Ramayana 6.317

Ramayana · translated by Ralph T.H. Griffith

The joyous king his sons embraced, With gold and chains and jewels graced, And sent them forth with stirring speech Of benison and praise to each. Forth from the gate the princes sped And ranged for war the troops they led. The Vanar legions charged anew, And trees and rocks for missiles flew. They saw Narantak's mighty form Borne on a steed that mocked the storm. To check his charge in vain they strove: Straight through their host his way he clove, As springs a dolphin through the tide: And countless Vanars fell and died, And mangled limbs and corpses lay To mark the chief's ensanguined way, Sugriva saw them fall or fly When fierce Narantak's steed was nigh, And marked the giant where he sped O'er heaps of dying or of dead. He bade the royal Angad face That bravest chief of giant race. As springs the sun from clouds dispersed, So Angad from the Vanars burst. No weapon for the fight he bore Save nails and teeth, and sought no more. "Leave, giant chieftain," thus he spoke, "Leave foes unworthy of thy stroke, And bend against a nobler heart The terrors of thy deadly dart."

Ramayana 6.317 · Ramayana · 6

Themes in this passage

Death Nature War Children Joy Leadership Speech Strength

Death in other traditions

The same theme, as Christianity, Islam, Taoism and Hellenism address it.

And the children of Israel spake unto Moses, saying, Behold, we die, we perish, we all perish.

Numbers 17:12 · Bible · Numbers

Lo! thou wilt die, and lo! they will die;

Quran 39:30 · Quran · The Companies

The people do not fear death; to what purpose is it to (try to) frighten them with death? If the people were always in awe of death, and I could always seize those who do wrong, and put them to death, who would dare to do wrong?

Tao Te Ching 74.1 · Tao Te Ching

These words, attended with a shower of tears, The youth address’d to unrelenting ears: “Talk not of life, or ransom (he replies): Patroclus dead, whoever meets me, dies: In vain a single Trojan sues for grace; But least, the sons of Priam’s hateful race. Die then, my friend! what boots it to deplore? The great, the good Patroclus is no more! He, far thy better, was foredoom’d to die, And thou, dost thou bewail mortality? Seest thou not me, whom nature’s gifts adorn, Sprung from a hero, from a goddess born? The day shall come (which nothing can avert) When by the spear, the arrow, or the dart, By night, or day, by force, or by design, Impending death and certain fate are mine! Die then,”—He said; and as the word he spoke, The fainting stripling sank before the stroke: His hand forgot its grasp, and left the spear, While all his trembling frame confess’d his fear: Sudden, Achilles his broad sword display’d, And buried in his neck the reeking blade. Prone fell the youth; and panting on the land, The gushing purple dyed the thirsty sand. The victor to the stream the carcase gave, And thus insults him, floating on the wave:

Iliad 21.7 · Iliad · 21

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