Ramayana on Wealth

They ran to Ravan in his hall And told him of his brother's fall: "Fierce as the God who rules the dead, Upon the routed foe he fed; And, victor for a while, at length Fell slain by Rama's matchless strength. Now like a mighty hill in size His mangled trunk extended lies, And where he fell, a bleeding mass, Blocks Lanka's gate that none may pass." The monarch heard: his strength gave way; And fainting on the ground he lay. Grieved at the giants' mournful tale, Long, shrill was Atikaya's wail; And Trisiras in sorrow bowed His triple head, and wept aloud. Mahodar, Mahaparsva shed Hot tears and mourned their brother dead. At length, his wandering sense restored, In loud lament cried Lanka's lord: "Ah chief, for might and valour famed, Whose arm the haughty foeman tamed, Forsaking me, thy friends and all, Why hast thou fled to Yama's hall? Why hast thou fled to taste no more The slaughtered foeman's flesh and gore? Ah me, my life is done to-day: My better arm is lopped away. Whereon in danger I relied, And, fearless, Gods and fiends defied. How could a shaft from Rama's bow The matchless giant overthrow, Whose iron frame so strong of yore The crushing bolt of Indra bore? This day the Gods and sages meet And triumph at their foe's defeat. This day the Vanar chiefs will boast And, with new ardour fired, their host In fiercer onset will assail Our city, and the ramparts scale. What care I for a monarch's name, For empire, or the Maithil dame? What joy can power and riches give, Or life that I should care to live, Unless this arm in mortal fray The slayer of my brother slay? For me, of Kumbhakarna reft, Death is the only solace left; And I will seek, o'erwhelmed with woes, The realm to which my brother goes. Ah me ill-minded, not to take His counsel when Vibhishan spake When he this evil day foretold My foolish heart was overbold: I drove my sage adviser hence, And reap the fruits of mine offence."

There faint and bleeding fast, apart Stood Ravan raging in his heart. Then, moved with ruth for Rama's sake, Agastya(999) came and gently spake: "Bend, Rama, bend thy heart and ear The everlasting truth to hear Which all thy hopes through life will bless And crown thine arms with full success. The rising sun with golden rays, Light of the worlds, adore and praise: The universal king, the lord By hosts of heaven and fiends adored. He tempers all with soft control, He is the Gods' diviner soul; And Gods above and fiends below And men to him their safety owe. He Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, he Each person of the glorious Three, Is every God whose praise we tell, The King of Heaven,(1000) the Lord of Hell:(1001) Each God revered from times of old, The Lord of War,(1002) the King of Gold:(1003) Mahendra, Time and Death is he, The Moon, the Ruler of the Sea.(1004) He hears our praise in every form,-- The manes,(1005) Gods who ride the storm,(1006) The Asvins,(1007) Manu,(1008) they who stand Round Indra,(1009) and the Sadhyas'(1010) band He is the air, and life and fire, The universal source and sire: He brings the seasons at his call, Creator, light, and nurse of all. His heavenly course he joys to run, Maker of Day, the golden sun. The steeds that whirl his car are seven,(1011) The flaming steeds that flash through heaven. Lord of the sky, the conqueror parts The clouds of night with glistering darts. He, master of the Vedas' lore, Commands the clouds' collected store: He is the rivers' surest friend; He bids the rains, and they descend. Stars, planets, constellations own Their monarch of the golden throne. Lord of twelve forms,(1012) to thee I bow, Most glorious King of heaven art thou. O Rama, he who pays aright Due worship to the Lord of Light Shall never fall oppressed by ill, But find a stay and comfort still. Adore with all thy heart and mind This God of Gods, to him resigned; And thou his saving power shalt know Victorious o'er thy giant foe."

