But, best of youths, until thou hence art fled, Thy sire will neither bathe nor call for bread." "Woe woe!" the monarch murmured, with a groan, Deep 'neath the waves of whelming anguish thrown; Then in exceeding grief he swooned away, And on the gold-wrought couch all senseless lay. Nor would I, with a soul athirst for gain, All I can do to please my father, think Already done from death I would not shrink : : One duty, paramount of duties still, Is that a son should do his father's will. By him unbidden, if the word thou give, Couldst thou no virtue in my nature see And comfort Sita. Thine the charge must rest That Bharat listen to his sire's behest, And keep the kingdom happy and secure : In speechless woe the hapless father heard, MOTHER AND SON. Rama goes from the presence of his afflicted father and exulting stepmother to pay a farewell visit to Kausalya, who is full of joyful anticipations on her son's account. On to his mother's splendid bower he went, And found the queen on holy rites intent. There oil, and rice, and brimming vases stood, With wreaths of flowers, and curds, and cates, and wood. She with her thin cheek pale with many a fast, And many a night in painful vigil past, In linen robes of purest white arrayed, To Lakshmi, Queen of Heaven, her offerings made. As a fond mare who springs to meet her foal, To greet her son, unseen so long, she flew, And round his neck her tender arms she threw : She cried, with kisses on his brow, "be thine. Be wise and mighty like thy sires of old, Be good and noble, pious, lofty souled. H This day thy father's faithful love is shown: Then answered Rama, "Dearest lady, know Swift as a Sal branch, by the woodman lopt In some primeval grove, the lady dropt And lay upon the ground. So falls a mare Beneath the load she strives in vain to bear. And Rama raised her up, and brusht away The dust that on her arms and shoulders lay. "A grief more sore" she cried, "I ne'er could mourn If thou had never, O my son, been born; Yet, well I know, their childless fate, to those I, eldest queen, to those I scorn, must bend, What woman's lot can be so hard as mine, In endless woe and mourning doomed to pine? Have they not scorned me when my son was near? And death will follow when thou art not here. 'Twas ne'er my lot my husband's love to gain, How shall I brook her scolding tongue to hear, Since thou wast born ('tis seventeen years ago), Now what remains but shame and grief, a share How will my gloomy days go darkly by Without thy moon-bright face to cheer mine eye? Alas! my cares thy tender years to train, And all my vows and fasts and prayers were vain ! Hard is my heart, or surely it had burst When the wild rush of sorrow reacht it first; As in the Rains no river bank can hold The headlong torrent from the mountains rolled. |