  A while they sat, each lip compressed, Then Bharat thus his chief addressed: “My mother here was made content; To me was given the government. This now, my lord, I yield to thee: Enjoy it, from all trouble free. Like a great bridge the floods have rent, Impetuous in their wild descent, All other hands but thine in vain Would strive the burthen to maintain. In vain the ass with steeds would vie, With TÁrkshya,381 birds that wing the sky; So, lord of men, my power is slight To rival thine imperial might. Great joys his happy days attend On whom the hopes of men depend, But wretched is the life he leads Who still the aid of others needs. And if the seed a man has sown, With care and kindly nurture grown, Rear its huge trunk and spring in time Too bulky for a dwarf to climb, Yet, with perpetual blossom gay, No fruit upon its boughs display, Ne'er can that tree, thus nursed in vain, Approval of the virtuous gain. The simile is meant to be Applied, O mighty-armed, to thee, Because, our lord and leader, thou Protectest not thy people now. O, be the longing wish fulfilled Of every chief of house and guild, To see again their sun-bright lord Victorious to his realm restored! As thou returnest through the crowd Let roars of elephants be loud. And each fair woman lift her voice And in her new-found king rejoice.” The people all with longing moved, The words that Bharat spoke approved, And crowding near to RÁma pressed The hero with the same request. The steadfast RÁma, when he viewed His glorious brother's mournful mood, With each ambitious thought controlled, Thus the lamenting prince consoled: “I cannot do the things I will, For RÁma is but mortal still. Fate with supreme, resistless law This way and that its slave will draw, All gathered heaps must waste away, All lofty lore and powers decay. Death is the end of life, and all, Now firmly joined, apart must fall. One fear the ripened fruit must know, To fall upon the earth below; So every man who draws his breath Must fear inevitable death. The pillared mansion, high, compact, Must fall by Time's strong hand attacked; So mortal men, the gradual prey Of old and ruthless death, decay. The night that flies no more returns: YamunÁ for the Ocean yearns: Swift her impetuous waters flee, But roll not backward from the sea. The days and nights pass swiftly by And steal our moments as they fly, E'en as the sun's unpitying rays Drink up the floods in summer blaze. Then for thyself lament and leave For death of other men to grieve, For if thou go or if thou stay, Thy life is shorter day by day. Death travels with us; death attends Our steps until our journey ends, Death, when the traveller wins the goal, Returns with the returning soul. The flowing hair grows white and thin, And wrinkles mark the altered skin. The ills of age man's strength assail: Ah, what can mortal power avail? Men joy to see the sun arise, They watch him set with joyful eyes: But ne'er reflect, too blind to see, How fast their own brief moments flee. With lovely change for ever new The seasons' sweet return they view, Nor think with heedless hearts the while That lives decay as seasons smile. As haply on the boundless main Meet drifting logs and part again, So wives and children, friends and gold, Ours for a little time we hold: |
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