Soon as they heard the holy man, To the king's chamber swift they ran With minds disordered all, and spurred To wildest zeal by what they heard. On to the royal hall they sped, There stood and lowly bowed the head, And made the lord of men aware That the great saint was waiting there. The king with priest and peer arose And ran the sage to meet, As Indra from his palace goes Lord Brahma's self to greet. When glowing with celestial light The pious hermit was in sight, The king, whose mien his transport showed, The honoured gift for guests bestowed. Nor did the saint that gift despise, Offered as holy texts advise; He kindly asked the earth's great king How all with him was prospering. The son of Kusik(139) bade him tell If all in town and field were well, All well with friends, and kith and kin, And royal treasure stored within: "Do all thy neighbours own thy sway? Thy foes confess thee yet? Dost thou continue still to pay To Gods and men each debt?" Then he, of hermits first and best, Vasishtha with a smile(140) addressed, And asked him of his welfare too, Showing him honour as was due. Then with the sainted hermit all Went joyous to the monarch's hall, And sate them down by due degree, Each one, of rank and dignity. Joy filled the noble prince's breast Who thus bespoke the honoured guest: "As amrit(141) by a mortal found, As rain upon the thirsty ground, As to an heirless man a son Born to him of his precious one, As gain of what we sorely miss, As sudden dawn of mighty bliss, So is thy coming here to me: All welcome, mighty Saint, to thee. What wish within thy heart hast thou? If I can please thee, tell me how. Hail, Saint, from whom all honours flow, Worthy of all I can bestow. Blest is my birth with fruit to-day, Nor has my life been thrown away. I see the best of Brahman race And night to glorious morn gives place. Thou, holy Sage, in days of old Among the royal saints enrolled, Didst, penance-glorified, within The Brahman caste high station win.

His sweetly-speaking bride, who best Deserved her lord, he thus addressed. Then tender love bade passion wake, And thus the fair Videhan spake: "What words are these that thou hast said? Contempt of me the thought has bred. O best of heroes, I dismiss With bitter scorn a speech like this: Unworthy of a warrior's fame It taints a monarch's son with shame, Ne'er to be heard from those who know The science of the sword and bow. My lord, the mother, sire, and son Receive their lots by merit won; The brother and the daughter find The portions to their deeds assigned. The wife alone, whate'er await, Must share on earth her husband's fate. So now the king's command which sends Thee to the wild, to me extends. The wife can find no refuge, none, In father, mother, self, or son: Both here, and when they vanish hence, Her husband is her sole defence. If, Raghu's son, thy steps are led Where Dandak's pathless wilds are spread, My foot before thine own shall pass Through tangled thorn and matted grass. Dismiss thine anger and thy doubt: Like refuse water cast them out, And lead me, O my hero, hence-- I know not sin--with confidence. Whate'er his lot, 'tis far more sweet To follow still a husband's feet Than in rich palaces to lie, Or roam at pleasure through the sky. My mother and my sire have taught What duty bids, and trained each thought, Nor have I now mine ear to turn The duties of a wife to learn. I'll seek with thee the woodland dell And pathless wild where no men dwell, Where tribes of silvan creatures roam, And many a tiger makes his home. My life shall pass as pleasant there As in my father's palace fair. The worlds shall wake no care in me; My only care be truth to thee. There while thy wish I still obey, True to my vows with thee I'll stray, And there shall blissful hours be spent In woods with honey redolent. In forest shades thy mighty arm Would keep a stranger's life from harm, And how shall Sita think of fear When thou, O glorious lord, art near?

Thus Sita and the princes brave Much wealth to all the Brahmans gave. Then to the monarch's house the three Went forth the aged king to see. The princes from two servants took Those heavenly arms of glorious look, Adorned with garland and with band By Sita's beautifying hand. On each high house a mournful throng Had gathered ere they passed along, Who gazed in pure unselfish woe From turret, roof, and portico. So dense the crowd that blocked the ways, The rest, unable there to gaze, Were fain each terrace to ascend, And thence their eyes on Rama bend. Then as the gathered multitude On foot their well-loved Rama viewed, No royal shade to screen his head, Such words, disturbed in grief, they said: "O look, our hero, wont to ride Leading a host in perfect pride-- Now Lakshman, sole of all his friends, With Sita on his steps attends. Though he has known the sweets of power, And poured his gifts in liberal shower, From duty's path he will not swerve, But, still his father's truth preserve. And she whose form so soft and fair Was veiled from spirits of the air, Now walks unsheltered from the day, Seen by the crowds who throng the way. Ah, for that gently-nurtured form! How will it fade with sun and storm! How will the rain, the cold, the heat Mar fragrant breast and tinted feet! Surely some demon has possessed His sire, and speaks within his breast, Or how could one that is a king Thus send his dear son wandering? It were a deed unkindly done To banish e'en a worthless son: But what, when his pure life has gained The hearts of all, by love enchained? Six sovereign virtues join to grace Rama the foremost of his race: Tender and kind and pure is he, Docile, religious, passion-free. Hence misery strikes not him alone: In bitterest grief the people moan, Like creatures of the stream, when dry In the great heat the channels lie. The world is mournful with the grief That falls on its beloved chief, As, when the root is hewn away, Tree, fruit, and flower, and bud decay.

