ifter than the blast
Before the saint herself she cast.
There Dapple-skin before the saint
Stood moaning forth her sad complaint,
And wept and lowed: such tones as come
From wandering cloud or distant drum.
"O son of Brahma," thus cried she,
"Why hast thou thus forsaken me,
That the king's men, before thy face,
Bear off thy servant from her place?"

Then thus the Brahman saint replied
To her whose heart with woe was tried,
And grieving for his favourite's sake,
As to a suffering sister spake:
"I leave thee not: dismiss the thought;
Nor, duteous, hast thou failed in aught.
This king, o'erweening in the pride
Of power, has reft thee from my side.
Little, I ween, my strength could do
'Gainst him, a mighty warrior too.
Strong, as a soldier born and bred,--
Great, as a king whom regions dread.
See! what a host the conqueror leads,
With elephants, and cars, and steeds.
O'er countless bands his pennons fly;
So is he mightier far than I."
He spoke. Then she, in lowly mood,
To that high saint her speech renewed:
"So judge not they who wisest are:
The Brahman's might is mightier far.
For Brahmans strength from Heaven derive,
And warriors bow when Brahmans strive.
A boundless power 'tis thine to wield:
To such a king thou shouldst not yield,
Who, very mighty though he be,--
So fierce thy strength,--must bow to thee.
Command me, Saint. Thy power divine
Has brought me here and made me thine;
And I, howe'er the tyrant boast,
Will tame his pride and slay his host."
Then cried the glorious sage: "Create
A mighty force the foe to mate."

She lowed, and quickened into life,
Pahlavas,(226) burning for the strife,
King Visvamitra's army slew
Before the very leader's view.
The monarch in excessive ire,
His eyes with fury darting fire,
Rained every missile on the foe
Till all the Pahlavas were low.
She, seeing all her champions slain,
Lying by thousands on the plain.
Created, by her mere desire,
Yavans and Sakas, fierce and dire.
And all the ground was overspread
With Yavans and with Sakas dread:
A host of warriors bright and strong,
And numberless in closest throng:
The threads within the lotus stem,
So densely packed, might equal them.
In gold-hued mail 'against war's attacks,
Each bore a sword and battle-axe,
The royal host, where'er these came,
Fell as if burnt with ravening flame.

The monarch, famous through the world
Again his fearful weapons hurled,
That made Kambojas,(227) Barbars,(228) all,
Wi