Praise to Válmíki,2bird of charming song,3

Who mounts on Poesy’s sublimest spray,

And sweetly sings with accent clear and strong

Ráma, aye Ráma, in his deathless lay.

Where breathes the man can listen to the strain

That flows in music from Válmíki’s tongue,

Nor feel his feet the path of bliss attain

When Ráma’s glory by the saint is sung!

The stream Rámáyan leaves its sacred fount

The whole wide world from sin and stain to free.4

The Prince of Hermits is the parent mount,

The lordly Ráma is the darling sea.

Glory to him whose fame is ever bright!

Glory to him, Prachetas’5holy son!

Whose pure lips quaff with ever new delight

The nectar-sea of deeds by Ráma done.

Hail, arch-ascetic, pious, good, and kind!

Hail, Saint Válmíki, lord of every lore!

Hail, holy Hermit, calm and pure of mind!

Hail, First of Bards, Válmíki, hail once more!

To sainted Nárad, prince of those

Whose lore in words of wisdom flows.

Whose constant care and chief delight

Were Scripture and ascetic rite,

The good Válmíki, first and best

Of hermit saints, these words addressed:4

“In all this world, I pray thee, who

Is virtuous, heroic, true?

Firm in his vows, of grateful mind,

To every creature good and kind?

Bounteous, and holy, just, and wise,

Alone most fair to all men’s eyes?

Devoid of envy, firm, and sage,

Whose tranquil soul ne’er yields to rage?

Whom, when his warrior wrath is high,

Do Gods embattled fear and fly?

Whose noble might and gentle skill

The triple world can guard from ill?

Who is the best of princes, he

Who loves his people’s good to see?

The store of bliss, the living mine

Where brightest joys and virtues shine?

Queen Fortune’s5 best and dearest friend,

Whose steps her choicest gifts attend?

Who may with Sun and Moon compare,

With Indra,6 Vishṇu,7 Fire, and Air?

Grant, Saint divine,8 the boon I ask,

For thee, I ween, an easy task,

To whom the power is given to know

If such a man breathe here below.”

Then Nárad, clear before whose eye

The present, past, and future lie,9

Made ready answer: “Hermit, where

Are graces found so high and rare?

Yet listen, and my tongue shall tell

In whom alone these virtues dwell.

From old Ikshváku’s10 line he came,

Known to the world by Ráma’s name:

With soul subdued, a chief of might,

In Scripture versed, in glory bright,

His steps in virtue’s paths are bent,

Obedient, pure, and eloquent.

In each emprise he wins success,

And dying foes his power confess.

Tall and broad-shouldered, strong of limb,

Fortune has set her mark on him.

Graced with a conch-shell’s triple line,

His throat displays the auspicious sign.11

High destiny is clear impressed

On massive jaw and ample chest,

His mighty shafts he truly aims,

And foemen in the battle tames.

Deep in the muscle, scarcely shown,

Embedded lies his collar-bone.

His lordly steps are firm and free,

His strong arms reach below his knee;12

All fairest graces join to deck

His head, his brow, his stately neck,

And limbs in fair proportion set:

The manliest form e’er fashioned yet.

Graced with each high imperial mark,

His skin is soft and lustrous dark.

Large are his eyes that sweetly shine

With majesty almost divine.

His plighted word he ne’er forgets;

On erring sense a watch he sets.

By nature wise, his teacher’s skill

Has trained him to subdue his will.

Good, resolute and pure, and strong,

He guards mankind from scathe and wrong,

And lends his aid, and ne’er in vain,

The cause of justice to maintain.

Well has he studied o’er and o’er

The Vedas13and their kindred lore.

Well skilled is he the bow to draw,14

Well trained in arts and versed in law;

High-souled and meet for happy fate,

Most tender and compassionate;

The noblest of all lordly givers,

Whom good men follow, as the rivers

Follow the King of Floods, the sea:

So liberal, so just is he.

The joy of Queen Kauśalyá‘s15heart,

In every virtue he has part:

Firm as Himálaya’s16 snowy steep,

Unfathomed like the mighty deep:

The peer of Vishṇu’s power and might,

And lovely as the Lord of Night;17

Patient as Earth, but, roused to ire,

Fierce as the world-destroying fire;

In bounty like the Lord of Gold,18

And Justice self in human mould.

With him, his best and eldest son,

By all his princely virtues won

King Daśaratha19 willed to share

His kingdom as the Regent Heir.

