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      The Omen-bird, the Pure-from-spot,

      The pair that wake and slumber not:

      The Fiendish, that which shakes amain,

      The Strong-of-Hand, the Rich-in-Gain:

      The Guardian, and the Close-allied,

      The Gaper, Love, and Golden-side:

      O Raghu’s son receive all these,

      Bright ones that wear what forms they please;

      Kriśáśva’s mystic sons are they,

      And worthy thou their might to sway.”

      With joy the pride of Raghu’s race

      Received the hermit’s proffered grace,

      Mysterious arms, to check and stay,

      Or smite the foeman in the fray.

      Then, all with heavenly forms endued,

      Nigh came the wondrous multitude.

      Celestial in their bright attire

      Some shone like coals of burning fire;

      Some were like clouds of dusky smoke;

      And suppliant thus they sweetly spoke:

      “Thy thralls, O Ráma, here we stand:

      Command, we pray, thy faithful band”

      “Depart,” he cried, “where each may list,

      But when I call you to assist,

      Be present to my mind with speed,

      And aid me in the hour of need.”

      To Ráma then they lowly bent,

      And round him in due reverence went,

      To his command, they answered, Yea,

      And as they came so went away.

      When thus the arms had homeward flown,

      With pleasant words and modest tone,

      E’en as he walked, the prince began

      To question thus the holy man:

      “What cloudlike wood is that which near

      The mountain’s side I see appear?

      O tell me, for I long to know;

      Its pleasant aspect charms me so.

      Its glades are full of deer at play,

      And sweet birds sing on every spray,

      Past is the hideous wild; I feel

      So sweet a tremor o’er me steal,

      And hail with transport fresh and new

      A land that is so fair to view.

      Then tell me all, thou holy Sage,

      And whose this pleasant hermitage

      In which those wicked ones delight

      To mar and kill each holy rite.

      And with foul heart and evil deed

      Thy sacrifice, great Saint, impede.

      To whom, O Sage, belongs this land

      In which thine altars ready stand!

      ’Tis mine to guard them, and to slay

      The giants who the rites would stay.

      All this, O best of saints, I burn

      From thine own lips, my lord, to learn.”

1 “In Sanskrit Sankára, a word which has various significations but the primary meaning of which is the act of seizing. A magical power seems to be implied of employing the weapons when and where required. The remarks I have made on the preceding Canto apply with still greater force to this. The MSS. greatly vary in the enumeration of these Sankáras, and it is not surprising that copyists have incorrectly written the names which they did not well understand. The commentators throw no light upon the subject.” Schlegel. I have taken the liberty of omitting four of these which Schlegel translates “Scleromphalum, Euomphalum, Centiventrem, and Chrysomphalum.”

      Canto 31. The Perfect Hermitage.

      Thus spoke the prince of boundless might,

      And thus replied the anchorite:

      “Chief of the mighty arm, of yore

      Lord Vishṇu whom the Gods adore,

      For holy thought and rites austere

      Of penance made his dwelling here.

      This ancient wood was called of old

      Grove of the Dwarf, the mighty-souled,

      And when perfection he attained

      The grove the name of Perfect gained.

      Bali of yore, Virochan’s son,

      Dominion over Indra won,

      And when with power his proud heart swelled,

      O’er the three worlds his empire held.

      When Bali then began a rite,

      The Gods and Indra in affright

      Sought Vishṇu in this place of rest,

      And thus with prayers the God addressed:

      “Bali. Virochan’s mighty son,

      His sacrifice has now begun:

      Of boundless wealth, that demon king

      Is bounteous to each living thing.

      Though suppliants flock from every side

      The suit of none is e’er denied.

      Whate’er, where’er howe’er the call,

      He hears the suit and gives to all.

      Now with thine own illusive art

      Perform, O Lord, the helper’s part:

      Assume a dwarfish form, and thus

From fear and danger rescue us.”1

      Thus in their dread the Immortals sued:

The God a dwarflike shape indued:2

      Before Virochan’s son he came,

      Three steps of land his only claim.

      The boon obtained, in wondrous wise

      Lord Vishṇu’s form increased in size;

      Through all the worlds, tremendous, vast,

God of the Triple Step, he passed.3

      The whole broad earth from side to side

      He measured with one mighty stride,

      Spanned with the next the firmament,

      And with the third through heaven he went.

      Thus was the king of demons hurled

      By Vishṇu to the nether world,

      And thus the universe restored

      To Indra’s rule, its ancient lord.

      And now because the immortal God

      This spot in dwarflike semblance trod,

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