Classic Poem

He ceased; and, changing all his gentle guise,
Stood before Sita in his native size,
A monstrous giant, terrible in form,
Dark as a thunder-cloud that leads the storm.
Ten-faced and twenty-armed, in every head
Glared the wild eyeballs that his rage made red,
As with a scowl upon each haughty brow,
He cried: “Fair Sita, wilt thou scorn me now?
Lift thy sweet eyes, dear child of earth, and see
A husband worthy of a queen like thee.”

One eager hand her glorious tresses grasped,
One mighty arm around her waist was clasped.
Aid her, ye spirits! Ah, all wild with dread
Each nymph and faun before the fiend had fled.
Where, where is Rama? Rama roams afar,
And Ravan bears her to his magic car.


Down to her feet her loosened tresses hung,
As, like a creeper, with twined arms she clung
To bough and branch, and falling on her knees
Shrieked out for succour to the mighty trees.

Then Ravan's giant hand, unused to spare,
Seized her again by her long flowing hair:
Vengeance on thee that cursed touch shall bring,
And stain with gore thy hair, thou impious king.

All nature trembled, faint and sick with dread,
And sudden darkness o'er the world was spread;
In vain she struggled, as the giant threw
His arm around her waist and upward flew.
With yellow robes, far floating uncontrolled,
And fair limbs glowing like the burnished gold,
The royal lady like the lightning shone,
Too dazzling lovely to be looked upon.

Touched by the glorious light the giant's frame
Showed like a mountain belted round with flame;
And from the lotus wreath that crowned her head
Light falling petals on his limbs were shed.

Widowed of Rama and of joy, her face
Peered in its lovely sadness from the embrace
Of her fell ravisher. So looks the moon
With pure light cleaving a dark cloud in June.