Eighth canto.  Aja’s lament.—­As soon as King Aja is firmly established on his throne, Raghu retires to a hermitage to prepare for the death of his mortal part.  After some years of religious meditation he is released, attaining union with the eternal spirit which is beyond all darkness.  His obsequies are performed by his dutiful son.  Indumati gives birth to a splendid boy, who is named Dasharatha.  One day, as the queen is playing with her husband in the garden, a wreath of magic flowers falls upon her from heaven, and she dies.  The stricken king clasps the body of his dead beloved, and laments over her.

  If flowers that hardly touch the body, slay it,
    The simplest instruments of fate may bring
  Destruction, and we have no power to stay it;
    Then must we live in fear of everything?

  No!  Death was right.  He spared the sterner anguish;
    Through gentle flowers your gentle life was lost
  As I have seen the lotus fade and languish
    When smitten by the slow and silent frost.

  Yet God is hard.  With unforgiving rigour
    He forged a bolt to crush this heart of mine;
  He left the sturdy tree its living vigour,
    But stripped away and slew the clinging vine.

  Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me,
    Though I offended.  Can you go away
  Sudden, without a word?  I know you love me,
    And I have not offended you to-day.

  You surely thought me faithless, to be banished
    As light-of-love and gambler, from your life,
  Because without a farewell word, you vanished
    And never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

  The warmth and blush that followed after kisses
    Is still upon her face, to madden me;
  For life is gone, ’tis only life she misses. 
    A curse upon such life’s uncertainty!

  I never wronged you with a thought unspoken,
    Still less with actions.  Whither are you flown? 
  Though king in name, I am a man heartbroken,
    For power and love took root in you alone.

  Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping,
    Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well,
  Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping,
    Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

  Awake, my love!  Let only life be given,
    And choking griefs that stifle now, will flee
  As darkness from the mountain-cave is driven
    By magic herbs that glitter brilliantly.

  The silent face, round which the curls are keeping
    Their scattered watch, is sad to look upon
  As in the night some lonely lily, sleeping
    When musically humming bees are gone.

  The girdle that from girlhood has befriended
    You, in love-secrets wise, discreet, and true,
  No longer tinkles, now your dance is ended,
    Faithful in life, in dying faithful too.

  Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given;
    Your idly graceful movement to the swans;
  Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven;
    Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns: