NOW Dasaratha's pious mind Meet wedlock for his sons designed; With priests and friends the King began To counsel and prepare his plan.

Such thoughts engaged his bosom, when, To see Ayodhya's lord of men, A mighty saint of glorious fame, The hermit Visvamitra came.

For evil fiends that roam by night Disturbed him in each holy rite, And in their strength and frantic rage a.s.sailed with witcheries the sage.

He came to seek the monarch's aid To guard the rites the demons stayed, Unable to a close to bring One unpolluted offering.

Seeking the King in this dire strait He said to those who kept the gate:-- "Haste, warders, to your master run, And say that here stands Gadhi's son."

Soon as they heard the holy man, To the King's chamber swift they ran With minds disordered all, and spurred To wildest zeal by what they heard.

On to the royal hall they sped, There stood and lowly bowed the head, And made the lord of men aware That the great saint was waiting there.

The King with priest and peer arose And ran the sage to meet, As Indra from his palace goes Lord Brahma's self to greet.

When glowing with celestial light The pious hermit was in sight, The King, whose mien his transport showed, The honored gift for guests bestowed.

Nor did the saint that gift despise, Offered as holy texts advise; He kindly asked the earth's great King How all with him was prospering.

The son of Kusik bade him tell If all in town and field were well, All well with friends, and kith and kin, And royal treasure stored within:-- "Do all thy neighbors own thy sway?

Thy foes confess thee yet?

Dost thou continue still to pay To G.o.ds and men each debt?"

Then he, of hermits first and best, Vasishtha with a smile addressed, And asked him of his welfare too, Showing him honor as was due.

Then with the sainted hermit all Went joyous to the monarch's hall, And sate them down by due degree, Each one, of rank and dignity.

Joy filled the n.o.ble prince's breast Who thus bespoke the honored guest:-- "As Amrit by a mortal found, As rain upon the thirsty ground, As to an heirless man a son Born to him of his precious one-- As gain of what we sorely miss, As sudden dawn of mighty bliss, So is thy coming here to me-- All welcome, mighty Saint, to thee.

What wish within thy heart hast thou!

If I can please thee, tell me how.

Hail, Saint, from whom all honors flow, Worthy of all I can bestow.

Blest is my birth with fruit to-day, Nor has my life been thrown away.

I see the best of Brahman race, And night to glorious morn gives place.

Thou, holy Sage, in days of old Among the royal saints enrolled, Didst, penance-glorified, within The Brahman caste high station win.

'Tis meet and right in many a way That I to thee should honor pay.

This seems a marvel to mine eyes-- All sin thy visit purifies; And I by seeing thee, O Sage, Have reaped the fruit of pilgrimage.

Then say what thou wouldst have me do.

That thou hast sought this interview.

Favored by thee, my wish is still, O Hermit, to perform thy will.

Nor needest thou at length explain The object that thy heart would gain.

Without reserve I grant it now-- My deity, O Lord, art thou."

The glorious hermit, far renowned.

With highest fame and virtue crowned, Rejoiced these modest words to hear Delightful to the mind and ear.

CANTO XXI

VISVaMITRA'S SPEECH

The hermit heard with high content That speech so wondrous eloquent, And while each hair with joy arose, He thus made answer at the close:-- "Good is thy speech, O n.o.ble King, And like thyself in everything.

So should their lips be wisdom-fraught Whom kings begot, Vasishtha taught.

The favor which I came to seek Thou grantest ere my tongue can speak.

But let my tale attention claim, And hear the need for which I came.

O King, as Scripture texts allow, A holy rite employs me now.

Two fiends who change their forms at will Impede that rite with cursed skill.

Oft when the task is nigh complete, These worst of fiends my toil defeat, Throw bits of bleeding flesh, and o'er The altar shed a stream of gore.

When thus the rite is mocked and stayed.

And all my pious hopes delayed, Cast down in heart the spot I leave, And spent with fruitless labor grieve.

Nor can I, checked by prudence, dare Let loose my fury on them there-- The muttered curse, the threatening word, In such a rite must ne'er be heard.

