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kindly asked the earth’s great king

      How all with him was prospering.

The son of Kuśik2 bade him tell

      If all in town and field were well,

      All well with friends, and kith and kin,

      And royal treasure stored within:

      “Do all thy neighbours own thy sway?

      Thy foes confess thee yet?

      Dost thou continue still to pay

      To Gods and men each debt?”

      Then he, of hermits first and best,

Vaśishṭha with a smile3 addressed,

      And asked him of his welfare too,

      Showing him honour as was due.

      Then with the sainted hermit all

      Went joyous to the monarch’s hall,

      And sate them down by due degree,

      Each one, of rank and dignity.

      Joy filled the noble prince’s breast

      Who thus bespoke the honoured guest:

“As amrit4 by a mortal found,

      As rain upon the thirsty ground,

      As to an heirless man a son

      Born to him of his precious one,

      As gain of what we sorely miss,

      As sudden dawn of mighty bliss,

      So is thy coming here to me:

      All welcome, mighty Saint, to thee.

      What wish within thy heart hast thou?

      If I can please thee, tell me how.

      Hail, Saint, from whom all honours flow,

      Worthy of all I can bestow.

      Blest is my birth with fruit to-day,

      Nor has my life been thrown away.

      I see the best of Bráhman race

      And night to glorious morn gives place.

      Thou, holy Sage, in days of old

      Among the royal saints enrolled,

      Didst, penance-glorified, within

      The Bráhman caste high station win.

      ’Tis meet and right in many a way

      That I to thee should honour pay.

      This seems a marvel to mine eyes:

      All sin thy visit purifies;

      And I by seeing thee, O Sage,

      Have reaped the fruit of pilgrimage.

      Then say what thou wouldst have me do,

      That thou hast sought this interview.

      Favoured by thee, my wish is still,

      O Hermit, to perform thy will.

      Nor needest thou at length explain

      The object that thy heart would gain.

      Without reserve I grant it now:

      My deity, O Lord, art thou.”

      The glorious hermit, far renowned,

      With highest fame and virtue crowned,

      Rejoiced these modest words to hear

      Delightful to the mind and ear.

1 The story of this famous saint is given at sufficient length in Cantos LI-LV.

      This saint has given his name to the district and city to the east of Benares. The original name, preserved in a land-grant on copper now in the Museum of the Benares College, has been Moslemized into Ghazeepore (the City of the Soldier-martyr).

2 The son of Kuśik is Viśvámitra.

3 At the recollection of their former enmity, to be described hereafter.

4 The Indian nectar or drink of the Gods.

      Canto 21. Visvámitra’s Speech.

      The hermit heard with high content

      That speech so wondrous eloquent,

And while each hair with joy arose,1

      He thus made answer at the close:

      “Good is thy speech O noble King,

      And like thyself in everything.

      So should their lips be wisdom-fraught

      Whom kings begot, Vaśishṭha taught.

      The favour which I came to seek

      Thou grantest ere my tongue can speak.

      But let my tale attention claim,

      And hear the need for which I came.

      O King, as Scripture texts allow,

      A holy rite employs me now.

      Two fiends who change their forms at will

Impede that rite with cursed skill.2

      Oft when the task is nigh complete,

      These worst of fiends my toil defeat,

      Throw bits of bleeding flesh, and o’er

      The altar shed a stream of gore.

      When thus the rite is mocked and stayed,

      And all my pious hopes delayed,

      Cast down in heart the spot I leave,

      And spent with fruitless labour grieve.

      Nor can I, checked by prudence, dare

      Let loose my fury on them there:

      The muttered curse, the threatening word,

      In such a rite must ne’er be heard.

      Thy grace the rite from check can free.

      And yield the fruit I long to see.

      Thy duty bids thee, King, defend

      The suffering guest, the suppliant friend.

      Give me thy son, thine eldest born,

      Whom locks like raven’s wings adorn.

      That hero youth, the truly brave,

      Of thee, O glorious King, I crave.

      For he can lay those demons low

      Who mar my rites and work me woe:

      My power shall shield the youth from harm,

      And heavenly might shall nerve his arm.

      And on my champion will I shower

      Unnumbered gifts of varied power,

      Such

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