The Ramayan

When all the toil and search was vain He sought his leafy home again. 'Twas empty still: all scattered lay The seats of grass in disarray. He raised his shapely arms on high And spoke aloud with bitter cry: "Where is the Maithil dame?" he said, "O, whither has my darling fled? Who can have borne away my dame, Or feasted on her tender frame? If, Sita hidden by some tree, Thou joyest still to mock at me, Cease, cease thy cruel sport, and take Compassion, or my heart will break. Bethink thee, love, the gentle fawns With whom thou playest on the lawns, Impatient for thy coming wait With streaming eyes disconsolate. Reft of my love, I needs must go Hence to the shades weighed down by woe. The king our sire will see me there, And cry, "O perjured Rama, where, Where is thy faith, that thou canst speed From exile ere the time decreed?"

Ah Sita, whither hast thou fled And left me here disquieted, A hapless mourner, reft of hope, Too feeble with my woe to cope? E'en thus indignant Glory flies The wretch who stains his soul with lies. If thou, my love, art lost to view, I in my woe must perish too."