But when Kaikeyí, youngest queen,

With eyes of envious hate had seen

The solemn pomp and regal state

Prepared the prince to consecrate,

She bade the hapless king bestow

Two gifts he promised long ago,

That Ráma to the woods should flee,

And that her child the heir should be.

By chains of duty firmly tied,

The wretched king perforce complied.

Ráma, to please Kaikeyí went

Obedient forth to banishment.

Then Lakshmaṇ‘s truth was nobly shown,

Then were his love and courage known,

When for his brother’s sake he dared

All perils, and his exile shared.

And Sítá, Ráma’s darling wife,

Loved even as he loved his life,

Whom happy marks combined to bless,

A miracle of loveliness,

Of Janak’s royal lineage sprung,

Most excellent of women, clung

To her dear lord, like Rohiṇí

Rejoicing with the Moon to be.20

The King and people, sad of mood,

The hero’s car awhile pursued.

But when Prince Ráma lighted down

At Śringavera’s pleasant town,

Where Gangá‘s holy waters flow,

He bade his driver turn and go.

Guha, Nishádas’ king, he met,

And on the farther bank was set.

Then on from wood to wood they strayed,

O’er many a stream, through constant shade,

As Bharadvája bade them, till

They came to Chitrakúṭa’s hill.

And Ráma there, with Lakshmaṇ‘s aid,

A pleasant little cottage made,

And spent his days with Sítá, dressed

In coat of bark and deerskin vest.21

And Chitrakúṭa grew to be

As bright with those illustrious three

As Meru’s22 sacred peaks that shine

With glory, when the Gods recline

Beneath them: Śiva’s23 self between

The Lord of Gold and Beauty’s Queen.

The aged king for Ráma pined,

And for the skies the earth resigned.

Bharat, his son, refused to reign,

Though urged by all the twice-born24 train.

Forth to the woods he fared to meet

His brother, fell before his feet,

And cried, “Thy claim all men allow:

O come, our lord and king be thou.”

But Ráma nobly chose to be

Observant of his sire’s decree.

He placed his sandals25 in his hand

A pledge that he would rule the land:

And bade his brother turn again.

Then Bharat, finding prayer was vain,

The sandals took and went away;

Nor in Ayodhyá would he stay.

But turned to Nandigráma, where

He ruled the realm with watchful care,

Still longing eagerly to learn

Tidings of Ráma’s safe return.

Then lest the people should repeat

Their visit to his calm retreat,

Away from Chitrakúṭa’s hill

Fared Ráma ever onward till

Beneath the shady trees he stood

Of Daṇḍaká‘s primeval wood,

Virádha, giant fiend, he slew,

And then Agastya’s friendship knew.

Counselled by him he gained the sword

And bow of Indra, heavenly lord:

A pair of quivers too, that bore

Of arrows an exhaustless store.

While there he dwelt in greenwood shade

The trembling hermits sought his aid,

And bade him with his sword and bow

Destroy the fiends who worked them woe:

To come like Indra strong and brave,

A guardian God to help and save.

And Ráma’s falchion left its trace

Deep cut on Śúrpaṇakhá‘s face:

A hideous giantess who came

Burning for him with lawless flame.

Their sister’s cries the giants heard.

And vengeance in each bosom stirred:

The monster of the triple head.

And Dúshaṇ to the contest sped.

But they and myriad fiends beside

Beneath the might of Ráma died.

When Rávaṇ, dreaded warrior, knew

The slaughter of his giant crew:

Rávaṇ, the king, whose name of fear

Earth, hell, and heaven all shook to hear:

He bade the fiend Márícha aid

The vengeful plot his fury laid.

In vain the wise Márícha tried

To turn him from his course aside:

Not Rávaṇ‘s self, he said, might hope

With Ráma and his strength to cope.

Impelled by fate and blind with rage

He came to Ráma’s hermitage.

There, by Márícha’s magic art,

He wiled the princely youths apart,

The vulture26 slew, and bore away

The wife of Ráma as his prey.

The son of Raghu27 came and found

Jaṭáyu slain upon the ground.

He rushed within his leafy cot;

He sought his wife, but found her not.

Then, then the hero’s senses failed;

In mad despair he wept and wailed.

Upon the pile that bird he laid,

And still in quest of Sítá strayed.

A hideous giant then he saw,

Kabandha named, a shape of awe.

The monstrous fiend he smote and slew,

And in the flame the body threw;

When straight from out the funeral flame

In lovely form Kabandha came,

And bade him seek in his distress

A wise and holy hermitess.

