his consort's side,
And faithful Lakshman ready still
To wait upon his brother's will.
Then noble Rama raised his eye
And saw the giants standing nigh,
And then, as nearer still they pressed.
His glorious brother thus addressed,
"Be thine a while, my brother dear,
To watch o'er Sita's safety here,
And I will slay these creatures who
The footsteps of my spouse pursue."

He spoke, and reverent Lakshman heard
Submissive to his brother's word.
The son of Raghu, virtuous-souled,
Strung his great bow adorned with gold,
And, with the weapon in his hand,
Addressed him to the giant band:
"Rama and Lakshman we, who spring
From Dasaratha, mighty king;
We dwell a while with Sita here
In Dandak forest wild and drear.
On woodland roots and fruit we feed,
And lives of strictest rule we lead.
Say why would ye our lives oppress
Who sojourn in the wilderness.
Sent hither by the hermits' prayer
With bow and darts unused to spare,
For vengeance am I come to slay
Your sinful band in battle fray.
Rest as ye are: remain content,
Nor try the battle's dire event.
Unless your offered lives ye spurn,
O rovers of the night, return."

They listened while the hero spoke,
And fury in each breast awoke.
The Brahman-slayers raised on high
Their mighty spears and made reply:
They spoke with eyes aglow with ire,
While Rama's burnt with vengeful tire,
And answered thus, in fury wild,
That peerless chief whose tones were mild:

"Nay thou hast angered, overbold,
Khara our lord, the mighty-souled,
And for thy sin, in battle strife
Shalt yield to us thy forfeit life.
No power hast thou alone to stand
Against the numbers of our band.
'Twere vain to match thy single might
Against us in the front of fight.
When we equipped for fight advance
With brandished pike and mace and lance,
Thou, vanquished in the desperate field,
Thy bow, thy strength, thy life shalt yield."

With bitter words and threatening mien
Thus furious spoke the fierce fourteen,
And raising scimitar and spear
On Rama rushed in wild career.
Their levelled spears the giant crew
Against the matchless hero threw.
His bow the son of Raghu bent,
And twice seven shafts to meet them sent,
And every javelin sundered fell
By the bright darts he aimed so well.

The hero saw: his anger grew
To fury: from his side he drew
Fresh sunbright arrows pointed keen,
In number, like his foes, fourteen.
His bow he grasped, the string he drew,
And gazing on the giant crew,