Ramayana 3.261

Ramayana · translated by Ralph T.H. Griffith

So by that matchless arrow cleft, The deer's bright form Maricha left, Resumed his giant shape and size And closed in death his languid eyes. When Rama saw his awful foe Gasp, smeared with blood, in deadly throe, His anxious thoughts to Sita sped, And the wise words that Lakshman said, That this was false Maricha's art, Returned again upon his heart. He knew the foe he triumphed o'er The name of great Maricha bore. "The fiend," he pondered, 'ere he died, "Ho, Lakshman! ho, my Sita!" cried Ah, if that cry has reached her ear, How dire must be my darling's fear! And Lakshman of the mighty arm, What thinks he in his wild alarm? As thus he thought in sad surmise, Each startled hair began to rise, And when he saw the giant slain And thought upon that cry again, His spirit sank and terror pressed Full sorely on the hero's breast. Another deer he chased and struck, He bore away the the fallen buck, To Janasthan then turned his face And hastened to his dwelling place.

Ramayana 3.261 · Ramayana · 3

Themes in this passage

Death Fear Anxiety The Soul Speech Strength Wisdom

Death in other traditions

The same theme, as Christianity, Islam, Taoism and Hellenism address it.

And the children of Israel spake unto Moses, saying, Behold, we die, we perish, we all perish.

Numbers 17:12 · Bible · Numbers

Lo! thou wilt die, and lo! they will die;

Quran 39:30 · Quran · The Companies

The people do not fear death; to what purpose is it to (try to) frighten them with death? If the people were always in awe of death, and I could always seize those who do wrong, and put them to death, who would dare to do wrong?

Tao Te Ching 74.1 · Tao Te Ching

These words, attended with a shower of tears, The youth address’d to unrelenting ears: “Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam’s hateful race. Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore? The great, the good Patroclus is no more! He, far thy better, was foredoom’d to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? Seest thou not me, whom nature’s gifts adorn, Sprung from a hero, from a goddess born? The day shall come (which nothing can avert) When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart, By night, or day, by force, or by design, Impending death and certain fate are mine! Die then,”—He said; and as the word he spoke, The fainting stripling sank before the stroke: His hand forgot its grasp, and left the spear, While all his trembling frame confess’d his fear: Sudden, Achilles his broad sword display’d, And buried in his neck the reeking blade. Prone fell the youth; and panting on the land, The gushing purple dyed the thirsty sand. The victor to the stream the carcase gave, And thus insults him, floating on the wave:

Iliad 21.7 · Iliad · 21

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