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name of Kuśa reigned of yore.

      Just, faithful to his vows, and true,

      He held the good in honour due.

      His bride, a queen of noble name,

Of old Vidarbha’s1 monarchs came.

      Like their own father, children four,

      All valiant boys, the lady bore.

      In glorious deeds each nerve they strained,

      And well their Warrior part sustained.

      To them most just, and true, and brave,

      Their father thus his counsel gave:

      “Beloved children, ne’er forget

      Protection is a prince’s debt:

      The noble work at once begin,

      High virtue and her fruits to win.”

      The youths, to all the people dear,

      Received his speech with willing ear;

      And each went forth his several way,

      Foundations of a town to lay.

      Kuśámba, prince of high renown,

      Was builder of Kauśámbí‘s town,

      And Kuśanábha, just and wise,

      Bade high Mahodaya’s towers arise.

      Amúrtarajas chose to dwell

      In Dharmáraṇya’s citadel,

      And Vasu bade his city fair

The name of Girivraja bear.2

      This fertile spot whereon we stand

      Was once the high-souled Vasu’s land.

      Behold! as round we turn our eyes,

      Five lofty mountain peaks arise.

      See! bursting from her parent hill,

      Sumágadhí, a lovely rill,

      Bright gleaming as she flows between

      The mountains, like a wreath is seen,

      And then through Magadh’s plains and groves

      With many a fair mæander roves.

      And this was Vasu’s old domain,

      The fertile Magadh’s broad champaign,

      Which smiling fields of tilth adorn

      And diadem with golden corn.

      The queen Ghritáchí, nymph most fair,

      Married to Kuśanábha, bare

      A hundred daughters, lovely-faced,

      With every charm and beauty graced.

      It chanced the maidens, bright and gay

      As lightning-flashes on a day

      Of rain time, to the garden went

      With song and play and merriment,

      And there in gay attire they strayed,

      And danced, and laughed, and sang, and played.

      The God of Wind who roves at will

      All places, as he lists, to fill,

      Saw the young maidens dancing there,

      Of faultless shape and mien most fair.

      “I love you all, sweet girls,” he cried,

      “And each shall be my darling bride.

      Forsake, forsake your mortal lot,

      And gain a life that withers not.

      A fickle thing is youth’s brief span,

      And more than all in mortal man.

      Receive unending youth, and be

      Immortal, O my loves, with me.”

      The hundred girls, to wonder stirred,

      The wooing of the Wind-God heard,

      Laughed, as a jest, his suit aside,

      And with one voice they thus replied:

      “O mighty Wind, free spirit who

      All life pervadest, through and through,

      Thy wondrous power we maidens know;

      Then wherefore wilt thou mock us so?

      Our sire is Kuśanábha, King;

      And we, forsooth, have charms to bring

      A God to woo us from the skies;

      But honour first we maidens prize.

      Far may the hour, we pray, be hence,

      When we, O thou of little sense,

      Our truthful father’s choice refuse,

      And for ourselves our husbands choose.

      Our honoured sire our lord we deem,

      He is to us a God supreme,

      And they to whom his high decree

      May give us shall our husbands be.”

      He heard the answer they returned,

      And mighty rage within him burned.

      On each fair maid a blast he sent:

      Each stately form he bowed and bent.

      Bent double by the Wind-God’s ire

      They sought the palace of their sire,

      There fell upon the ground with sighs,

      While tears and shame were in their eyes.

      The king himself, with troubled brow,

      Saw his dear girls so fair but now,

      A mournful sight all bent and bowed,

      And grieving thus he cried aloud:

      “What fate is this, and what the cause?

      What wretch has scorned all heavenly laws?

      Who thus your forms could curve and break?

      You struggle, but no answer make.”

      They heard the speech of that wise king

      Of their misfortune questioning.

      Again the hundred maidens sighed,

      Touched with their heads his feet, and cried:

      “The God of Wind, pervading space,

      Would bring on us a foul disgrace,

      And choosing folly’s evil way

      From virtue’s path in scorn would stray.

      But we in words like these reproved

      The God of Wind whom passion moved:

      “Farewell, O Lord! A sire have we,

      No women uncontrolled and free.

      Go, and our sire’s consent obtain

      If thou our maiden hands wouldst gain.

      No self-dependent life we live:

      If we offend, our fault forgive.”

      But led by folly as a slave,

      He would not hear the rede we gave,

      And

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