The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 106 books and stories free download online pdf in English

The RÁMÁYAN of VÁLMÍKI - Part 2 - 106

Canto CVI. 
Bharat's Speech.
Good Bharat, by the river side,

To virtuous Ráma's speech replied,

And thus with varied lore addressed

The prince, while nobles round him pressed:

“In all this world whom e'er can we

Find equal, scourge of foes, to thee?

No ill upon thy bosom weighs,

No thoughts of joy thy spirit raise.

Approved art thou of sages old,

To whom thy doubts are ever told.

Alike in death and life, to thee

The same to be and not to be.

The man who such a soul can gain

Can ne'er be crushed by woe or pain.

Pure as the Gods, high-minded, wise,

Concealed from thee no secret lies.

Such glorious gifts are all thine own,

And birth and death to thee are known,

That ill can ne'er thy soul depress

With all-subduing bitterness.

O let my prayer, dear brother, win

Thy pardon for my mother's sin.

Wrought for my sake who willed it not

When absent in a distant spot.

Duty alone with binding chains

The vengeance due to crime restrains,

Or on the sinner I should lift

My hand in retribution swift.

Can I who know the right, and spring

From Daśaratha, purest king—

Can I commit a heinous crime,

Abhorred by all through endless time?

The aged king I dare not blame,

Who died so rich in holy fame,

My honoured sire, my parted lord,

E'en as a present God adored.

Yet who in lore of duty skilled

So foul a crime has ever willed,

And dared defy both gain and right

To gratify a woman's spite?

When death draws near, so people say,

The sense of creatures dies away;

And he has proved the ancient saw

By acting thus in spite of law.

But O my honoured lord, be kind,

Dismiss the trespass from thy mind,

The sin the king committed, led

By haste, his consort's wrath, and dread.

For he who veils his sire's offence

With tender care and reverence—

His sons approved by all shall live:

Not so their fate who ne'er forgive.

Be thou, my lord, the noble son,

And the vile deed my sire has done,

Abhorred by all the virtuous, ne'er

Resent, lest thou the guilt too share.

Preserve us, for on thee we call,

Our sire, Kaikeyí, me and all

Thy citizens, thy kith and kin;

Preserve us and reverse the sin.

To live in woods a devotee

Can scarce with royal tasks agree,

Nor can the hermit's matted hair

Suit fitly with a ruler's care.

Do not, my brother, do not still

Pursue this life that suits thee ill.

Mid duties of a king we count

His consecration paramount,

That he with ready heart and hand

May keep his people and his land.

What Warrior born to royal sway

From certain good would turn away,

A doubtful duty to pursue,

That mocks him with the distant view?

Thou wouldst to duty cleave, and gain

The meed that follows toil and pain.

In thy great task no labour spare:

Rule the four castes with justest care.

Mid all the four, the wise prefer

The order of the householder:

Canst thou, whose thoughts to duty cleave,

The best of all the orders leave?

My better thou in lore divine,

My birth, my sense must yield to thine:

While thou, my lord, art here to reign,

How shall my hands the rule maintain?

O faithful lover of the right,

Take with thy friends the royal might,

Let thy sires' realm, from trouble free,

Obey her rightful king in thee.

Here let the priests and lords of state

Our monarch duly consecrate,

With prayer and holy verses blessed

By saint Vaśishṭha and the rest.

Anointed king by us, again

Seek fair Ayodhyá, there to reign,

And like imperial Indra girt

By Gods of Storm, thy might assert.

From the three debts384 acquittance earn,

And with thy wrath the wicked burn,

O'er all of us thy rule extend,

And cheer with boons each faithful friend.

Let thine enthronement, lord, this day

Make all thy lovers glad and gay,

And let all those who hate thee flee

To the ten winds for fear of thee.

Dear lord, my mother's words of hate

With thy sweet virtues expiate,

And from the stain of folly clear

The father whom we both revere.

Brother, to me compassion show,

I pray thee with my head bent low,

And to these friends who on thee call,—

As the Great Father pities all.

But if my tears and prayers be vain,

And thou in woods wilt still remain,

I will with thee my path pursue

And make my home in forests too.”

Thus Bharat strove to bend his will

With suppliant head, but he,

Earth's lord, inexorable still

Would keep his sire's decree.

The firmness of the noble chief

The wondering people moved,

And rapture mingling with their grief,

All wept and all approved.

“How firm his steadfast will,” they cried,

“Who Keeps his promise thus!

Ah, to Ayodhyá's town,” they sighed,

“He comes not back with us.”

The holy priest, the swains who tilled

The earth, the sons of trade,

And e'en the mournful queens were filled

With joy as Bharat prayed,

And bent their heads, then weeping stilled

A while, his prayer to aid.