By counsel of this saintly dame

To Pampá‘s pleasant flood he came,

And there the steadfast friendship won

Of Hanumán the Wind-God’s son.

Counselled by him he told his grief

To great Sugríva, Vánar chief,

Who, knowing all the tale, before

The sacred flame alliance swore.

Sugríva to his new-found friend

Told his own story to the end:

His hate of Báli for the wrong

And insult he had borne so long.

And Ráma lent a willing ear

And promised to allay his fear.

Sugríva warned him of the might

Of Báli, matchless in the fight,

And, credence for his tale to gain,

Showed the huge fiend28 by Báli slain.

The prostrate corse of mountain size

Seemed nothing in the hero’s eyes;

He lightly kicked it, as it lay,

And cast it twenty leagues29 away.

To prove his might his arrows through

Seven palms in line, uninjured, flew.

He cleft a mighty hill apart,

And down to hell he hurled his dart.

Then high Sugríva’s spirit rose,

Assured of conquest o’er his foes.

With his new champion by his side

To vast Kishkindhá‘s cave he hied.

Then, summoned by his awful shout,

King Báli came in fury out,

First comforted his trembling wife,

Then sought Sugríva in the strife.

One shaft from Ráma’s deadly bow

The monarch in the dust laid low.

Then Ráma bade Sugríva reign

In place of royal Báli slain.

Then speedy envoys hurried forth

Eastward and westward, south and north,

Commanded by the grateful king

Tidings of Ráma’s spouse to bring.

Then by Sampáti’s counsel led,

Brave Hanumán, who mocked at dread,

Sprang at one wild tremendous leap

Two hundred leagues across the deep.

To Lanká‘s30 town he urged his way,

Where Rávaṇ held his royal sway.

There pensive ‘neath Aśoka31 boughs

He found poor Sítá, Ráma’s spouse.

He gave the hapless girl a ring,

A token from her lord and king.

A pledge from her fair hand he bore;

Then battered down the garden door.

Five captains of the host he slew,

Seven sons of councillors o’erthrew;

Crushed youthful Aksha on the field,

Then to his captors chose to yield.

Soon from their bonds his limbs were free,

But honouring the high decree

Which Brahmá32 had pronounced of yore,

He calmly all their insults bore.

The town he burnt with hostile flame,

And spoke again with Ráma’s dame,

Then swiftly back to Ráma flew

With tidings of the interview.

Then with Sugríva for his guide,

Came Ráma to the ocean side.

He smote the sea with shafts as bright

As sunbeams in their summer height,

And quick appeared the Rivers’ King33

Obedient to the summoning.

A bridge was thrown by Nala o’er

The narrow sea from shore to shore.34

They crossed to Lanká‘s golden town,

Where Ráma’s hand smote Rávaṇ down.

Vibhishaṇ there was left to reign

Over his brother’s wide domain.

To meet her husband Sítá came;

But Ráma, stung with ire and shame,

With bitter words his wife addressed

Before the crowd that round her pressed.

But Sítá, touched with noble ire,

Gave her fair body to the fire.

Then straight the God of Wind appeared,

And words from heaven her honour cleared.

And Ráma clasped his wife again,

Uninjured, pure from spot and stain,

Obedient to the Lord of Fire

And the high mandate of his sire.

Led by the Lord who rules the sky,

The Gods and heavenly saints drew nigh,

And honoured him with worthy meed,

Rejoicing in each glorious deed.

His task achieved, his foe removed,

He triumphed, by the Gods approved.

By grace of Heaven he raised to life

The chieftains slain in mortal strife;

Then in the magic chariot through

The clouds to Nandigráma flew.

Met by his faithful brothers there,

He loosed his votive coil of hair:

Thence fair Ayodhyá‘s town he gained,

And o’er his father’s kingdom reigned.

Disease or famine ne’er oppressed

His happy people, richly blest

With all the joys of ample wealth,

Of sweet content and perfect health.

No widow mourned her well-loved mate,

No sire his son’s untimely fate.

They feared not storm or robber’s hand;

No fire or flood laid waste the land:

The Golden Age35 had come again

To bless the days of Ráma’s reign.

From him, the great and glorious king,

Shall many a princely scion spring.

And he shall rule, beloved by men,

Ten thousand years and hundreds ten,36

And when his life on earth is past

To Brahmá‘s world shall go at last.”

