Thoughts of his fearful deeds will rise
And fill my soul with sad surmise.
Speech, form, and trust which naught may move
Thy secret strength and glory prove,
As smouldering ashes dimly show
The dormant fires that live below.”
He ceased: and Ráma answered, while
Played o'er his lips a gracious smile:
“Not yet convinced? This clear assay
Shall drive each lingering doubt away.”