th Yavans, troubled, flee and fall.

Canto LV. The Hermitage Burnt.

So o'er the field that host lay strown,
By Visvamitra's darts o'erthrown.
Then thus Vasishtha charged the cow:
"Create with all thy vigour now."

Forth sprang Kambojas, as she lowed;
Bright as the sun their faces glowed,
Forth from her udder Barbars poured,--
Soldiers who brandished spear and sword,--
And Yavans with their shafts and darts,
And Sakas from her hinder parts.
And every pore upon her fell,
And every hair-producing cell,
With Mlechchhas(229) and Kiratas(230) teemed,
And forth with them Haritas streamed.
And Visvamitra's mighty force,
Car, elephant, and foot, and horse,
Fell in a moment's time, subdued
By that tremendous multitude.
The monarch's hundred sons, whose eyes
Beheld the rout in wild surprise,
Armed with all weapons, mad with rage,
Rushed fiercely on the holy sage.
One cry he raised, one glance he shot,
And all fell scorched upon the spot:
Burnt by the sage to ashes, they
With horse, and foot, and chariot, lay.
The monarch mourned, with shame and pain,
His army lost, his children slain,
Like Ocean when his roar is hushed,
Or some great snake whose fangs are crushed:
Or as in swift eclipse the Sun
Dark with the doom he cannot shun:
Or a poor bird with mangled wing--
So, reft of sons and host, the king
No longer, by ambition fired,
The pride of war his breast inspired.
He gave his empire to his son--
Of all he had, the only one:
And bade him rule as kings are taught
Then straight a hermit-grove he sought.
Far to Himalaya's side he fled,
Which bards and Nagas visited,
And, Mahadeva's(231) grace to earn,
He gave his life to penance stern.
A lengthened season thus passed by,
When Siva's self, the Lord most High,
Whose banner shows the pictured bull,(232)
Appeared, the God most bountiful:

"Why fervent thus in toil and pain?
What brings thee here? what boon to gain?
Thy heart's desire, O Monarch, speak:
I grant the boons which mortals seek."
The king, his adoration paid,
To Mahadeva answer made:
"If thou hast deemed me fit to win
Thy favour, O thou void of sin,
On me, O mighty God, bestow
The wondrous science of the bow,
All mine, complete in every part,
With secret spell and mystic art.
To me be all the arms revealed
That Gods, and saints, and Titans wield,
And every dart that arms the hands
Of spirits, fiends and minstrel bands,
Be mine, O Lord supreme in place,
This token of thy boundless