Whoe’er this noble poem reads

That tells the tale of Ráma’s deeds,

Good as the Scriptures, he shall be

From every sin and blemish free.

Whoever reads the saving strain,

With all his kin the heavens shall gain.

Bráhmans who read shall gather hence

The highest praise for eloquence.

The warrior, o’er the land shall reign,

The merchant, luck in trade obtain;

And Śúdras listening37 ne’er shall fail

To reap advantage from the tale.38

Ὅς ἤδη τ’ ἐόντα, τά τ’ ἐσσόμενα,

πρό τ’ ἐόντα.

“That sacred seer, whose comprehensive view,

The past, the present, and the future knew.”

“Shone with her husband like the light

Attendant on the Lord of Night.”

“Of Brahmá, Vishṇu, Śiva, each may be

First, second, third, amid the blessed Three.”

Válmíki, graceful speaker, heard,

To highest admiration stirred.

To him whose fame the tale rehearsed

He paid his mental worship first;

Then with his pupil humbly bent

Before the saint most eloquent.

Thus honoured and dismissed the seer

Departed to his heavenly sphere.

Then from his cot Válmíki hied

To Tamasá‘s1 sequestered side,

Not far remote from Gangá‘s tide.

He stood and saw the ripples roll

Pellucid o’er a pebbly shoal.

To Bharadvája2 by his side

He turned in ecstasy, and cried:

“See, pupil dear, this lovely sight,

The smooth-floored shallow, pure and bright,

With not a speck or shade to mar,

And clear as good men’s bosoms are.

Here on the brink thy pitcher lay,

And bring my zone of bark, I pray.

Here will I bathe: the rill has not,

To lave the limbs, a fairer spot.

Do quickly as I bid, nor waste

The precious time; away, and haste.”

Obedient to his master’s hest

Quick from the cot he brought the vest;

The hermit took it from his hand,

And tightened round his waist the band;

Then duly dipped and bathed him there,

And muttered low his secret prayer.

To spirits and to Gods he made

Libation of the stream, and strayed

Viewing the forest deep and wide

That spread its shade on every side.

Close by the bank he saw a pair

Of curlews sporting fearless there.

But suddenly with evil mind

An outcast fowler stole behind,

And, with an aim too sure and true,

The male bird near the hermit slew.

The wretched hen in wild despair

With fluttering pinions beat the air,

And shrieked a long and bitter cry

When low on earth she saw him lie,

Her loved companion, quivering, dead,

His dear wings with his lifeblood red;

And for her golden crested mate

She mourned, and was disconsolate.

The hermit saw the slaughtered bird,

And all his heart with ruth was stirred.

The fowler’s impious deed distressed

His gentle sympathetic breast,

And while the curlew’s sad cries rang

Within his ears, the hermit sang:

“No fame be thine for endless time,

Because, base outcast, of thy crime,

Whose cruel hand was fain to slay

One of this gentle pair at play!”

E’en as he spoke his bosom wrought

And laboured with the wondering thought

What was the speech his ready tongue

Had uttered when his heart was wrung.

He pondered long upon the speech,

Recalled the words and measured each,

And thus exclaimed the saintly guide

To Bharadvája by his side:

“With equal lines of even feet,

With rhythm and time and tone complete,

The measured form of words I spoke

In shock of grief be termed a śloke.”3

And Bharadvája, nothing slow

His faithful love and zeal to show,

Answered those words of wisdom, “Be

The name, my lord, as pleases thee.”

As rules prescribe the hermit took

Some lustral water from the brook.

But still on this his constant thought

Kept brooding, as his home he sought;

While Bharadvája paced behind,

A pupil sage of lowly mind,

And in his hand a pitcher bore

With pure fresh water brimming o’er.

Soon as they reached their calm retreat

The holy hermit took his seat;

His mind from worldly cares recalled,

And mused in deepest thought enthralled.

Then glorious Brahmá,4 Lord Most High,

Creator of the earth and sky,

The four-faced God, to meet the sage

Came to Válmíki’s hermitage.

Soon as the mighty God he saw,

Up sprang the saint in wondering awe.

Mute, with clasped hands, his head he bent,

And stood before him reverent.

His honoured guest he greeted well,

Who bade him of his welfare tell;

Gave water for his blessed feet,

Brought offerings,5 and prepared a seat.

In honoured place the God Most High

Sate down, and bade the saint sit nigh.

