260 THE RÁMÁYAN. Book III.
But the great three, the host who led, Enraged to see their chieftain dead, As though Death’s toils were round them cast,
Rushed upon Ráma fierce and fast. Mahákapála seized, to strike His foeman down, a ponderous pike: Sthúláksha charged with spear to fling, Pramáthi with his axe to swing. When Rama saw, with keen darts he Received the onset of the three, As calm as though he hailed a guest In each, who came for shade and rest, Mahákapála’s monstrous head Fell with the trenchant dart he sped. His good right hand in battle skilled Sthúláksha’s eyes with arrows filled, And trusting still his ready bow He laid the fierce Pramathi low, Who sank as some tall tree falls down With bough and branch and leafy crown. Then with five thousand shafts he slew The rest of Dushan's giant crew: Five thousand demons, torn and rent, To Yama’s gloomy realm he sent.
When Khara knew the fate of all The giant band and Dushan’s fall, He called the mighty chiefs who led His army, and in fury said:
‘Now Dushan and his armèd train Lie prostrate on* the battle plain. Lead forth an army mightier still, Ráma, this wretched man, to kill. Fight ye with darts of every shape, Nor let him from your wrath escape.’
Thus spoke the fiend, by rage impelled, And straight his course toward Rama held. With Śyenagámí and the rest Of his twelve chiefs he onward pressed, And every giant as he went A storm of well-wrought arrows sent. Then with his pointed shafts that came With gold and diamond bright as flame, Dead to the earth the hero threw The remnant of the demon crew. Those shafts with feathers bright as gold, Like flames which wreaths of smoke enfold, Smote down the fiends like tall trees rent By red bolts from the firmament. A hundred shafts he pointed well: By their keen barbs a hundred fell: A thousand,—and a thousand more In battle’s front lay drenched in gore. Of all defence and guard bereft, With sundered bows and harness cleft, Their bodies red with bloody stain Fell the night-rovers on the plain, Which, covered with the loosened hair Of bleeding giants prostrate there, Like some great altar showed, arrayed For holy rites with grass o’erlaid,
The darksome wood, each glade and dell Where the wild demons fought and fell, Was like an awful hell whose floor Is thick with mire and flesh and gore.
Thus twice seven thousand fiends, a band
With impious heart and bloody hand, By Raghu’s son were overthrown, A man, on foot, and all alone. Of all who met on that fierce day, Khara, great chief, survived the fray, The monster of the triple head,¹ And Raghu’s son, the foeman’s dread, The other demon warriors, all Skilful and brave and strong and tall, In front of battle, side by side, Struck down by Lakshman’s brother died.
When Khara saw the host he led Triumphant forth to fight Stretched on the earth, all smitten dead, By Ráma’s nobler might, Upon his foe he fiercely glared, And drove against him fast, Like Indra when his arm is bared His thundering bolt to cast.
CANTO XXVII.
THE DEATH OF TRIŚIRAS.
But Triśiras,² a chieftain dread, Marked Khara as he onward sped. And met his car and cried, to stay The giant from the purposed fray: ’Mine be the charge: let me attack, And turn thee from the contest back. Let me go forth, and thou shalt see The strong-armed Ráma slain by me. True are the words I speak, my lord: I swear it as I touch my sword: That I this Ráma’s blood will spill, Whom every giant’s hand should kill. This Ráma will I slay, or he In battle fray shall conquer me. Restrain thy spirit: check thy car, And view the combat from afar. Thou, joying o’er the prostrate foe, To Janasthán again shalt go, Or, if I fall in battle’s chance, Against my conqueror advance.’
Thu? Triśiras for death who yearned: And Khara from the conflict turned. ‘Go forth to battle,’ Khara cried; And toward his foe the giant hied. Borne on a car of glittering hue Which harnessed coursers fleetly drew, Like some huge hill with triple peak He onward rushed the prince to seek,¹Triśiras. ²The Three-headed.
