हेमको हरिन हनि फिरे रघुकुल-मनि, लषन ललित कर लिये मृगछाल। आश्रम आवत चले, सगुन न भए भले, फरके बाम बाहु, लोचन बिसाल॥ १ ॥ सरित-जल मलिन, सरनि सूखे नलिन, अलि न गुंजत, कल कूजैं न मराल। कोलिनि-कोल-किरात जहाँ तहाँ बिलखात, बन न बिलोकि जात खग-मृग-माल॥ २ ॥ तरु जे जानकी लाए, ज्याये हरि-करि-कपि, हेरै न हुँकरि, झरैं फल न रसाल। जे सुक-सारिका पाले, मातु ज्यों ललकि लाले, तेऊ न पढ़त न पढ़ावैं मुनिबाल॥ ३ ॥ समुझि सहमे सुठि, प्रिया तौ न आई उठि, तुलसी बिबरन परन-तृन-साल। औरे सो सब समाजु, कुसल न देखौं आजु, गहबर हिय कहैं कोसलपाल॥ ४ ॥
The jewel of Raghu’s line returned after killing the golden deer, with Lakṣmaṇa carrying its lovely hide. As they approached the hermitage, the omens were not good: his left arm and great eyes throbbed. (1) The river water was turbid, lotuses withered in the pools, bees did not hum, and swans made no sweet call. Kolas, their women, and forest hunters lamented everywhere; the forest’s companies of birds and beasts were painful to behold. (2) The trees Jānakī had planted bore no juicy fruit; the lions, elephants, and monkeys she had reared no longer looked up and roared. The parrots and mynas she had cherished like a mother neither recited nor were taught by the sages’ young girls. (3) Understanding, he grew deeply alarmed: his beloved did not rise to greet him, and, says Tulsīdāsa, the leaf-and-grass cottage appeared drained of color. “The whole company looks altered; I see no well-being today,” says the Lord of Kosala with a heart overwhelmed. (4)