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her husband dead,

      She followed him, most noble dame,

      And, raised to heaven in human frame,

      A pure celestial stream became.

      Down from Himálaya’s snowy height,

      In floods for ever fair and bright,

      My sister’s holy waves are hurled

      To purify and glad the world.

      Now on Himálaya’s side I dwell

      Because I love my sister well.

      She, for her faith and truth renowned,

      Most loving to her husband found,

      High-fated, firm in each pure vow,

      Is queen of all the rivers now.

      Bound by a vow I left her side

      And to the Perfect convent hied.

      There, by the aid ’twas thine to lend,

      Made perfect, all my labours end.

      Thus, mighty Prince, I now have told

      My race and lineage, high and old,

      And local tales of long ago

      Which thou, O Ráma, fain wouldst know.

      As I have sate rehearsing thus

      The midnight hour is come on us.

      Now, Ráma, sleep, that nothing may

      Our journey of to-morrow stay.

      No leaf on any tree is stirred:

      Hushed in repose are beast and bird:

      Where’er you turn, on every side,

      Dense shades of night the landscape hide,

      The light of eve is fled: the skies,

      Thick-studded with their host of eyes,

      Seem a star-forest overhead,

      Where signs and constellations spread.

      Now rises, with his pure cold ray,

      The moon that drives the shades away,

      And with his gentle influence brings

      Joy to the hearts of living things.

      Now, stealing from their lairs, appear

      The beasts to whom the night is dear.

      Now spirits walk, and every power

      That revels in the midnight hour.”

      The mighty hermit’s tale was o’er,

      He closed his lips and spoke no more.

      The holy men on every side,

      “Well done! well done,” with reverence cried;

      “The mighty men of Kuśa’s seed

      Were ever famed for righteous deed.

      Like Brahmá‘s self in glory shine

      The high-souled lords of Kuśa’s line,

      And thy great name is sounded most,

      O Saint, amid the noble host.

      And thy dear sister — fairest she

      Of streams, the high-born Kauśikí—

      Diffusing virtue where she flows,

      New splendour on thy lineage throws.”

      Thus by the chief of saints addressed

      The son of Gádhi turned to rest;

      So, when his daily course is done,

      Sinks to his rest the beaming sun.

      Ráma with Lakshmaṇ, somewhat stirred

      To marvel by the tales they heard,

      Turned also to his couch, to close

      His eyelids in desired repose.

1 Now called Kośí (Cosy) corrupted from Kauśikí, daughter of Kuś)a.

      “This is one of those personifications of rivers so frequent in the Grecian mythology, but in the similar myths is seen the impress of the genius of each people, austere and profoundly religious in India, graceful and devoted to the worship of external beauty in Greece.” Gorresio.

      Canto 36. The Birth Of Gangá.

      The hours of night now waning fast

      On Śona’s pleasant shore they passed.

      Then, when the dawn began to break,

      To Ráma thus the hermit spake:

      “The light of dawn is breaking clear,

      The hour of morning rites is near.

      Rise, Ráma, rise, dear son, I pray,

      And make thee ready for the way.”

      Then Ráma rose, and finished all

      His duties at the hermit’s call,

      Prepared with joy the road to take,

      And thus again in question spake:

      “Here fair and deep the Śona flows,

      And many an isle its bosom shows:

      What way, O Saint, will lead us o’er

      And land us on the farther shore?”

      The saint replied: “The way I choose

      Is that which pious hermits use.”

      For many a league they journeyed on

      Till, when the sun of mid-day shone,

      The hermit-haunted flood was seen

Of Jáhnaví,1 the Rivers’ Queen.

      Soon as the holy stream they viewed,

      Thronged with a white-winged multitude

Of sárases2 and swans,3 delight

      Possessed them at the lovely sight;

      And then prepared the hermit band

      To halt upon that holy strand.

      They bathed as Scripture bids, and paid

      Oblations due to God and shade.

      To Fire they burnt the offerings meet,

      And sipped the oil, like Amrit sweet.

      Then pure and pleased they sate around

      Saint Viśvámitra on the ground.

      The holy men of lesser note,

      In due degree, sate more remote,

      While Raghu’s sons took nearer place

      By virtue of their rank and race.

      Then Ráma said: “O Saint, I yearn

      The three-pathed Gangá‘s tale to learn.”

      Thus urged, the sage recounted both

      The birth of Gangá and her growth:

      “The mighty hill with metals stored,

      Himálaya, is the mountains’ lord,

      The

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