The Ramayana/Book II/Canto XXXIII: The People's Lament

Thus Sítá and the princes brave Much wealth to all the Bráhmans 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 Sítá'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 Ráma bend. Then as the gathered multitude On foot their well-loved Ráma viewed, No royal shade to screen his head, Such words, disturbed by grief, they said: 'O look, our hero, wont to ride Leading a host in perfect pride- Now Lakshman, sole of all his friends, On Sítá 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 foot preserve. And she who's form so soft and fair Was vieled 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 soveriegn virtues join to grace, Ráma 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 mourn, Like the 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. The soul of duty, bright to see, He is the root of you and me; And all of us, who share his grief, His branches, blossom, fruit, and leaf. Now like the faithful Lakshmaņ, we Will follow and be as true as he; Our wives and kinsmen call with speed, And hasten where our lord shall lead. Yes, we will leave each well-loved spot, The field, the garden, and the cot, And, sharers of his weal and woe, Behind the pious Ráma go. Our houses, empty of their stores, With ruined courts and broken doors, With all their treasurers borne away, And gear that made them bright and gay; O'errun by rats, with dust o'erspread, Shrines, whence the deities have fled, Where not a hand the water pours, Or sweeps the long-neglected floors, No incense loads the evening air, No Brahmáns chant the text and prayer, No fire of sacrifice is bright, No gift is known, no sacred rite; With floors which broken vessels strew, As if our woes had crushed them too- Of these be stern Kaikeyi queen, And rule o'er homes where we have been. The wood where Ráma's feet may roam Shall be our city and our home, And this fair city we foresake, Our flight a wilderness shall make. Each serpent from his hole shall hie, The birds and beasts from mountains fly, Lions and elephants in fear Shall quit the woods when we come near, Yield the broad wilds for us to range, And take our city in exchange. With Ráma will we hence, content If, where he is, our days be spent. Such were the varied words the crowd Of all conditions spoke aloud. And Ráma heard their speeches, yet Changed not his purpose firmly set. His father's palace soon he neared, That like Kailása's hill appeared. Like a wild elephant he strode Right onward to the bright abode. Within the palace court he stepped, Where ordered band their station kept, And saw Sumantra standing near With down-cast eye and gloomy cheer.