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      Her trial? was the wife restored

      Again to him, my sire and lord?

      Say, Hermit, did that sire of mine

      Receive her with a soul benign,

      When long austerities in time

      Had cleansed her from the taint of crime?

      And, son of Kuśik, let me know,

      Did my great-minded father show

      Honour to Ráma, and regard,

      Before he journeyed hitherward?”

      The hermit with attentive ear

      Marked all the questions of the seer:

      To him for eloquence far-famed,

      His eloquent reply he framed:

      “Yea, ’twas my care no task to shun,

      And all I had to do was done;

      As Reṇuká and Bhrigu’s child,

      The saint and dame were reconciled.”

      When the great sage had thus replied,

      To Ráma Śatánanda cried:

      “A welcome visit, Prince, is thine,

      Thou scion of King Raghu’s line.

      With him to guide thy way aright,

      This sage invincible in might,

      This Bráhman sage, most glorious-bright,

      By long austerities has wrought

      A wondrous deed, exceeding thought:

      Thou knowest well, O strong of arm,

      This sure defence from scathe and harm.

      None, Ráma, none is living now

      In all the earth more blest than thou,

      That thou hast won a saint so tried

      In fervid rites thy life to guide.

      Now listen, Prince, while I relate

      His lofty deeds and wondrous fate.

      He was a monarch pious-souled.

      His foemen in the dust he rolled;

      Most learned, prompt at duty’s claim,

      His people’s good his joy and aim.

      Of old the Lord of Life gave birth

      To mighty Kuśa, king of earth.

      His son was Kuśanábha, strong,

      Friend of the right, the foe of wrong.

      Gádhi, whose fame no time shall dim,

      Heir of his throne was born to him,

      And Viśvámitra, Gádhi’s heir,

      Governed the land with kingly care.

      While years unnumbered rolled away

      The monarch reigned with equal sway.

      At length, assembling many a band,

      He led his warriors round the land —

      Complete in tale, a mighty force,

      Cars, elephants, and foot, and horse.

      Through cities, groves, and floods he passed,

      O’er lofty hills, through regions vast.

      He reached Vaśishṭha’s pure abode,

      Where trees, and flowers, and creepers glowed,

      Where troops of sylvan creatures fed;

      Which saints and angels visited.

      Gods, fauns, and bards of heavenly race,

      And spirits, glorified the place;

      The deer their timid ways forgot,

      And holy Bráhmans thronged the spot.

      Bright in their souls, like fire, were these,

      Made pure by long austerities,

      Bound by the rule of vows severe,

      And each in glory Brahmá‘s peer.

      Some fed on water, some on air,

      Some on the leaves that withered there.

      Roots and wild fruit were others’ food;

      All rage was checked, each sense subdued,

There Bálakhilyas1 went and came,

      Now breathed the prayer, now fed the flame:

      These, and ascetic bands beside,

      The sweet retirement beautified.

      Such was Vaśishṭha’s blest retreat,

      Like Brahmá‘s own celestial seat,

      Which gladdened Viśvámitra’s eyes,

      Peerless for warlike enterprise.

1 Divine personages of minute size produced from the hair of Brahmá, and probably the origin of

      “That small infantry

      Warred on by cranes.”

      Canto 52. Vasishtha’s Feast.

      Right glad was Viśvámitra when

      He saw the prince of saintly men.

      Low at his feet the hero bent,

      And did obeisance, reverent.

      The king was welcomed in, and shown

      A seat beside the hermit’s own,

      Who offered him, when resting there,

      Fruit in due course, and woodland fare.

      And Viśvámitra, noblest king,

      Received Vaśishṭha’s welcoming,

      Turned to his host, and prayed him tell

      That he and all with him were well.

      Vaśishṭha to the king replied

      That all was well on every side,

      That fire, and vows, and pupils throve,

      And all the trees within the grove.

      And then the son of Brahmá, best

      Of all who pray with voice suppressed,

      Questioned with pleasant words like these

      The mighty king who sate at ease:

      “And is it well with thee? I pray;

      And dost thou win by virtuous sway

      Thy people’s love, discharging all

      The duties on a king that fall?

      Are all thy servants fostered well?

      Do all obey, and none rebel?

      Hast thou, destroyer of the foe,

      No enemies to overthrow?

      Does fortune, conqueror! still attend

      Thy treasure, host, and every friend?

      Is it all well? Does happy fate

      On sons and children’s children wait?”

      He spoke. The modest king replied

      That

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