  When he his heavenly home had found, The holy men who dwelt around To RÁma flocked, whose martial fame Shone glorious as the kindled flame: VaikhÁnasas415 who love the wild, Pure hermits BÁlakhilyas416 styled, Good SamprakshÁlas,417 saints who live On rays which moon and daystar give: Those who with leaves their lives sustain And those who pound with stones their grain: And they who lie in pools, and those Whose corn, save teeth, no winnow knows: Those who for beds the cold earth use, And those who every couch refuse: And those condemned to ceaseless pains, Whose single foot their weight sustains: And those who sleep neath open skies, Whose food the wave or air supplies, And hermits pure who spend their nights On ground prepared for sacred rites; Those who on hills their vigil hold, Or dripping clothes around them fold: The devotees who live for prayer, Or the five fires418 unflinching bear. On contemplation all intent, With light that heavenly knowledge lent, They came to RÁma, saint and sage, In ?arabhanga's hermitage. The hermit crowd around him pressed, And thus the virtuous chief addressed: “The lordship of the earth is thine, O Prince of old IkshvÁku's line. Lord of the Gods is Indra, so Thou art our lord and guide below. Thy name, the glory of thy might, Throughout the triple world are bright: Thy filial love so nobly shown, Thy truth and virtue well are known. To thee, O lord, for help we fly, And on thy love of right rely: With kindly patience hear us speak, And grant the boon we humbly seek. That lord of earth were most unjust, Foul traitor to his solemn trust, Who should a sixth of all419 require, Nor guard his people like a sire. But he who ever watchful strives To guard his subjects' wealth and lives, Dear as himself or, dearer still, His sons, with earnest heart and will,— That king, O Raghu's son, secures High fame that endless years endures, And he to BrahmÁ's world shall rise, Made glorious in the eternal skies. Whate'er, by duty won, the meed Of saints whom roots and berries feed, One fourth thereof, for tender care Of subjects, is the monarch's share. These, mostly of the BrÁhman race, Who make the wood their dwelling-place, Although a friend in thee they view, Fall friendless neath the giant crew. Come, RÁma, come, and see hard by The holy hermits' corpses lie, Where many a tangled pathway shows The murderous work of cruel foes. These wicked fiends the hermits kill— Who live on ChitrakÚ?a's hill, And blood of slaughtered saints has dyed MandÁkinÍ and PampÁ's side. No longer can we bear to see The death of saint and devotee Whom through the forest day by day These RÁkshasas unpitying slay. To thee, O Prince, we flee, and crave Thy guardian help our lives to save. From these fierce rovers of the night Defend each stricken anchorite. Throughout the world 'twere vain to seek An arm like thine to aid the weak. O Prince, we pray thee hear our call, And from these fiends preserve us all.” The son of Raghu heard the plaint |
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