my soul to please."

Then to that woody hill he prayed,
Whence flashed afar each wild cascade:
"O best of mountains, hast thou seen
A dame of perfect form and mien
In some sweet spot with trees o'ergrown,--
My darling whom I left alone?"
Then as a lion threats a deer
He thundered with a voice of fear:
"Reveal her, mountain, to my view
With golden limbs and golden hue.
Where is my darling Sita? speak
Before I rend thee peak from peak."

The mountain seemed her track to show,
But told not all he sought to know.
Then Dasaratha's son renewed
His summons as the mount he viewed:
"Soon as my flaming arrows fly,
Consumed to ashes shall thou lie
Without a herb or bud or tree,
And birds no more shall dwell in thee.
And if this stream my prayer deny,
My wrath this day her flood shall dry,
Because she lends no aid to trace
My darling of the lotus face."

Thus Rama spake as though his ire
Would scorch them with his glance of fire;
Then searching farther on the ground
The footprint of a fiend he found,
And small light traces here and there,
Where Sita in her great despair,
Shrieking for Rama's help, had fled
Before the giant's mighty tread.
His careful eye each trace surveyed
Which Sita and the fiend had made,--
The quivers and the broken bow
And ruined chariot of the foe,--
And told, distraught by fear and grief,
His tidings to his brother chief:
"O Lakshman, here," he cried "behold
My Sita's earrings dropped with gold.
Here lie her garlands torn and rent,
Here lies each glittering ornament.
O look, the ground on every side
With blood-like drops of gold is dyed.
The fiends who wear each strange disguise
Have seized, I ween, the helpless prize.
My lady, by their hands o'erpowered,
Is slaughtered, mangled, and devoured.
Methinks two fearful giants came
And waged fierce battle for the dame.
Whose, Lakshman, was this mighty bow
With pearls and gems in glittering row?
Cast to the ground the fragments lie,
And still their glory charms the eye.
A bow so mighty sure was planned
For heavenly God or giant's hand.
Whose was this coat of golden mail
Which, though its lustre now is pale,
Shone like the sun of morning, bright
With studs of glittering lazulite?
Whose, Lakshman, was this bloom-wreathed shade
With all its hundred ribs displayed?
This screen, most meet for royal brow,
With broken staff lies useless now.
And these tall asses, goblin-faced,
With plates of golden harness graced,
Whose hideous forms