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monarch’s breast with glory swelled.

      So swells the ocean, when upon

      His breast the full moon’s beams have shone.

      Already in his mind he viewed

      Vaśishṭha at his feet subdued.

      He sought that hermit’s grove, and there

      Launched his dire weapons through the air,

      Till scorched by might that none could stay

      The hermitage in ashes lay.

      Where’er the inmates saw, aghast,

      The dart that Viśvámitra cast,

      To every side they turned and fled

      In hundreds forth disquieted.

      Vaśishṭha’s pupils caught the fear,

      And every bird and every deer,

      And fled in wild confusion forth

      Eastward and westward, south and north,

      And so Vaśishṭha’s holy shade

      A solitary wild was made,

      Silent awhile, for not a sound

      Disturbed the hush that was around.

      Vaśishṭha then, with eager cry,

      Called, “Fear not, friends, nor seek to fly.

      This son of Gádhi dies to-day,

      Like hoar-frost in the morning’s ray.”

      Thus having said, the glorious sage

      Spoke to the king in words of rage:

      “Because thou hast destroyed this grove

      Which long in holy quiet throve,

      By folly urged to senseless crime,

      Now shalt thou die before thy time.”

1 A comprehensive term for foreign or outcast races of different faith and language from the Hindus.

2 The Kirátas and Hárítas are savage aborigines of India who occupy hills and jungles and are altogether different in race and character from the Hindus. Dr. Muir remarks in his Sanskrit Texts, Vol. I. p. 488 (second edition) that it does not appear that it is the object of this legend to represent this miraculous creation as the origin of these tribes, and that nothing more may have been intended than that the cow called into existence large armies, of the same stock with particular tribes previously existing.

3 The Great God, Śiva.

4 Nandi, the snow-white bull, the attendant and favourite vehicle of Śiva.

      Canto 56. Visvámitra’s Vow.

      But Viśvámitra, at the threat

      Of that illustrious anchoret,

      Cried, as he launched with ready hand

      A fiery weapon, “Stand, O Stand!”

      Vaśishṭha, wild with rage and hate,

      Raising, as ’twere the Rod of Fate,

      His mighty Bráhman wand on high,

      To Viśvámitra made reply:

      “Nay, stand, O Warrior thou, and show

      What soldier can, ‘gainst Bráhman foe.

      O Gádhi’s son, thy days are told;

      Thy pride is tamed, thy dart is cold.

      How shall a warrior’s puissance dare

      With Bráhman’s awful strength compare?

      To-day, base Warrior, shall thou feel

      That God-sent might is more than steel.”

      He raised his Bráhman staff, nor missed

      The fiery dart that near him hissed:

      And quenched the fearful weapon fell,

      As flame beneath the billow’s swell.

      Then Gádhi’s son in fury threw

      Lord Varuṇ‘s arm and Rudra’s too:

      Indra’s fierce bolt that all destroys;

      That which the Lord of Herds employs:

      The Human, that which minstrels keep,

      The deadly Lure, the endless Sleep:

      The Yawner, and the dart which charms;

      Lament and Torture, fearful arms:

      The Terrible, the dart which dries,

      The Thunderbolt which quenchless flies,

      And Fate’s dread net, and Brahmá‘s noose,

      And that which waits for Varuṇ‘s use:

      The dart he loves who wields the bow

      Pináka, and twin bolts that glow

      With fury as they flash and fly,

      The quenchless Liquid and the Dry:

      The dart of Vengeance, swift to kill:

      The Goblins’ dart, the Curlew’s Bill:

      The discus both of Fate and Right,

      And Vishṇu’s, of unerring flight:

      The Wind-God’s dart, the Troubler dread,

      The weapon named the Horse’s Head.

      From his fierce hand two spears were thrown,

      And the great mace that smashes bone;

      The dart of spirits of the air,

      And that which Fate exults to bear:

      The Trident dart which slaughters foes,

And that which hanging skulls compose:1

      These fearful darts in fiery rain

      He hurled upon the saint amain,

      An awful miracle to view.

      But as the ceaseless tempest flew,

      The sage with wand of God-sent power

      Still swallowed up that fiery shower.

      Then Gádhi’s son, when these had failed,

      With Brahmá‘s dart his foe assailed.

      The Gods, with Indra at their head,

      And Nágas, quailed disquieted,

      And saints and minstrels, when they saw

      The king that awful weapon draw;

      And the three worlds were filled with dread,

      And trembled as the missile sped.

      The saint, with Bráhman wand, empowered

      By lore divine that dart devoured.

      Nor could the triple world withdraw

      Rapt gazes from that sight of awe;

      For as he swallowed down the dart

      Of Brahmá, sparks from every part,

      From finest

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