, swollen-lipped
From biting, while their zones slipped down from waists
That shrank with cold. From southern Malaya
Fresh buds of mango, shaken by warm winds,
Learned arts enticing,—in ascetic breasts
By charm of waving twigs to fix Love's power.
As suitors sought the King, whose fortunate rule
His virtues doubled, lavish to the good,
So to the lotus-clusters in the lakes—
Fresh-blown by present Spring—swarmed bees and birds.
Açoka's spring-like flower was lamp of Love,
And tender blossoms which their fair brides wore
As ear-drops, lit in youthful wooers' hearts
Love's gentle fires. Now Jhintî's purple flowers,
In honey rich, fresh picture from Spring's hand
Of dainty beauty, stirred the bees to hum
In joyous concert. Wine from beauteous lips
Made fertile bursting blooms, which fragrant blush
On Vakulas, where long-drawn swarms of bees
Greedy of sweetness clung. Fresh-blossoming glades
The early Cuckoo haunted with sweet notes,
Like short and broken words of loving brides.
In garden-borders tuneful creepers sang
With pleasing hum of bees, while tender flowers
Seemed gleaming teeth, and wind-shook buds were hands
To beat the dance's time. Fair women quaffed
The grateful wine, which stirred to wanton grace,
More fragrant than Love's ally, Vakula,
That never fosters strife. House-tanks, made glad
By lotus-flowers and waterfowls' soft notes,
Shone bright as women's faces lit with smiles,
Whose tinkling zones hang loose. Thin grew the Night,
Close-pressed by Spring; her face's lustre paled
As waxed the Moon;—as pales a maiden's cheek
Whose lover fails her. Now the Moon's clear beams
In cloudless lustre heal Love's sweet fatigue,
And sharpen Kâma's darts, the God who wields
The flower-strung bow, his flag a crocodile.
That bloom which glows like fire oblation-fed,—
Fit ear-drop for the Goddess of the wood,—
Soft-petalled, limber-tendrilled, lovers gave,
And brides twined in their locks. Shone Tila-trees,
Where clustered bees by contrast heightened charms
Of flowers, as ointment charms of fairy eyes,
Or patch on woman's cheek. New-mallikâ,
The tree's fair spouse, slim, graceful, honey-sweet
With scented blossoms, fresh red sprouts her lips,
Ensnared men's hearts. Fond lovers welcomed Love
With garments red as dawn, and barley-heads
Made ear-rings, Cuckoos' song,—his whole array.
The full-blown flowers of Tila, clustering, shone
(The pollen white contrasting with black swarms
Of bees) not less than bright pearls, intertwined
With ladies' locks. Swift chased the honied tribes
That fragrant pollen, which the zephyrs light
Stirred, Love's own token, by that doughty Lord
Laid on the face of Spring, to keep her fair.
Now sought fair women, languishing though strong,
The swings Spring brought them, that their lovers' necks
They might unblamèd clasp, scarce touching ropes
That bound their seats. "Be bold!" "Ah, cease from strife!"
"Life's pleasure-time comes once, nor e'er returns!"
So Kokils sang Love's mind, and yielding maids
Their passion owned.
Their passion owned. Then he, the King, high peer
Of Vishṇu, Spring, and Love, the feast enjoyed
With his fair wives to fulness. Next, he longed
To know a hunter's joys. The Chace gives skill
To cleave swift-moving marks, by outward signs
To ken both fear and rage: the hunter's will,
Fatigue despising, braces all his frame:
Wherefore his Council much approved the thought.
Dressed then in hunter's garb that Sunlike King,
With quiver on broad neck, obscured the sky
With dust of horses' hoofs; with woodland wreaths
His locks he braided, wearing mail of green,
His ear-rings trembling from the horses' speed.
So through deer-haunted glades he glanced, and Gods
Of woods, who veiled their forms in slender vines,
Black bees their eyes, marked well the bright-eyed King,
Whose righteous rule spread joy through Koçala,
And watched him passing. Men with dogs and nets
He sent before him, robbers fled, and fires
Were quenched; the soil was firm with plenteous wells,
And deer and birds and bisons swarmed around.
As Indra's bow with golden bowstring armed
Nabhanga bears, so bore that King his bow
Well-strung, his passions quelled, whose angry twang
Enraged the lion. Broke a herd of deer,
Led by a twelve-tined stag, where suckling fawns
Oft checked the fleeing does, while Kuça blades
Hung from their muzzles. Them the well-horsed King
O'ertook, and from his quiver drew a shaft:
They burst their ranks, their troubled glances seemed
To light up all the wood, as breezes fling
From sombre lotus-leaves the balmy drops.
