will show
On to Ayodhya swiftly go.
There with my love my brother greet,
And all our wondrous tale repeat.
Say that victorious in the strife
I come with Lakshman and my wife,
Then mark with keenest eye each trace
Of joy or grief on Bharat's face.
Be all his gestures closely viewed,
Each change of look and attitude.
Where breathes the man who will not cling
To all that glorifies a king?
Where beats the heart that can resign
An ancient kingdom, nor repine
To lose a land renowned for breeds
Of elephants and warrior steeds?
If, won by custom day by day,
My brother Bharat thirsts for sway,
Still let him rule the nations, still
The throne of old Ikshvaku fill.
Go, mark him well: his feelings learn,
And, ere we yet be near return."

He ceased: and, garbed in human form,
Forth sped Hanuman swift as storm.
Sublime in air he rose, and through
The region of his father flew.
He saw far far beneath his feet
Where Ganga's flood and Jumna meet.
Descending from the upper air
He entered Sringavera, where
King Guha's heart was well content
To hear the message Rama sent.
Then, with his mighty strength renewed,
The Vanar chief his way pursued,
Valukini was far behind,
And Gomati with forests lined,
And golden fields and pastures gay
With flocks and herds beneath him lay.
Then Nandigrama charmed his eye
Where flowers were bright with every dye,
And trees of lovely foliage made
With meeting boughs delightful shade,
Where women watched in trim array
Their little sons' and grandsons' play.
His eager eye on Bharat fell
Who sat before his lonely cell.
In hermit weed, with tangled hair,
Pale, weak, and worn with ceaseless care.
His royal pomp and state resigned
For Rama still he watched and pined,
Still to his dreary vows adhered,
And royal Rama's shoes revered.
Yet still the terror of his arm
Preserved the land from fear and harm.

The Wind-God's son, in form a man,
Raised reverent hands and thus began:
"Fond greeting, Prince, I bring to thee,
And Rama's self has sent it: he
For whom thy spirit sorrows yet
As for a hapless anchoret
In Dandak wood, in dire distress,
With matted hair and hermit dress.
This sorrow from thy bosom fling,
And hear the tale of joy I bring.
This day thy brother shalt thou meet
Exulting in his foe's defeat,
Freed from his toil and lengthened vow,
The light of victory on his brow,
With Sita, Lakshman and his friends
Homeward at last his steps he bends."

Then joy, too mighty for c