As thus Sumantra, best of peers, Told his sad tale with many tears, The monarch cried, "I pray thee, tell At length again what there befell." Sumantra, at the king's behest, Striving with sobs he scarce repressed, His trembling voice at last controlled, And thus his further tidings told: "Their locks in votive coils they wound, Their coats of bark upon them bound, To Ganga's farther shore they went, Thence to Prayag their steps were bent. I saw that Lakshman walked ahead To guard the path the two should tread. So far I saw, no more could learn, Forced by the hero to return. Retracing slow my homeward course, Scarce could I move each stubborn horse: Shedding hot tears of grief he stood When Rama turned him to the wood.(333) As the two princes parted thence I raised my hands in reverence, Mounted my ready car, and bore The grief that stung me to the core. With Guha all that day I stayed, Still by the earnest hope delayed That Rama, ere the time should end, Some message from the wood might send. Thy realms, great Monarch, mourn the blow, And sympathize with Rama's woe. Each withering tree hangs low his head, And shoot, and bud, and flower are dead. Dried are the floods that wont to fill The lake, the river, and the rill. Drear is each grove and garden now, Dry every blossom on the bough. Each beast is still, no serpents crawl: A lethargy of woe on all. The very wood is silent: crushed With grief for Rama, all is hushed. Fair blossoms from the water born, Gay garlands that the earth adorn, And every fruit that gleams like gold, Have lost the scent that charmed of old. Empty is every grove I see, Or birds sit pensive on the tree. Where'er I look, its beauty o'er, The pleasance charms not as before. I drove through fair Ayodhya's street: None flew with joy the car to meet. They saw that Rama was not there, And turned them sighing in despair. The people in the royal way Wept tears of bitter grief, when they Beheld me coming, from afar, No Rama with me in the car.

Good Bharat, by the river side, To virtuous Rama's speech replied, And thus with varied lore addressed The prince, while nobles round him pressed: "In all this world whom e'er can we Find equal, scourge of foes, to thee? No ill upon thy bosom weighs, No thoughts of joy thy spirit raise. Approved art thou of sages old, To whom thy doubts are ever told. Alike in death and life, to thee The same to be and not to be. The man who such a soul can gain Can ne'er be crushed by woe or pain. Pure as the Gods, high-minded, wise, Concealed from thee no secret lies. Such glorious gifts are all thine own, And birth and death to thee are known, That ill can ne'er thy soul depress With all-subduing bitterness. O let my prayer, dear brother, win Thy pardon for my mother's sin. Wrought for my sake who willed it not When absent in a distant spot. Duty alone with binding chains The vengeance due to crime restrains, Or on the sinner I should lift My hand in retribution swift. Can I who know the right, and spring From Dasaratha, purest king-- Can I commit a heinous crime, Abhorred by all through endless time? The aged king I dare not blame, Who died so rich in holy fame, My honoured sire, my parted lord, E'en as a present God adored. Yet who in lore of duty skilled So foul a crime has ever willed, And dared defy both gain and right To gratify a woman's spite? When death draws near, so people say, The sense of creatures dies away; And he has proved the ancient saw By acting thus in spite of law. But O my honoured lord, be kind, Dismiss the trespass from thy mind, The sin the king committed, led By haste, his consort's wrath, and dread. For he who veils his sire's offence With tender care and reverence-- His sons approved by all shall live: Not so their fate who ne'er forgive. Be thou, my lord, the noble son, And the vile deed my sire has done, Abhorred by all the virtuous, ne'er Resent, lest thou the guilt too share.

