  The wicked queen her speech renewed, When rolling on the earth she viewed IkshvÁku's son, AyodhyÁ's king, For his dear RÁma sorrowing: “Why, by a simple promise bound, Liest thou prostrate on the ground, As though a grievous sin dismayed Thy spirit! Why so sore afraid? Keep still thy word. The righteous deem That truth, mid duties, is supreme: And now in truth and honour's name I bid thee own the binding claim. ?aivya, a king whom earth obeyed, Once to a hawk a promise made, Gave to the bird his flesh and bone, And by his truth made heaven his own.277 Alarka, when a BrÁhman famed For Scripture lore his promise claimed, Tore from his head his bleeding eyes And unreluctant gave the prize. His narrow bounds prescribed restrain The Rivers' Lord, the mighty main, Who, though his waters boil and rave, Keeps faithful to the word he gave. Truth all religion comprehends, Through all the world its might extends: In truth alone is justice placed, On truth the words of God are based: A life in truth unchanging past Will bring the highest bliss at last. If thou the right would still pursue, Be constant to thy word and true: Let me thy promise fruitful see, For boons, O King, proceed from thee. Now to preserve thy righteous fame, And yielding to my earnest claim— Thrice I repeat it—send thy child, Thy RÁma, to the forest wild. But if the boon thou still deny, Before thy face, forlorn, I die.” Thus was the helpless monarch stung By Queen KaikeyÍ's fearless tongue, As Bali strove in vain to loose His limbs from Indra's fatal noose. Dismayed in soul and pale with fear, The monarch, like a trembling steer Between the chariot's wheel and yoke, Again to Queen KaikeyÍ spoke, With sad eyes fixt in vacant stare, Gathering courage from despair: “That hand I took, thou sinful dame, With texts, before the sacred flame, Thee and thy son, I scorn and hate, And all at once repudiate. [pg 108]The night is fled: the dawn is near: Soon will the holy priests be here To bid me for the rite prepare That with my son the throne will share, The preparation made to grace My RÁma in his royal place— With this, e'en this, my darling for My death the funeral flood shall pour. Thou and thy son at least forbear In offerings to my shade to share, For by the plot thy guile has laid His consecration will be stayed. This very day how shall I brook To meet each subject's altered look? To mark each gloomy joyless brow That was so bright and glad but now?” While thus the high-souled monarch spoke To the stern queen, the Morning broke, And holy night had slowly fled, With moon and stars engarlanded. Yet once again the cruel queen Spoke words in answer fierce and keen, Still on her evil purpose bent, Wild with her rage and eloquent: “What speech is this? Such words as these Seem sprung from poison-sown disease. Quick to thy noble RÁma send And bid him on his sire attend. When to my son the rule is given; When RÁma to the woods is driven; When not a rival copes with me, From chains of duty thou art free.” |
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