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      And me my length of days fulfil,

      That rites austere I too may share,

      May rise to heaven and rest me there.

      With tender soul and gentle brow

      Be guardian of the orphan thou,

      And as a father pities, so

      Preserve me from my fear and woe.”

      When Viśvámitra, glorious saint,

      Had heard the boy’s heart-rending plaint.

      He soothed his grief, his tears he dried,

      Then called his sons to him, and cried:

      “The time is come for you to show

      The duty and the aid bestow

      For which, regarding future life,

      A man gives children to his wife.

      This hermit’s son, whom here you see

      A suppliant, refuge seeks with me.

      O sons, the friendless youth befriend,

      And, pleasing me, his life defend.

      For holy works you all have wrought,

      True to the virtuous life I taught.

      Go, and as victims doomed to bleed,

      Die, and Lord Agni’s hunger feed.

      So shall the rite completed end,

      This orphan gain a saving friend,

      Due offerings to the Gods be paid,

      And your own father’s voice obeyed.”

      Then Madhushyand and all the rest

      Answered their sire with scorn and jest:

      “What! aid to others’ sons afford,

      And leave thine own to die, my lord!

      To us it seems a horrid deed,

      As ’twere on one’s own flesh to feed.”

      The hermit heard his sons’ reply,

      And burning rage inflamed his eye.

      Then forth his words of fury burst:

      “Audacious speech, by virtue cursed!

      It lifts on end each shuddering hair —

      My charge to scorn! my wrath to dare!

      You, like Vaśishṭha’s evil brood,

      Shall make the flesh of dogs your food

      A thousand years in many a birth,

      And punished thus shall dwell on earth.”

      Thus on his sons his curse he laid.

      Then calmed again that youth dismayed,

      And blessed him with his saving aid:

      “When in the sacred fetters bound,

      And with a purple garland crowned,

      At Vishṇu’s post thou standest tied,

      With lauds be Agni glorified.

      And these two hymns of holy praise

      Forget not, Hermit’s son, to raise

      In the king’s rite, and thou shalt be

      Lord of thy wish, preserved, and free.”

      He learnt the hymns with mind intent,

      And from the hermit’s presence went.

      To Ambarísha thus he spake:

      “Let us our onward journey take.

      Haste to thy home, O King, nor stay

      The lustral rites with slow delay.”

      The boy’s address the monarch cheered,

      And soon the sacred ground he neared.

      The convocation’s high decree

      Declared the youth from blemish free;

      Clothed in red raiment he was tied

      A victim at the pillar’s side.

      There bound, the Fire-God’s hymn he raised,

      And Indra and Upendra praised.

      Thousand-eyed Vishṇu, pleased to hear

      The mystic laud, inclined his ear,

      And won by worship, swift to save,

      Long life to Śunahśepha gave.

      The king in bounteous measure gained

      The fruit of sacrifice ordained,

      By grace of Him who rules the skies,

      Lord Indra of the thousand eyes.

      And Viśvámitra evermore.

      Pursued his task on Pushkar’s shore

      Until a thousand years had past

      In fierce austerity and fast.

      Canto 63. Menaká.

      A thousand years had thus flown by

      When all the Gods within the sky,

      Eager that he the fruit might gain

      Of fervent rite and holy pain,

      Approached the great ascetic, now

      Bathed after toil and ended vow.

      Then Brahmá speaking for the rest

      With sweetest words the sage addressed:

      “Hail, Saint! This high and holy name

      Thy rites have won, thy merits claim.”

      Thus spoke the Lord whom Gods revere,

      And sought again his heavenly sphere.

      But Viśvámitra, more intent,

      His mind to sterner penance bent.

      So many a season rolled away,

      When Menaká, fair nymph, one day

      Came down from Paradise to lave

      Her perfect limbs in Pushkar’s wave,

      The glorious son of Kuśik saw

      That peerless shape without a flaw

      Flash through the flood’s translucent shroud

      Like lightning gleaming through a cloud.

      He saw her in that lone retreat,

      Most beautiful from head to feet,

And by Kandarpa’s1 might subdued

      He thus addressed her as he viewed:

      “Welcome, sweet nymph! O deign, I pray,

      In these calm shades awhile to stay.

      To me some gracious favour show,

      For love has set my breast aglow.”

      He spoke. The fairest of the fair

      Made for awhile her dwelling there,

      While day by day the wild delight

      Stayed vow austere and fervent rite

      There as the winsome charmer wove

      Her spells around him in the grove,

      And bound him in a

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