Thus spoke Matanga in his rage, And hastened from the hermitage, When lo, before his wondering eyes Lay the dead bull of mountain size. His hermit soul was nothing slow The doer of the deed to know, And thus the Vanar in a burst Of wild tempestuous wrath he cursed: "Ne'er let that Vanar wander here, For, if he come, his death is near, Whose impious hand with blood has dyed The holy place where I abide, Who threw this demon corse and made A ruin of the pleasant shade. If e'er he plant his wicked feet Within one league of my retreat; Yea, if the villain come so nigh That very hour he needs must die. And let the Vanar lords who dwell In the dark woods that skirt my cell Obey my words, and speeding hence Find them some meeter residence. Here if they dare to stay, on all The terrors of my curse shall fall. They spoil the tender saplings, dear As children which I cherish here, Mar root and branch and leaf and spray, And steal the ripening fruit away. One day I grant, no further hour, To-morrow shall my curse have power, And then each Vanar I may see A stone through countless years shall be." The Vanars heard the curse and hied From sheltering wood and mountain side. King Bali marked their haste and dread, And to the flying leaders said: "Speak, Vanar chiefs, and tell me why From Saint Matanga's grove ye fly To gather round me: is it well With all who in those woodlands dwell?" He spoke: the Vanar leaders told King Bali with his chain of gold What curse the saint had on them laid, Which drove them from their ancient shade. Then royal Bali sought the sage, With reverent hands to soothe his rage. The holy man his suppliant spurned, And to his cell in anger turned. That curse on Bali sorely pressed, And long his conscious soul distressed. Him still the curse and terror keep Afar from Rishyamuka's steep. He dares not to the grove draw nigh, Nay scarce will hither turn his eye. We know what terrors warm him hence, And roam these woods in confidence.

"No words of mine wouldst thou regard, And now thy bed is cold and hard. Upon the rude rough ground o'erthrown, Beneath thee naught but sand and stone. To thee the earth is dearer far Than I and my caresses are, If thou upon her breast wilt lie, And to my words make no reply. Ah my beloved, good and brave, Bold to attack and strong to save, Fate is Sugriva's thrall, and we In him our lord and master see. Lo, by thy bed, a mournful band, Thy Vanar chiefs lamenting stand. O hear thy nobles' groans and cries, O mark thy Angad's weeping eyes, O list to my entreaties, break The chains of slumber and awake. Ah me, my lord, this lowly bed Where rest thy limbs and fallen head, Is the cold couch where smitten lay Thy foemen in the bloody fray. O noble heart from blemish free, Lover of war, beloved by me. Why hast thou fled away and left Thy Tara of all hope bereft? Unwise the father who allows His child to be a warrior's spouse, For, hero, see thy consort's fate, A widow now most desolate, For ever broken is my pride, My hope of lasting bliss has died, And sinking in the lowest deep Of sorrow's sea I pine and weep. Ah, surely not of earthly mould, This stony heart is stern and cold, Or, in a hundred pieces rent, It had not lingered to lament. Dead, dead! my husband, friend, and lord In whom my loving hopes were stored, First in the field, his foemen's dread, My own victorious Bali, dead! A woman when her lord has died, Though children flourish by her side, Though stores of gold her coffers fill, Is called a lonely widow still. Alas, thy bleeding gashes make Around thy limbs a purple lake: Thus slumbering was thy wont to lie On cushions bright with crimson dye. Dark streams of welling blood besmear Thy limbs where dust and mire adhere, Nor have I strength, weighed down by woe, Mine arms about thy form to throw. The issue of this day has brought Sugriva all his wishes sought, For Rama shot one shaft and he Is freed from fear and jeopardy.

He heard, and from his watery shroud, As bursts the sun from autumn cloud, Rose swifty, crowned with plant and tree, And stood above the foamy sea.(790) There with his lofty peaks upraised Bright as a hundred suns he blazed, And crest and crag of burnished gold Flashed on the flood that round him rolled. The Vanar thought the mountain rose A hostile bar to interpose, And, like a wind-swept cloud, o'erthrew The glittering mountain as he flew. Then from the falling hill rang out A warning voice and joyful shout. Again he raised him high in air To meet the flying Vanar there, And standing on his topmost peak In human form began to speak:(791) "Best of the Vanars' noblest line, A mighty task, O chief, is thine. Here for a while, I pray thee, light And rest upon the breezy height. A prince of Raghu's line was he Who gave his glory to the Sea,(792) Who now to Rama's envoy shows High honour for the debt he owes. He bade me lift my buried head Uprising from my watery bed, And woo the Vanar chief to rest A moment on my glittering crest. Refresh thy weary limbs, and eat My mountain fruits for they are sweet. I too, O chieftain, know thee well; Three worlds thy famous virtues tell; And none, I ween, with thee may vie Who spring impetuous through the sky. To every guest, though mean and low. The wise respect and honour show; And how shall I neglect thee, how Slight the great guest so near me now? Son of the Wind, 'tis thine to share The might of him who shakes the air; And,--for he loves his offspring,--he Is honoured when I honour thee. Of yore, when Krita's age(793) was new, The little hills and mountains flew Where'er they listed, borne on wings More rapid than the feathered king's.(794) But mighty terror came on all The Gods and saints who feared their fall. And Indra in his anger rent Their pinions with the bolts he sent. When in his ruthless fury he Levelled his flashing bolt at me, The great-souled Wind inclined to save, And laid me neath the ocean's wave.

