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      His head in adoration bowed,

      Thus spoke he to the Immortal crowd:

      “If I, ye Gods, have gained at last

      Both length of days and Bráhman caste,

      Grant that the high mysterious name,

      And holy Vedas, own my claim,

      And that the formula to bless

      The sacrifice, its lord confess.

      And let Vaśishṭha, who excels

      In Warriors’ art and mystic spells,

      In love of God without a peer,

      Confirm the boon you promise here.”

      With Brahmá‘s son Vaśishṭha, best

      Of those who pray with voice repressed,

      The Gods by earnest prayer prevailed,

      And thus his new-made friend he hailed:

      “Thy title now is sure and good

      To rights of saintly Bráhmanhood.”

      Thus spake the sage. The Gods, content,

      Back to their heavenly mansions went.

      And Viśvámitra, pious-souled,

      Among the Bráhman saints enrolled,

      On reverend Vaśishṭha pressed

      The honours due to holy guest.

      Successful in his high pursuit,

      The sage, in penance resolute,

      Walked in his pilgrim wanderings o’er

      The whole broad land from shore to shore.

      ’Twas thus the saint, O Raghu’s son,

      His rank among the Bráhmans won.

      Best of all hermits, Prince, is he;

      In him incarnate Penance see.

      Friend of the right, who shrinks from ill,

      Heroic powers attend him still.”

      The Bráhman, versed in ancient lore,

      Thus closed his tale, and said no more,

      To Śatánanda Kuśik’s son

      Cried in delight, Well done! well done!

      Then Janak, at the tale amazed,

      Spoke thus with suppliant hands upraised:

      “High fate is mine, O Sage, I deem,

      And thanks I owe for bliss supreme,

      That thou and Raghu’s children too

      Have come my sacrifice to view.

      To look on thee with blessed eyes

      Exalts my soul and purifies.

      Yea, thus to see thee face to face

      Enriches me with store of grace.

      Thy holy labours wrought of old,

      And mighty penance, fully told,

      Ráma and I with great delight

      Have heard, O glorious Anchorite.

      Unrivalled thine ascetic deeds:

      Thy might, O Saint, all might exceeds.

      No thought may scan, no limit bound

      The virtues that in thee are found.

      The story of thy wondrous fate

      My thirsty ears can never sate.

      The hour of evening rites is near:

      The sun declines in swift career.

      At early dawn, O Hermit, deign

      To let me see thy face again.

      Best of ascetics, part in bliss:

      Do thou thy servant now dismiss.”

      The saint approved, and glad and kind

      Dismissed the king with joyful mind

      Around the sage King Janak went

      With priests and kinsmen reverent.

      Then Viśvámitra, honoured so,

      By those high-minded, rose to go,

      And with the princes took his way

      To seek the lodging where they lay.

      Canto 66. Janak’s Speech.

      With cloudless lustre rose the sun;

      The king, his morning worship done,

      Ordered his heralds to invite

      The princes and the anchorite.

      With honour, as the laws decree,

      The monarch entertained the three.

      Then to the youths and saintly man

      Videha’s lord this speech began:

      “O blameless Saint, most welcome thou!

      If I may please thee tell me how.

      Speak, mighty lord, whom all revere,

      ’Tis thine to order, mine to hear.”

      Thus he on mighty thoughts intent;

      Then thus the sage most eloquent:

      “King Daśaratha’s sons, this pair

      Of warriors famous everywhere,

      Are come that best of bows to see

      That lies a treasure stored by thee.

      This, mighty Janak, deign to show,

      That they may look upon the bow,

      And then, contented, homeward go.”

      Then royal Janak spoke in turn:

      “O best of Saints, the story learn

      Why this famed bow, a noble prize,

      A treasure in my palace lies.

      A monarch, Devarát by name,

      Who sixth from ancient Nimi came,

      Held it as ruler of the land,

      A pledge in his successive hand.

      This bow the mighty Rudra bore

At Daksha’s1 sacrifice of yore,

      When carnage of the Immortals stained

      The rite that Daksha had ordained.

      Then as the Gods sore wounded fled,

      Victorious Rudra, mocking, said:

      “Because, O Gods, ye gave me naught

      When I my rightful portion sought,

      Your dearest parts I will not spare,

      But with my bow your frames will tear.”

      The Sons of Heaven, in wild alarm,

      Soft flatteries tried his rage to charm.

      Then Bhava, Lord whom Gods adore,

      Grew kind and friendly as before,

      And every torn and mangled limb

      Was safe and sound restored by him.

      Thenceforth this bow, the gem of bows,

      That

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