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Beauty, Modesty, or Fame.

      Divide thyself in four, and be

      His offspring by these noble three.

      Man’s nature take, and slay in fight

      Rávaṇ who laughs at heavenly might:

      This common scourge, this rankling thorn

      Whom the three worlds too long have borne

      For Rávaṇ in the senseless pride

      Of might unequalled has defied

      The host of heaven, and plagues with woe

      Angel and bard and saint below,

      Crushing each spirit and each maid

Who plays in Nandan’s3 heavenly shade.

      O conquering Lord, to thee we bow;

      Our surest hope and trust art thou.

      Regard the world of men below,

      And slay the Gods’ tremendous foe.”

      When thus the suppliant Gods had prayed,

His wise reply Náráyaṇ4 made:

      “What task demands my presence there,

      And whence this dread, ye Gods declare.”

      The Gods replied: “We fear, O Lord,

      Fierce Rávaṇ, ravener abhorred.

      Be thine the glorious task, we pray,

      In human form this fiend to slay.

      By thee of all the Blest alone

      This sinner may be overthrown.

      He gained by penance long and dire

      The favour of the mighty Sire.

      Then He who every gift bestows

      Guarded the fiend from heavenly foes,

      And gave a pledge his life that kept

      From all things living, man except.

      On him thus armed no other foe

      Than man may deal the deadly blow.

      Assume, O King, a mortal birth,

      And strike the demon to the earth.”

      Then Vishṇu, God of Gods, the Lord

      Supreme by all the worlds adored,

      To Brahmá and the suppliants spake:

      “Dismiss your fear: for your dear sake

      In battle will I smite him dead,

      The cruel fiend, the Immortal’s dread.

      And lords and ministers and all

      His kith and kin with him shall fall.

      Then, in the world of mortal men,

      Ten thousand years and hundreds ten

      I as a human king will reign,

      And guard the earth as my domain.”

      God, saint, and nymph, and minstrel throng

      With heavenly voices raised their song

      In hymns of triumph to the God

      Whose conquering feet on Madhu trod:

      “Champion of Gods, as man appear,

      This cruel Rávaṇ slay,

      The thorn that saints and hermits fear,

      The plague that none can stay.

      In savage fury uncontrolled

      His pride for ever grows:

      He dares the Lord of Gods to hold

      Among his deadly foes.”

1 The Maruts are the winds, deified in the religion of the Veda like other mighty powers and phenomena of nature.

2 A Titan or fiend whose destruction has given Vishṇu one of his well-known titles, Mádhava.

3 The garden of Indra.

4 One of the most ancient and popular of the numerous names of Vishṇu. The word has been derived in several ways, and may mean he who moved on the (primordial) waters, or he who pervades or influences men or their thoughts.

      Canto 15. The Nectar.

      When wisest Vishṇu thus had given

      His promise to the Gods of heaven,

      He pondered in his secret mind

      A suited place of birth to find,

      Then he decreed, the lotus-eyed,

      In four his being to divide,

      And Daśaratha, gracious king,

      He chose as sire from whom to spring.

      That childless prince of high renown,

      Who smote in war his foemen down,

      At that same time with utmost care

Prepared the rite that wins an heir.1

      Then Vishṇu, fain on earth to dwell,

      Bade the Almighty Sire farewell,

      And vanished while a reverent crowd

      Of Gods and saints in worship bowed.

      The monarch watched the sacred rite,

      When a vast form of awful might,

      Of matchless splendour, strength, and size

      Was manifest before his eyes.

      From forth the sacrificial flame,

      Dark, robed in red, the being came.

      His voice was drumlike, loud and low,

      His face suffused with rosy glow.

      Like a huge lion’s mane appeared

      The long locks of his hair and beard.

      He shone with many a lucky sign,

      And many an ornament divine;

      A towering mountain in his height,

      A tiger in his gait and might.

      No precious mine more rich could be,

      No burning flame more bright than he.

      His arms embraced in loving hold,

      Like a dear wife, a vase of gold

      Whose silver lining held a draught

      Of nectar as in heaven is quaffed:

      A vase so vast, so bright to view,

      They scarce could count the vision true.

      Upon the king his eyes he bent,

      And said: “The Lord of life has sent

      His servant down, O Prince, to be

      A messenger from heaven to thee.”

      The

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