Their threats unfeared, their counsel spurned, The demons' breasts with fury burned. Some sought the giant king to bear The tale of Sita's fixt despair. With threats and taunts renewed the rest Around the weeping lady pressed. But Trijata, of softer mould, A Rakshas matron wise and old, With pity for the captive moved, In words like these the fiends reproved: "Me, me," she cried, "eat me, but spare The spouse of Dasaratha's heir. Last night I dreamt a dream; and still The fear and awe my bosom chill; For in that dream I saw foreshown Our race by Rama's hand o'erthrown. I saw a chariot high in air, Of ivory exceeding fair. A hundred steeds that chariot drew As swiftly through the clouds it flew, And, clothed in white, with wreaths that shone, The sons of Raghu rode thereon. I looked and saw this lady here, Clad in the purest white, appear High on the snow white hill whose feet The angry waves of ocean beat. And she and Rama met at last Like light and sun when night is past. Again I saw them side by side. On Ravan's car they seemed to ride, And with the princely Lakshman flee To northern realms beyond the sea. Then Ravan, shaved and shorn, besmeared With oil from head to foot, appeared. He quaffed, he raved: his robes were red: Fierce was his eye, and bare his head. I saw him from his chariot thrust; I saw him rolling in the dust. A woman came and dragged away The stricken giant where he lay, And on a car which asses drew The monarch of our race she threw. He rose erect, he danced and laughed, With thirsty lips the oil he quaffed, Then with wild eyes and streaming mouth Sped on the chariot to the south.(844) Then, dropping oil from every limb, His sons the princes followed him, And Kumbhakarna,(845) shaved and shorn, Was southward on a camel borne. Then royal Lanka reeled and fell With gate and tower and citadel. This ancient city, far-renowned: All life within her walls was drowned; And the wild waves of ocean rolled O'er Lanka and her streets of gold.

Great trembling seized her frame, and she Fell like a stricken plantain tree. As lie the dead she lay; at length Slowly regaining sense and strength, On the dear head she fixed her eye And cried with very bitter cry: "Ah, when thy cold dead cheek I view, My hero, I am murdered too. Then first a faithful woman's eyes See sorrow, when her husband dies. When thou, my lord, wast nigh to save, Some stealthy hand thy death wound gave. Thou art not dead: rise, hero, rise; Long life was thine, as spake the wise Whose words, I ween, are ever true, For faith lies open to their view. Ah lord, and shall thy head recline On earth's cold breast, forsaking mine, Counting her chill lap dearer far Than I and my caresses are? Ah, is it thus these eyes behold Thy famous bow adorned with gold, Whereon of yore I loved to bind Sweet garlands that my hands had twined? And hast thou sought in heaven a place Amid the founders of thy race, Where in the home deserved so well Thy sires and Dasaratha dwell? Or dost thou shine a brighter star In skies where blest immortals are, Forsaking in thy lofty scorn The race wherein thy sires were born? Turn to my gaze, O turn thine eye: Why are thy cold lips silent, why? When first we met as youth and maid, When in thy hand my hand was laid, Thy promise was thy steps should be Through life in duty's path with me. Remember, faithful still, thy vow, And take me with thee even now. Is that broad bosom where I hung, That neck to which I fondly clung, Where flowery garlands breathed their scent By hungry dogs and vultures rent? Shall no funereal honours grace The parted lord of Raghu's race, Whose bounty liberal fees bestowed, For whom the fires of worship glowed? Kausalya wild with grief will see One sole survivor of the three Who in their hermit garments went To the dark woods in banishment. Then at her cry shall Lakshman tell How, slain by night, the Vanars fell; How to thy side the giants crept, And slew the hero as he slept.

