last,
    And ere the stated time be past
    Those wicked fiends, those impious twain,
    Must fall by wondrous Rama slain. 
    Let not the hours, I warn thee, fly,
    Fixt for the rite, unheeded by;
    Good luck have thou, O royal Chief,
    Nor give thy heart to needless grief.”

    Thus in fair words with virtue fraught,
    The pious glorious saint besought. 
    But the good speech with poignant sting
    Pierced ear and bosom of the King,
    Who, stabbed with pangs too sharp to bear,
    Fell prostrate and lay fainting there.

CANTO XXII

DASARATHA’S SPEECH

    His tortured senses all astray,
    Awhile the hapless monarch lay,
    Then slowly gathering thought and strength
    To Visvamitra spoke at length:—­
    “My son is but a child, I ween;
    This year he will be just sixteen. 
    How is he fit for such emprise,
    My darling with the lotus eyes? 
    A mighty army will I bring
    That calls me master, lord, and King,
    And with its countless squadrons fight
    Against these rovers of the night. 
    My faithful heroes skilled to wield
    The arms of war will take the field;
    Their skill the demons’ might may break: 
    Rama, my child, thou must not take. 
    I, even I, my bow in hand,
    Will in the van of battle stand,
    And, while my soul is left alive,
    With the night-roaming demons strive. 
    Thy guarded sacrifice shall be
    Completed, from all hindrance free. 
    Thither will I my journey make: 
    Rama, my child, thou must not take. 
    A boy unskilled, he knows not yet
    The bounds to strength and weakness set. 
    No match is he for demon foes
    Who magic arts to arms oppose. 
    O chief of saints, I have no power,
    Of Rama reft, to live one hour—­
    Mine aged heart at once would break: 
    Rama, my child, thou must not take. 
    Nine thousand circling years have fled
    With all their seasons o’er my head,
    And as a hard-won boon, O Sage,
    These sons have come to cheer mine age. 
    My dearest love amid the four
    Is he whom first his mother bore,
    Still dearer for his virtue’s sake;
    Rama, my child, thou must not take. 
    But if, unmoved by all I say,
    Thou needs must bear my son away,
    Let me lead with him, I entreat,
    A fourfold army all complete. 
    What is the demons’ might, O Sage? 
    Who are they?  What their parentage? 
    What is their size?  What beings lend
    Their power to guard them and befriend? 
    How can my son their arts withstand? 
    Or I or all my armed band? 
    Tell me the whole that I may know
    To met in war each evil foe
    Whom conscious might inspires with pride.”