There sate before Válmíki’s eyes

The Father of the earth and skies;

But still the hermit’s thoughts were bent

On one thing only, all intent

On that poor curlew’s mournful fate

Lamenting for her slaughtered mate;

And still his lips, in absent mood,

The verse that told his grief, renewed:

“Woe to the fowler’s impious hand

That did the deed that folly planned;

That could to needless death devote

The curlew of the tuneful throat!”

The heavenly Father smiled in glee,

And said, “O best of hermits, see,

A verse, unconscious, thou hast made;

No longer be the task delayed.

Seek not to trace, with labour vain,

The unpremeditated strain.

The tuneful lines thy lips rehearsed

Spontaneous from thy bosom burst.

Then come, O best of seers, relate

The life of Ráma good and great,

The tale that saintly Nárad told,

In all its glorious length unfold.

Of all the deeds his arm has done

Upon this earth, omit not one,

And thus the noble life record

Of that wise, brave, and virtuous lord.

His every act to day displayed,

His secret life to none betrayed:

How Lakshmaṇ, how the giants fought;

With high emprise and hidden thought:

And all that Janak’s child6 befell

Where all could see, where none could tell.

The whole of this shall truly be

Made known, O best of saints, to thee.

In all thy poem, through my grace,

No word of falsehood shall have place.

Begin the story, and rehearse

The tale divine in charming verse.

As long as in this firm-set land

The streams shall flow, the mountains stand,

So long throughout the world, be sure,

The great Rámáyan shall endure.7

While the Rámáyan’s ancient strain

Shall glorious in the earth remain,

To higher spheres shalt thou arise

And dwell with me above the skies.”

He spoke, and vanished into air,

And left Válmíki wondering there.

The pupils of the holy man,

Moved by their love of him, began

To chant that verse, and ever more

They marvelled as they sang it o’er:

“Behold, the four-lined balanced rime,

Repeated over many a time,

In words that from the hermit broke

In shock of grief, becomes a śloke.”

This measure now Válmíki chose

Wherein his story to compose.

In hundreds of such verses, sweet

With equal lines and even feet,

The saintly poet, lofty-souled,

The glorious deeds of Ráma told.

The hermit thus with watchful heed

Received the poem’s pregnant seed,

And looked with eager thought around

If fuller knowledge might be found.

His lips with water first bedewed,1

He sate, in reverent attitude

On holy grass,2 the points all bent

Together toward the orient;3

And thus in meditation he

Entered the path of poesy.

Then clearly, through his virtue’s might,

All lay discovered to his sight,

Whate’er befell, through all their life,

Ráma, his brother, and his wife:

And Daśaratha and each queen

At every time, in every scene:

His people too, of every sort;

The nobles of his princely court:

Whate’er was said, whate’er decreed,

Each time they sate each plan and deed:

For holy thought and fervent rite

Had so refined his keener sight

That by his sanctity his view

The present, past, and future knew,

And he with mental eye could grasp,

Like fruit within his fingers clasp,

The life of Ráma, great and good,

Roaming with Sítá in the wood.

He told, with secret-piercing eyes,

The tale of Ráma’s high emprise,

Each listening ear that shall entice,

A sea of pearls of highest price.

Thus good Válmíki, sage divine,

Rehearsed the tale of Raghu’s line,

As Nárad, heavenly saint, before

Had traced the story’s outline o’er.

He sang of Ráma’s princely birth,

His kindness and heroic worth;

His love for all, his patient youth,

His gentleness and constant truth,

And many a tale and legend old

By holy Viśvámitra told.

How Janak’s child he wooed and won,

And broke the bow that bent to none.

How he with every virtue fraught

His namesake Ráma4 met and fought.

The choice of Ráma for the throne;

The malice by Kaikeyí shown,

Whose evil counsel marred the plan

And drove him forth a banisht man.

How the king grieved and groaned, and cried,

And swooned away and pining died.

The subjects’ woe when thus bereft;

And how the following crowds he left:

With Guha talked, and firmly stern

Ordered his driver to return.

How Gangá‘s farther shore he gained;

By Bharadvája entertained,

By whose advice he journeyed still

And came to Chitrakúṭa’s hill.

How there he dwelt and built a cot;

How Bharat journeyed to the spot;

His earnest supplication made;

Drink-offerings to their father paid;

The sandals given by Ráma’s hand,

As emblems of his right, to stand:

How from his presence Bharat went

And years in Nandigráma spent.

How Ráma entered Daṇḍak wood

And in Sutíkhṇa’s presence stood.

The favour Anasúyá showed,

The wondrous balsam she bestowed.