'Tis meet and right in many a way That I to thee should honour pay. This seems a marvel to mine eyes: All sin thy visit purifies; And I by seeing thee, O Sage, Have reaped the fruit of pilgrimage. Then say what thou wouldst have me do, That thou hast sought this interview. Favoured by thee, my wish is still, O Hermit, to perform thy will. Nor needest thou at length explain The object that thy heart would gain. Without reserve I grant it now: My deity, O Lord, art thou."

On, on--no thought of rest or stay-- They reached the seat of Soma's sway. There saw they Bhadra, white as snow, With lucky marks that fortune show, Bearing the earth upon his head. Round him they paced with solemn tread, And honoured him with greetings kind, Then downward yet their way they mined. They gained the tract 'twixt east and north Whose fame is ever blazoned forth,(189) And by a storm of rage impelled, Digging through earth their course they held.

So to his grief he would not yield Lest the sad change their hearts might rend, And, the dread tiding unrevealed, Spared from the blow each faithful friend.

The devotee must be content To live, severely abstinent, On what the chance of fortune shows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Hunger afflicts him evermore: The nights are black, the wild winds roar; And there are dangers worse than those: The wood, my love, is full of woes. There creeping things in every form Infest the earth, the serpents swarm, And each proud eye with fury glows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. The snakes that by the rives hide In sinuous course like rivers glide, And line the path with deadly foes: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Scorpions, and grasshoppers, and flies Disturb the wanderer as he lies, And wake him from his troubled doze: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Trees, thorny bushes, intertwined, Their branched ends together bind, And dense with grass the thicket grows: The wood, my dear, is full of woes, With many ills the flesh is tried, When these and countless fears beside Vex those who in the wood remain: The wilds are naught but grief and pain. Hope, anger must be cast aside, To penance every thought applied: No fear must be of things to fear: Hence is the wood for ever drear. Enough, my love: thy purpose quit: For forest life thou art not fit. As thus I think on all, I see The wild wood is no place for thee."

The prince whose merits grew, acquired By rites performed as he desired, Would now a store of merit gain Bought by his body's toil and pain. Those limbs to which pure sandal lent The freshness of its fragrant scent, Exposed to sun, and dust, and rain, Are now defiled with many a stain. And I the wretched cause why this Falls on the prince whose right is bliss! Ah me, that ever I was born To be the people's hate and scorn!"

"Famed is the prince who loves the truth, Whose soul is touched with tender ruth, Who, liberal, keeps each sense subdued, And pays the debt of gratitude. But all unmeet a king to be, The meanest of the mean is he Who basely breaks the promise made To trusting friends who lent him aid. He sins who for a steed has lied, As if a hundred steeds had died: Or if he lie, a cow to win, Tenfold as heavy is the sin. But if the lie a man betray, Both he and his shall all decay.(639) O Vanar King, the thankless man Is worthy of the general ban, Who takes assistance of his friends, And in his turn no service lends. This verse of old by Brahma sung Is echoed now by every tongue. Hear what He cried in angry mood Bewailing man's ingratitude: "For draughts of wine, for slaughtered cows, For treacherous theft, for broken vows A pardon is ordained: but none For thankless scorn of service done." Ungrateful, Vanar King, art thou, And faithless to thy plighted vow. For Rama brought thee help, and yet Thou shunnest to repay the debt: Or, grateful, thou hadst surely pressed To aid the hero in his quest. Thou art, in vulgar pleasures drowned, False to thy bond in honour bound. Nor yet has Rama's guileless heart Discerned thee for the thing thou art-- A snake who holds the frogs that cries And lures fresh victims as it dies. Brave Rama, born for glorious fate, Has set thee in thy high estate, And to the Vanars' throne restored, Great-souled himself, their mean-souled lord. Now if thy pride disown what he, High thoughted prince, has done for thee, Struck by his arrows shalt thou fall, And Bali meet in Yama's hall. Still open, to the gloomy God, Lies the sad path thy brother trod. Then to thy plighted word be true, Nor let thy steps that path pursue. Methinks the shafts of Rama, shot Like thunderbolts, thou heedest not, Who canst, absorbed in sensual bliss, Thy promise from thy mind dismiss."