THE GRIEF OF RAVAN.
(From Michael M. S. Dutt).
SO at the Lord of Lanka's hest the messenger began—
But ere the word was on his lips, his lips grew pale and wan.
Then for a while, like one amazed, his eye around he cast;
And o'er his cheek, as he would speak, a sudden colour past.
The colour past from cheek to eye; he knew not how he spake:
"Sir King, Virbahu's gone to sleep, O never more to wake!"
To whom said Ravan sore at heart, his face with sorrow white:
"This tale of thine is like unto a vision seen at night.
"My son, whose might kept Gods in dread, hath beggar Rama slain?
Hath Fate, then, fell'd the stubborn oak with but a flower-chain?
"Alas, my darling! thou art gone so early!—woe is me!
Thro' what great sin of mine have I made thee mine arms to flee?