Thy grace the rite from check can free, And yield the fruit I long to see.

Thy duty bids thee, King, defend The suffering guest, the suppliant friend.

Give me thy son, thine eldest born, Whom locks like raven's wings adorn.

That hero youth, the truly brave, Of thee, O glorious King, I crave.

For he can lay those demons low Who mar my rites and work me woe: My power shall shield the youth from harm, And heavenly might shall nerve his arm.

And on my champion will I shower Unnumbered gifts of varied power-- Such gifts as shall ensure his fame And spread through all the worlds his name.

Be sure those fiends can never stand Before the might of Rama's hand, And mid the best and bravest none Can slay that pair but Raghu's son.

Entangled in the toils of Fate Those sinners, proud and obstinate, Are, in their fury overbold, No match for Rama, mighty-souled.

Nor let a father's breast give way Too far to fond affection's sway.

Count thou the fiends already slain: My word is pledged, nor pledged in vain.

I know the hero Rama well In whom high thoughts and valor dwell; So does Vasishtha, so do these Engaged in long austerities.

If thou would do the righteous deed, And win high fame, thy virtue's meed, Fame that on earth shall last and live, To me, great King, thy Rama give.

If to the words that I have said, With Saint Vasishtha at their head Thy holy men, O King, agree, Then let thy Rama go with me.

Ten nights my sacrifice will last, And ere the stated time be past Those wicked fiends, those impious twain, Must fall by wondrous Rama slain.

Let not the hours, I warn thee, fly, Fixt for the rite, unheeded by; Good luck have thou, O royal Chief, Nor give thy heart to needless grief."

Thus in fair words with virtue fraught, The pious glorious saint besought.

But the good speech with poignant sting Pierced ear and bosom of the King, Who, stabbed with pangs too sharp to bear, Fell prostrate and lay fainting there.

CANTO XXII

DASARATHA'S SPEECH

His tortured senses all astray, Awhile the hapless monarch lay, Then slowly gathering thought and strength To Visvamitra spoke at length:-- "My son is but a child, I ween; This year he will be just sixteen.

How is he fit for such emprise, My darling with the lotus eyes?

A mighty army will I bring That calls me master, lord, and King, And with its countless squadrons fight Against these rovers of the night.

My faithful heroes skilled to wield The arms of war will take the field; Their skill the demons' might may break: Rama, my child, thou must not take.

I, even I, my bow in hand, Will in the van of battle stand, And, while my soul is left alive, With the night-roaming demons strive.

Thy guarded sacrifice shall be Completed, from all hindrance free.

Thither will I my journey make: Rama, my child, thou must not take.

A boy unskilled, he knows not yet The bounds to strength and weakness set.

No match is he for demon foes Who magic arts to arms oppose.

O chief of saints, I have no power, Of Rama reft, to live one hour-- Mine aged heart at once would break: Rama, my child, thou must not take.

Nine thousand circling years have fled With all their seasons o'er my head, And as a hard-won boon, O Sage, These sons have come to cheer mine age.

My dearest love amid the four Is he whom first his mother bore, Still dearer for his virtue's sake; Rama, my child, thou must not take.

But if, unmoved by all I say, Thou needs must bear my son away, Let me lead with him, I entreat, A fourfold army all complete.

What is the demons' might, O Sage?

Who are they? What their parentage?

What is their size? What beings lend Their power to guard them and befriend?

How can my son their arts withstand?

Or I or all my armed band?

Tell me the whole that I may know To met in war each evil foe Whom conscious might inspires with pride."

And Visvamitra thus replied:-- "Sprung from Pulastya's race there came A giant known by Ravan's name.

Once favored by the Eternal Sire He plagues the worlds in ceaseless ire, For peerless power and might renowned, By giant bands encompa.s.sed round.

Visravas for his sire they hold, His brother is the Lord of Gold.

King of the giant hosts is he, And worst of all in cruelty.

This Ravan's dread commands impel Two demons who in might excel, Maricha and Suvahu Light, To trouble and impede the rite."