Soon as the steadfast devotees
    Had made reply in words like these,
    The youths began, disdaining sleep,
    Six days and nights their watch to keep—­
    The warrior pair who tamed the foe,
    Unrivalled benders of the bow,
    Kept watch and ward unwearied still
    To guard the saint from scathe and ill. 
    Twas now the sixth returning day,
    The hour foretold had passed away. 
    Then Rama cried:  “O Lakshman, now! 
    Firm, watchful, resolute be thou. 
    The fiends as yet have kept afar
    From the pure grove in which we are;
    Yet waits us, ere the day shall close,
    Dire battle with the demon foes.” 
    While thus spoke Rama, borne away
    By longing for the deadly fray,
    See! bursting from the altar came
    The sudden glory of the flame;
    Round priest and deacon, and upon
    Grass, ladles, flowers, the splendor shone—­
    And the high rite, in order due,
    With sacred texts began anew. 
    But then a loud and fearful roar
    Re-echoed through the sky;
    And like vast clouds that shadow o’er
    The heavens in dark July,
    Involved in gloom of magic might
    Two fiends rushed on amain—­
    Maricha, Rover of the Night,
    Suvahu, and their train. 
    As on they came in wild career
    Thick blood in rain they shed;
    And Rama saw those things of fear
    Impending overhead.  Then, soon as those accursed two
    Who showered down blood he spied,
    Thus to his brother brave and true
    Spoke Rama lotus-eyed:—­
    “Now, Lakshman, thou these fiends shalt see,
    Man-eaters, foul of mind,
    Before my mortal weapon flee
    Like clouds before the wind.” 
    He spoke.  An arrow, swift as thought,
    Upon his bow he pressed,
    And smote, to utmost fury wrought,
    Maricha on the breast. 
    Deep in his flesh the weapon lay
    Winged by the mystic spell,
    And, hurled a hundred leagues away,
    In ocean’s flood he fell. 
    Then Rama, when he saw the foe
    Convulsed and mad with pain
    ’Neath the chill-pointed weapon’s blow,
    To Lakshman spoke again:—­
    “See, Lakshman, see! this mortal dart
    That strikes a numbing chill,
    Hath struck him senseless with the smart,
    But left him breathing still. 
    But these who love the evil way
    And drink the blood they spill,
    Rejoicing holy rites to stay,
    Fierce plagues, my hand shall kill.” 
    He seized another shaft, the best,
    Aglow with living flame;
    It struck Suvahu on the chest,
    And dead to earth he came. 
    Again a dart, the Wind-God’s own,
    Upon his string he laid,
    And all the demons were overthrown—­
    The saints no more afraid. 
    When thus the fiends were slain in fight,
    Disturbers of each holy rite,