The Ramayana/Book III/Canto VII: Sutíkshna

So Raghu's son, his foemen's dread, With Sítá and his brother sped, Girt round by many a twice-born sage, To good Sutikshna's hermitage. Through woods for many a league he passed, O'er rushing rivers full and fast, Until a mountain fair and bright As lofty Meru rose in sight. Within its belt of varied wood Ikshváku'a sons and Sítá stood, Where trees of every foliage bore Blossom and fruit in endless store. There coats of bark, like garlands strung, Before a lonely cottage hung, And there a hermit, dust-besmeared, A lotus on his breast, appeared. Then Ráma with obeisance due Addressed the sage, as near he drew: 'My name is Ráma, lord; I seek Thy presence, saint, with thee to speak. O sage, whose merits ne'er decay, Some word unto thy servant say.' The sage his eyes on Ráma bent, Of virtue's friends preëminent; Then words like these he spoke, and pressed The son of Raghu to his breast: 'Welcome to thee, illustrious youth, Best champion of the rights of truth! By thine approach this holy ground A worthy lord this day has found. I could not quit this mortal frame Till thou shouldst, come, O dear to fame: To heavenly spheres I would not rise, Expecting thee with eager eyes. I knew that thou, unkinged, hadst made Thy home in Chitrakúta's shade. E'en now, O Ráma, Indra, lord Supreme by all the Gods adored, King of the Hundred Offerings, said, When he my dwelling visited, That the good works that I have done My choice of all the worlds have won. Accept this meed of holy vows, And with thy brother and thy spouse, Roam, through my favour, in the sky Which saints celestial glorify.' To that bright sage, of penance stern, The high-souled Ráma spake in turn, As Vásava who rules the skies To Brahmá's gracious speech replies: I of myself those worlds will win, O mighty hermit pure from sin: But now, O saint, I pray thee tell Where I within this wood may dwell: For I by S'arabhanga old, The son of Gautama, was told That thou in every lore art wise, And seest all with loving eyes.' Thus to the saint, whose glories high Filled all the world, he made reply: And thus again the holy man His pleasant speech with joy began: 'This calm retreat, O Prince, is blest With many a charm: here take thy rest. Here roots and kindly fruits abound, And hermits love the holy ground. Fair silvan beasts and gentle deer In herds unnumbered wander here: And as they roam, secure from harm, Our eyes with grace and beauty charm: Except the beasts in thickets bred, This grove of ours has naught to dread."  The hermit's speech when Ráma heard,-- The hero ne'er by terror stirred,-- On his great bow his hand he laid, And thus in turn his answer made: 'O saint, my darts of keenest steel, Armed with their murderous barbs, would deal Destruction mid the silvan race That flocks around thy dwelling-place. Most wretched then my fate would be For such dishonour shown to thee: And only for the briefest stay Would I within this grove delay.'   He spoke and ceased. With pious care He turned him to his evening prayer, Performed each customary rite, And sought his lodging for the night, With Sítá and his brother laid Beneath the grove's delightful shade, First good Sútíkshnu, when he saw The shades of night around them draw,   With hospitable care The princely chieftains entertained With store of choicest food ordained   For holy hermit's fare.