
Valmiki's grief for a slain curlew becomes measured verse, then the commission for an epic.
But still the hermit's thoughts were bentOn one thing only, all intentOn that poor curlew's mournful fateLamenting for her slaughtered mate;And still his lips, in absent mood,The verse that told his grief, renewed:"Woe to the fowler's impious handThat did the deed that folly planned;That could to needless death devoteThe curlew of the tuneful throat!"The heavenly Father smiled in glee,And said, "O best of hermits, see,A verse, unconscious, thou hast made;No longer be the task delayed.Seek not to trace, with labour vain,The unpremeditated strain.The tuneful lines thy lips rehearsedSpontaneous from thy bosom burst.Then come, O best of seers, relateThe life of Ráma good and great,The tale that saintly Nárad told,In all its glorious length unfold.Of all the deeds his arm has doneUpon this earth, omit not one,And thus the noble life recordOf that wise, brave, and virtuous lord.His every act to day displayed,His secret life to none betrayed:How Lakshmaṇ, how the giants fought;With high emprise and hidden thought:And all that Janak's child befellWhere all could see, where none could tell.The whole of this shall truly beMade known, O best of saints, to thee.In all thy poem, through my grace,No word of falsehood shall have place.Begin the story, and rehearseThe tale divine in charming verse.As long as in this firm-set landThe streams shall flow, the mountains stand,So long throughout the world, be sure,The great Rámáyan shall endure.
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