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thus unto the saint they cried,

      Rejoicing at the sight:

      “Whose is that hermitage we see?

      Who makes his dwelling there?

      Full of desire to hear are we:

      O Saint, the truth declare.”

      The hermit smiling made reply

      To the two boys’ request:

      “Hear, Ráma, who in days gone by

      This calm retreat possessed.

      Kandarpa in apparent form,

Called Káma3 by the wise,

Dared Umá‘s4 new-wed lord to storm

      And make the God his prize.

‘Gainst Stháṇu’s5 self, on rites austere

And vows intent,6 they say,

      His bold rash hand he dared to rear,

      Though Stháṇu cried, Away!

      But the God’s eye with scornful glare

      Fell terrible on him.

      Dissolved the shape that was so fair

      And burnt up every limb.

      Since the great God’s terrific rage

      Destroyed his form and frame,

      Káma in each succeeding age

Has borne Ananga’s7 name.

      So, where his lovely form decayed,

      This land is Anga styled:

      Sacred to him of old this shade,

      And hermits undefiled.

      Here Scripture-talking elders sway

      Each sense with firm control,

      And penance-rites have washed away

      All sin from every soul.

      One night, fair boy, we here will spend,

      A pure stream on each hand,

      And with to-morrow’s light will bend

      Our steps to yonder strand.

      Here let us bathe, and free from stain

      To that pure grove repair,

      Sacred to Káma, and remain

      One night in comfort there.”

      With penance’ far-discerning eye

      The saintly men beheld

      Their coming, and with transport high

      Each holy bosom swelled.

      To Kuśik’s son the gift they gave

      That honoured guest should greet,

      Water they brought his feet to lave,

      And showed him honor meet.

      Ráma and Lakshmaṇ next obtained

      In due degree their share.

      Then with sweet talk the guests remained,

      And charmed each listener there.

      The evening prayers were duly said

      With voices calm and low:

      Then on the ground each laid his head

      And slept till morning’s glow.

1 “At the rising of the sun as well as at noon certain observances, invocations, and prayers were prescribed which might under no circumstances be omitted. One of these observances was the recitation of the Sávitrí, a Vedic hymn to the Sun of wonderful beauty.” Gorresio.

2 Tripathaga, Three-path-go, flowing in heaven, on earth, and under the earth. See Canto XLV.

3 Tennyson’s “Indian Cama,” the God of Love, known also by many other names.

4 Umá, or Parvatí, was daughter of Himálaya, Monarch of mountains, and wife of Śiva. See Kálidasa’s Kumára Sambhava, or Birth of the War-God.

5 Stháṇu. The Unmoving one, a name of Śiva.

6 “The practice of austerities, voluntary tortures, and mortifications was anciently universal in India, and was held by the Indians to be of immense efficacy. Hence they mortified themselves to expiate sins, to acquire merits, and to obtain superhuman gifts and powers; the Gods themselves sometimes exercised themselves in such austerities, either to raise themselves to greater power and grandeur, or to counteract the austerities of man which threatened to prevail over them and to deprive them of heaven. . . . Such austerities were called in India tapas (burning ardour, fervent devotion) and he who practised them tapasvin.” Gorresio.

7 The Bodiless one.

      Canto 26. The Forest Of Tádaká.

      When the fair light of morning rose

      The princely tamers of their foes

      Followed, his morning worship o’er,

      The hermit to the river’s shore.

      The high-souled men with thoughtful care

      A pretty barge had stationed there.

      All cried, “O lord, this barge ascend,

      And with thy princely followers bend

      To yonder side thy prosperous way

      With naught to check thee or delay.”

      Nor did the saint their rede reject:

      He bade farewell with due respect,

      And crossed, attended by the twain,

      That river rushing to the main.

      When now the bark was half way o’er,

      Ráma and Lakshmaṇ heard the roar,

      That louder grew and louder yet,

      Of waves by dashing waters met.

      Then Ráma asked the mighty seer:

      “What is the tumult that I hear

      Of waters cleft in mid career?”

      Soon as the speech of Ráma, stirred

      By deep desire to know, he heard,

      The pious saint began to tell

      What paused the waters’ roar and swell:

      “On high Kailása’s distant hill

      There lies a noble lake

      Whose waters, born from Brahmá‘s will,

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