How Śarabhanga’s dwelling-place

They sought; saw Indra face to face;

The meeting with Agastya gained;

The heavenly bow from him obtained.

How Ráma with Virádha met;

Their home in Panchavaṭa set.

How Śúrpaṇakhá underwent

The mockery and disfigurement.

Of Triśirá‘s and Khara’s fall,

Of Rávaṇ roused at vengeance call,

Márícha doomed, without escape;

The fair Videhan5 lady’s rape.

How Ráma wept and raved in vain,

And how the Vulture-king was slain.

How Ráma fierce Kabandha slew;

Then to the side of Pampá drew,

Met Hanumán, and her whose vows

Were kept beneath the greenwood boughs.

How Raghu’s son, the lofty-souled,

On Pampá‘s bank wept uncontrolled,

Then journeyed, Rishyamúk to reach,

And of Sugríva then had speech.

The friendship made, which both had sought:

How Báli and Sugríva fought.

How Báli in the strife was slain,

And how Sugríva came to reign.

The treaty, Tára’s wild lament;

The rainy nights in watching spent.

The wrath of Raghu’s lion son;

The gathering of the hosts in one.

The sending of the spies about,

And all the regions pointed out.

The ring by Ráma’s hand bestowed;

The cave wherein the bear abode.

The fast proposed, their lives to end;

Sampati gained to be their friend.

The scaling of the hill, the leap

Of Hanumán across the deep.

Ocean’s command that bade them seek

Maináka of the lofty peak.

The death of Sinhiká, the sight

Of Lanká with her palace bright

How Hanumán stole in at eve;

His plan the giants to deceive.

How through the square he made his way

To chambers where the women lay,

Within the Aśoka garden came

And there found Ráma’s captive dame.

His colloquy with her he sought,

And giving of the ring he brought.

How Sítá gave a gem o’erjoyed;

How Hanumán the grove destroyed.

How giantesses trembling fled,

And servant fiends were smitten dead.

How Hanumán was seized; their ire

When Lanká blazed with hostile fire.

His leap across the sea once more;

The eating of the honey store.

How Ráma he consoled, and how

He showed the gem from Sítá‘s brow.

With Ocean, Ráma’s interview;

The bridge that Nala o’er it threw.

The crossing, and the sitting down

At night round Lanká‘s royal town.

The treaty with Vibhíshaṇ made:

The plan for Rávaṇ‘s slaughter laid.

How Kumbhakarṇa in his pride

And Meghanáda fought and died.

How Rávaṇ in the fight was slain,

And captive Sítá brought again.

Vibhíshaṇ set upon the throne;

The flying chariot Pushpak shown.

How Brahmá and the Gods appeared,

And Sítá‘s doubted honour cleared.

How in the flying car they rode

To Bharadvája’s cabin abode.

The Wind-God’s son sent on afar;

How Bharat met the flying car.

How Ráma then was king ordained;

The legions their discharge obtained.

How Ráma cast his queen away;

How grew the people’s love each day.

Thus did the saint Válmíki tell

Whate’er in Ráma’s life befell,

And in the closing verses all

That yet to come will once befall.

When to the end the tale was brought,

Rose in the sage’s mind the thought;

“Now who throughout this earth will go,

And tell it forth that all may know?”

As thus he mused with anxious breast,

Behold, in hermit’s raiment dressed,

Kuśá and Lava1 came to greet

Their master and embrace his feet.

The twins he saw, that princely pair

Sweet-voiced, who dwelt beside him there

None for the task could be more fit,

For skilled were they in Holy Writ;

And so the great Rámáyan, fraught

With lore divine, to these he taught:

The lay whose verses sweet and clear

Take with delight the listening ear,

That tell of Sítá‘s noble life

And Rávaṇ‘s fall in battle strife.

Great joy to all who hear they bring,

Sweet to recite and sweet to sing.

For music’s sevenfold notes are there,

And triple measure,2 wrought with care

With melody and tone and time,

And flavours3 that enhance the rime;

Heroic might has ample place,

And loathing of the false and base,

With anger, mirth, and terror, blent

With tenderness, surprise, content.

When, half the hermit’s grace to gain,

And half because they loved the strain,

The youth within their hearts had stored

The poem that his lips outpoured,

Válmíki kissed them on the head,

As at his feet they bowed, and said;

“Recite ye this heroic song

In tranquil shades where sages throng:

Recite it where the good resort,

In lowly home and royal court.”