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hermit to beguile.

      The sweet note of that tuneful bird

      The saint with ravished bosom heard,

      And on his heart a rapture passed

      As on the nymph a look he cast.

      But when he heard the bird prolong

      His sweet incomparable song,

      And saw the nymph with winning smile,

      The hermit’s heart perceived the wile.

      And straight he knew the Thousand-eyed

      A plot against his peace had tried.

      Then Kuśik’s son indignant laid

      His curse upon the heavenly maid:

      “Because thou wouldst my soul engage

      Who fight to conquer love and rage,

      Stand, till ten thousand years have flown,

      Ill-fated maid, transformed to stone.

      A Bráhman then, in glory strong,

      Mighty through penance stern and long,

      Shall free thee from thine altered shape;

      Thou from my curse shalt then escape.”

      But when the saint had cursed her so,

      His breast was burnt with fires of woe,

      Grieved that long effort to restrain

      His mighty wrath was all in vain.

      Cursed by the angry sage’s power,

      She stood in stone that selfsame hour.

      Kandarpa heard the words he said,

      And quickly from his presence fled.

      His fall beneath his passion’s sway

      Had reft the hermit’s meed away.

      Unconquered yet his secret foes,

      The humbled saint refused repose:

      “No more shall rage my bosom till,

      Sealed be my lips, my tongue be still.

      My very breath henceforth I hold

      Until a thousand years are told:

      Victorious o’er each erring sense,

      I’ll dry my frame with abstinence,

      Until by penance duly done

      A Bráhman’s rank be bought and won.

      For countless years, as still as death,

      I taste no food, I draw no breath,

      And as I toil my frame shall stand

      Unharmed by time’s destroying hand.”

      Canto 65. Visvámitra’s Triumph

      Then from Himálaya’s heights of snow,

      The glorious saint prepared to go,

      And dwelling in the distant east

      His penance and his toil increased.

      A thousand years his lips he held

      Closed by a vow unparalleled,

      And other marvels passing thought,

      Unrivalled in the world, he wrought.

      In all the thousand years his frame

      Dry as a log of wood became.

      By many a cross and check beset,

      Rage had not stormed his bosom yet.

      With iron will that naught could bend

      He plied his labour till the end.

      So when the weary years were o’er,

      Freed from his vow so stern and sore,

      The hermit, all his penance sped,

      Sate down to eat his meal of bread.

      Then Indra, clad in Bráhman guise,

      Asked him for food with hungry eyes.

      The mighty saint, with steadfast soul,

      To the false Bráhman gave the whole,

      And when no scrap for him remained,

      Fasting and faint, from speech refrained.

      His silent vow he would not break:

      No breath he heaved, no word he spake,

      Then as he checked his breath, behold!

      Around his brow thick smoke-clouds rolled

      And the three worlds, as if o’erspread

      With ravening flames, were filled with dread.

      Then God and saint and bard, convened,

      And Nága lord, and snake, and fiend,

      Thus to the General Father cried,

      Distracted, sad, and terrified:

      “Against the hermit, sore assailed,

      Lure, scathe, and scorn have naught availed,

      Proof against rage and treacherous art

      He keeps his vow with constant heart.

      Now if his toils assist him naught

      To gain the boon his soul has sought,

      He through the worlds will ruin send

      That fixt and moving things shall end,

      The regions now are dark with doom,

      No friendly ray relieves the gloom.

      Each ocean foams with maddened tide,

      The shrinking hills in fear subside.

      Trembles the earth with feverous throe

      The wind in fitful tempest blows.

      No cure we see with troubled eyes:

      And atheist brood on earth may rise.

      The triple world is wild with care,

      Or spiritless in dull despair.

      Before that saint the sun is dim,

      His blessed light eclipsed by him.

      Now ere the saint resolve to bring

      Destruction on each living thing,

      Let us appease, while yet we may,

      Him bright as fire, like fire to slay.

      Yea, as the fiery flood of Fate

      Lays all creation desolate,

      He o’er the conquered Gods may reign:

      O, grant him what he longs to gain.”

      Then all the Blest, by Brahmá led,

      Approached the saint and sweetly said:

      “Hail, Bráhman Saint! for such thy place:

      Thy vows austere have won our grace.

      A Bráhman’s rank thy penance stern

      And ceaseless labour richly earn.

      I with the Gods of Storm decree

      Long life, O Bráhman Saint, to thee.

      May peace and joy thy soul possess:

      Go where thou wilt in happiness.”

      Thus by the General Sire addressed,

      Joy

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