them hied
Down the broad river's shelving side.
Then with raised palms the charioteer,
In lowly reverence drawing near,
Cried thus to Rama good and true:
"Now what remains for me to do?"
With his right hand, while answering
The hero touched his friend:
"Go back," he said, "and on the king
With watchful care attend.
Thus far, Sumantra, thou wast guide;
Now to Ayodhya turn," he cried:
"Hence seek we leaving steeds and car,
On foot the wood that stretches far."

Sumantra, when, with grieving heart,
He heard the hero bid him part,
Thus to the bravest of the brave,
Ikshvaku's son, his answer gave:
"In all the world men tell of naught,
To match thy deed, by heroes wrought--
Thus with thy brother and thy wife
Thrall-like to lead a forest life.
No meet reward of fruit repays
Thy holy lore, thy saintlike days,
Thy tender soul, thy love of truth,
If woe like this afflicts thy youth.
Thou, roaming under forest boughs
With thy dear brother and thy spouse
Shalt richer meed of glory gain
Than if three worlds confessed thy reign.
Sad is our fate, O Rama: we,
Abandoned and repelled by thee,
Must serve as thralls Kaikeyi's will,
Imperious, wicked, born to ill."

Thus cried the faithful charioteer,
As Raghu's son, in rede his peer,
Was fast departing on his road,--
And long his tears of anguish flowed.
But Rama, when those tears were dried
His lips with water purified,
And in soft accents, sweet and clear,
Again addressed the charioteer:
"I find no heart, my friend, like thine,
So faithful to Ikshvaku's line.
Still first in view this object keep,
That ne'er for me my sire may weep.
For he, the world's far-ruling king,
Is old, and wild with sorrow's sting;
With love's great burthen worn and weak:
Deem this the cause that thus I speak
Whate'er the high-souled king decrees
His loved Kaikeyi's heart to please,
Yea, be his order what it may,
Without demur thou must obey,
For this alone great monarchs reign,
That ne'er a wish be formed in vain.
Then, O Sumantra, well provide
That by no check the king be tried:
Nor let his heart in sorrow pine:
This care, my faithful friend, be thine.
The honoured king my father greet,
And thus for me my words repeat
To him whose senses are controlled,
Untired till now by grief, and old;
"I, Sita, Lakshman sorrow not,
O Monarch, for our altered lot:
The same to us, if here we roam,
Or if Ayodhya be our home,
The fourteen years will quickly fly,
The happy hour w