Like Indra skilled in bowcraft, passed the King:—
If hind-protected stag he'd marked for death
(His love-swayed soul with pity smit)—he checked
The shaft he thought to loose. At other deer
When he would shoot, his firm-clenched hand, full drawn
Up to the ear, as of itself unclasped,—
Moved by the liquid orbs that rolled in fear,
Recalling loving looks of tender wives.
A path he followed, where the half-chewed grass
Had fallen, and broad wet footprints clearly showed
Where ran a herd of boars, escaped with speed
From muddy pools they rolled in. Bristling high,
They charged him boldly, while with death-fraught shafts
(His chest slight-bending from his horse) he shot
So dexterously they knew not they were pinned
To trees 'gainst which they leaned. One shaft he sped,
Which in a charging bison's eyeball lodged,
Slew the fell beast, and, dashing through the flesh,
Dropt to the ground, its feathers clean of blood.
The fearless King, whose hand long use had trained,
Rained deadly arrows down the yawning throats,
As from their caves to tear him tigers sprang,
Like blooming Asan-sprouts by tempest broke.
To slay the lions crouching in their dens,
He roused them first with thunderous bowstring's twang,
Harsh-sounding,—for he grudged the Royal name,
Which—prize of valour—'mong the beasts they bore:
Them, known the fiercest foes of elephants,
Whose forehead-pearls they tear with crooked claw,
Kakutstha's son shot down, and paid the debt
He owed his mighty servants, staunch in war.
The yâks he next pursued with arrows keen,
Drawn to his ear; seized their white tails as prize,—
That royal badge which oft from Kings he tore;
Then let them lie. At peacock splendid-tailed,
Though next his horse it rose, he aimed no shaft,—
So like it seemed to braided hair, his Queen's,
With bright flowers intertwined, when loving sport
Had loosed its tangles. Heavy drops of sweat,
Which bathed his brows,—fit streams from huntsman's toil,
The dewdrop-laden breeze absorbed, which wooed
The new-born buds to burst. With skilful wiles
Coquetting thus, the Chace enthralled the King,
By service made more loving, wiping out
All thought of graver duties, since he cast
The weight of Kingship on his Council sage.
The night he passed on couch of flowers and twigs,
At times unguarded; phosphorescent plants
Alone gave light; at dawn he woke refreshed,
When sounded in his ear like deep-toned drums
His elephants loud-trumpeting, and joyed
To hear the birds' sweet warbling, tuneful bards
To sing his praises; thus his days sped past.
But—so Fate willed it—one unlucky day,
Unmarked by all his train he tracked a stag
Through forest-paths, and reached the Tamasâ
(His horse all foaming, spent, foredone with heat),―
Whose banks grave Hermits haunt. There on his ear
From waterpot one filled fell gurgling sounds,
As of an elephant that quenched his thirst;
The King his arrow loosed, which hurtling sped;
That act the Law forbids to virtuous Kings,
Yet he transgressed:—when passion blinds, a Sage,
Though versed in Sacred Lore, will tread ill paths.
Oh, Father!" rang a cry: grief-struck, the King
Pressed on to find its source among the reeds,
And found a Muni's son, with jar in hand,
Pierced by an arrow; like a dart deep pain
Transfixed the King's own heart. Dismounting then,
The high-descended Hero asked his race,—
When, propped against his jar, with faltering tongue
He named his sire—no Brâhman, though a Sage.
Then, as desired, he bore the wounded boy
(The barb not drawn) to where his parents blind
Were waiting, and rehearsed the dreadful hap
Which he unwitting brought upon their son.
Sore grieving did those parents from his breast
Draw out the shaft which murderous hand had sped;
The lad expired: next, washing his old hands
In floods of tears, the father cursed the King,
And said:—"When age comes on thee, for thy son
Thou too shalt die of grief, as now I die!"
Thus, as a snake provoked its venom pours,
He vented fatal words; the offending King
Meek answered:—"Saintly Sage! not all in wrath
Thy curse has smit me, whom no lovely son
With lotus-face has charmed: so fire consumes
Corn-bearing land, yet from the sterile ash
Makes seed the more productive."—So they spake.
Next said he to the Saint:—"I well deserve
For ill-deed done that thou shouldst take my life:
How may I serve thy need?"—The Saint required
Pure fire and kindling-wood; for with his wife
Their son he fain would follow to the pyre.
Then came the escort, and in haste the King
Did as they bade him; then betook him home,
His courage damped by sin. The curse he bore,
Deep-graven on his heart, fell root of woe,
As Ocean in its womb bears quenchless fire.