Canto XXXII: Viśvámitra's Sacrifice

That conquering pair, of royal race, Skilled to observe due time and place-- To Kúśik's hermit son addressed, In timely words, their meet request:-- "When must we, lord, we pray thee tell, Those Rovers of the Night repel? Speak, lest we let the moment fly, And pass the due occasion by." Thus longing for the strife, they prayed, And thus the hermit's answer made:-- "Till the fifth day be come and past, O Raghu's sons, your watch must last. The saint his Díkshá has begun, And all that time will speak to none." Soon as the steadfast devotees Had made reply in words like these, The youths began, disdaining sleep, Six days and nights their watch to keep-- The warrior pair who tamed the foe, Unrivalled benders of the bow, Kept watch and ward unwearied still To guard the saint from scathe and ill. Twas now the sixth returning day, The hour foretold had passed away. Then Ráma cried: "O Lakshman, now! Firm, watchful, resolute be thou. The fiends as yet have kept afar From the pure grove in which we are; Yet waits us, ere the day shall close, Dire battle with the demon foes." While thus spoke Ráma, borne away By longing for the deadly fray, See! bursting from the altar came The sudden glory of the flame; Round priest and deacon, and upon Grass, ladles, flowers, the splendor shone-- And the high rite, in order due, With sacred texts began anew. But then a loud and fearful roar Re-echoed through the sky; And like vast clouds that shadow o'er The heavens in dark July, Involved in gloom of magic might Two fiends rushed on amain-- Márícha, Rover of the Night, Suváhu, and their train. As on they came in wild career Thick blood in rain they shed; And Ráma saw those things of fear Impending overhead. Then, soon as those accursed two Who showered down blood he spied, Thus to his brother brave and true Spoke Ráma lotus-eyed:-- "Now, Lakshman, thou these fiends shalt see, Man-eaters, foul of mind, Before my mortal weapon flee Like clouds before the wind." He spoke. An arrow, swift as thought, Upon his bow he pressed, And smote, to utmost fury wrought, Márícha on the breast. Deep in his flesh the weapon lay Winged by the mystic spell, And, hurled a hundred leagues away, In ocean's flood he fell. Then Ráma, when he saw the foe Convulsed and mad with pain 'Neath the chill-pointed weapon's blow, To Lakshman spoke again:-- "See, Lakshman, see! this mortal dart That strikes a numbing chill, Hath struck him senseless with the smart, But left him breathing still. But these who love the evil way And drink the blood they spill, Rejoicing holy rites to stay, Fierce plagues, my hand shall kill." He seized another shaft, the best, Aglow with living flame; It struck Suváhu on the chest, And dead to earth he came. Again a dart, the Wind-God's own, Upon his string he laid, And all the demons were overthrown-- The saints no more afraid. When thus the fiends were slain in fight, Disturbers of each holy rite, Due honor by the saints was paid To Ráma for his wondrous aid:-- So Indra is adored when he Has won some glorious victory. Success at last the rite had crowned, And Viśvámitra gazed around-- And seeing every side at rest, The son of Raghu thus addressed:-- "My joy, O Prince, is now complete-- Thou hast obeyed my will: Perfect before, this calm retreat Is now more perfect still."