It chanced a slave-born handmaid, bred

With Queen KaikeyÍ, fancy-led,

Mounted the stair and stood upon

The terrace like the moon that shone.

Thence MantharÁ at ease surveyed

AyodhyÁ to her eyes displayed,

Where water cooled the royal street,

Where heaps of flowers were fresh and sweet,

And costly flags and pennons hung

On roof and tower their shadow flung;

With covered ways prepared in haste,

And many an awning newly placed;

With sandal-scented streams bedewed,

Thronged by a new bathed multitude:

Whose streets were full of BrÁhman bands

With wreaths and sweetmeats in their hands.

Loud instruments their music raised,

And through the town, where'er she gazed,

The doors of temples glittered white,

And the maid marvelled at the sight.

Of RÁma's nurse who, standing by,

Gazed with a joy-expanded eye,

In robes of purest white attired,

The wondering damsel thus inquired:

Rich largess to the crowds to-day,

On some dear object fondly bent,

Or blest with measureless content?

What mean these signs of rare delight

On every side that meet my sight?

Say, will the king with joy elate

The nurse, with transport uncontrolled,

Her glad tale to the hump-back told:

Will consecrate his eldest-born,

And raise, in Pushya's favouring hour,

As thus the nurse her tidings spoke,

Rage in the hump-back's breast awoke.

Down from the terrace, like the head

Of high KailÁsa's hill, she sped.

Sin in her thoughts, her soul aflame,

Where Queen KaikeyÍ slept, she came:

Thus by the artful maid addressed

In cruel words from raging breast,

The queen, sore troubled, spoke in turn;

That mournful eye, that altered cheek

Such were the words KaikeyÍ said:

Then MantharÁ, her eyeballs red

With fury, skilled with treacherous art

To grieve yet more her lady's heart,

From RÁma, in her wicked hate,

KaikeyÍ's love to alienate,

Upon her evil purpose bent

Began again most eloquent:

And utter woe defying cure;

King Da?aratha will create

Prince RÁma Heir Associate.

Plunged in the depths of wild despair,

My soul a prey to pain and care,

As though the flames consumed me, zeal

Has brought me for my lady's weal,

Thy grief, my Queen, is grief to me:

Thy gain my greatest gain would be.

Proud daughter of a princely line,

The rights of consort queen are thine.

How art thou, born of royal race,

Blind to the crimes that kings debase?

Thy lord is gracious, to deceive,

And flatters, but thy soul to grieve,

While thy pure heart that thinks no sin

Knows not the snares that hem thee in.

Thy husband's lips on thee bestow