Valmiki Ramayana 3.60.7

3.60.7

bhūtāni rākṣasendreṇa vadhārheṇa hṛtām api
na tāṃ śaśaṃsū rāmāya tathā godāvarī nadī

No spirit voice an answer gave,
No murmur from the trembling wave
Of sweet Godávarí declared
The outrage which the fiend had dared
'O speak!' the pitying spirits cried,
But yet the stream their prayer denied,
Nor dared she, coldly mute, relate
To the sad chief his darling's fate
Of Rávan's awful form she thought,
And the dire deed his arm had wrought,
And still withheld by fear dismayed,
The tale for which the mourner prayed.
When hope was none, his heart to cheer,
That the bright stream his cry would hear
While sorrow for his darling tore
His longing soul he spake once more:
'Though I have sought with tears and sighs
Godárvarí no word replies,
O say, what answer can I frame
To Janak father of my dame?
Or how before her mother stand
Leading no Sítá by the hand?
Where is my loyal love who went
Forth with her lord to banishment?
Her faith to me she nobly held
Though from my realm and home expelled,--
A hermit, nursed on woodland fare,--
She followed still and soothed my care.
Of all my friends am I bereft,
Nor is my faithful consort left.
How slowly will the long nights creep
While comfortless I wake and weep!
O, if my wife may yet be found,
With humble love I'll wander round
This Janasthán, Pras'ravan's hill,
Mandákini's delightful rill.
See how the deer with gentle eyes
Look on my face and sympathize.
I mark their soft expression: each
Would soothe me, if it could, with speech.'
A while the anxious throng he eyed.
And 'Where is Sítá, where?' he cried.