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of smoke.

      The staff he waved was all aglow

      Like Yáma’s sceptre, King below,

      Or like the lurid fire of Fate

      Whose rage the worlds will desolate.

      The hermits, whom that sight had awed,

      Extolled the saint, with hymn and laud:

      “Thy power, O Sage, is ne’er in vain:

      Now with thy might thy might restrain.

      Be gracious, Master, and allow

      The worlds to rest from trouble now;

      For Viśvámitra, strong and dread,

      By thee has been discomfited.”

      Then, thus addressed, the saint, well pleased,

      The fury of his wrath appeased.

      The king, o’erpowered and ashamed,

      With many a deep-drawn sigh exclaimed:

      “Ah! Warriors’ strength is poor and slight;

      A Bráhman’s power is truly might.

      This Bráhman staff the hermit held

      The fury of my darts has quelled.

      This truth within my heart impressed,

      With senses ruled and tranquil breast

      My task austere will I begin,

      And Bráhmanhood will strive to win.”

1 “The names of many of these weapons which are mythical and partly allegorical have occurred in Canto XXIX. The general signification of the story is clear enough. It is a contest for supremacy between the regal or military order and Bráhmanical or priestly authority, like one of those struggles which our own Europe saw in the middle ages when without employing warlike weapons the priesthood frequently gained the victory.” Schlegel.

      For a full account of the early contests between the Bráhmans and the Kshattriyas, see Muir’s Original Sanskrit Texts (Second edition) Vol. I. Ch. IV.

      Canto 57. Trisanku.

      Then with his heart consumed with woe,

      Still brooding on his overthrow

      By the great saint he had defied,

      At every breath the monarch sighed.

      Forth from his home his queen he led,

      And to a land far southward fled.

      There, fruit and roots his only food,

      He practised penance, sense-subdued,

      And in that solitary spot

      Four virtuous sons the king begot:

      Havishyand, from the offering named,

      And Madhushyand, for sweetness famed,

      Mahárath, chariot-borne in fight,

      And Driḍhanetra strong of sight.

      A thousand years had passed away,

      When Brahmá, Sire whom all obey,

      Addressed in pleasant words like these

      Him rich in long austerities:

      “Thou by the penance, Kuśik’s son,

      A place ‘mid royal saints hast won.

      Pleased with thy constant penance, we

      This lofty rank assign to thee.”

      Thus spoke the glorious Lord most High

      Father of earth and air and sky,

      And with the Gods around him spread

      Home to his changeless sphere he sped.

      But Viśvámitra scorned the grace,

      And bent in shame his angry face.

      Burning with rage, o’erwhelmed with grief,

      Thus in his heart exclaimed the chief:

      “No fruit, I ween, have I secured

      By strictest penance long endured,

      If Gods and all the saints decree

      To make but royal saint of me.”

      Thus pondering, he with sense subdued,

      With sternest zeal his vows renewed.

      Then reigned a monarch, true of soul,

      Who kept each sense in firm control;

      Of old Ikshváku’s line he came,

That glories in Triśanku’s1 name.

      Within his breast, O Raghu’s child,

      Arose a longing, strong and wild,

      Great offerings to the Gods to pay,

      And win, alive, to heaven his way.

      His priest Vaśishṭha’s aid he sought,

      And told him of his secret thought.

      But wise Vaśishṭha showed the hope

      Was far beyond the monarch’s scope.

      Triśanku then, his suit denied,

      Far to the southern region hied,

      To beg Vaśishṭha’s sons to aid

      The mighty plan his soul had made.

      There King Triśanku, far renowned,

      Vaśishṭha’s hundred children found,

      Each on his fervent vows intent,

      For mind and fame preëminent.

      To these the famous king applied,

      Wise children of his holy guide.

      Saluting each in order due.

      His eyes, for shame, he downward threw,

      And reverent hands together pressed,

      The glorious company addressed:

      “I as a humble suppliant seek

      Succour of you who aid the weak.

      A mighty offering I would pay,

      But sage Vaśishṭha answered, Nay.

      Be yours permission to accord,

      And to my rites your help afford.

      Sons of my guide, to each of you

      With lowly reverence here I sue;

      To each, intent on penance-vow,

      O Bráhmans, low my head I bow,

      And pray you each with ready heart

      In my great rite to bear a part,

      That in the body I may rise

      And dwell with Gods within the skies.

      Sons of my guide, none else I see

      Can give what he refuses me.

      Ikshváku’s children still depend

      Upon their guide most reverend;

      And you, as nearest in degree

      To him, my deities shall be!”

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