In whom high thoughts and valor dwell; So does Vaśishtha, so do these Engaged in long austerities. If thou would do the righteous deed, And win high fame, thy virtue's meed, Fame that on earth shall last and live, To me, great King, thy Ráma give. If to the words that I have said, With Saint Vaśishtha at their head Thy holy men, O King, agree, Then let thy Ráma go with me. Ten nights my sacrifice will last, And ere the stated time be past Those wicked fiends, those impious twain, Must fall by wondrous Ráma 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 DAŚARATHA'S SPEECH His tortured senses all astray, Awhile the hapless monarch lay, Then slowly gathering thought and strength To Viśvámitra 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: Ráma, 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: Ráma, 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 Ráma reft, to live one hour-- Mine aged heart at once would break: Ráma, 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; Ráma, 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