rse us all infuriate.
So let us in these rites engage,
As ordered by the holy sage.
And with our best endeavour strive
That King Ikshvaku's son, alive,
In body to the skies may go
By his great might who wills it so."

Then was the rite begun with care:
All requisites and means were there:
And glorious Visvamitra lent
His willing aid as president.
And all the sacred rites were done
By rule and use, omitting none.
By chaplain-priest, the hymns who knew,
In decent form and order due.
Some time in sacrifice had past,
And Visvamitra made, at last,
The solemn offering with the prayer
That all the Gods might come and share.
But the Immortals, one and all,
Refused to hear the hermit's call.

Then red with rage his eyeballs blazed:
The sacred ladle high he raised,
And cried to King Ikshvaku's son:
"Behold my power, by penance won:
Now by the might my merits lend,
Ikshvaku's child, to heaven ascend.
In living frame the skies attain,
Which mortals thus can scarcely gain.
My vows austere, so long endured,
Have, as I ween, some fruit assured.
Upon its virtue, King, rely,
And in thy body reach the sky."

His speech had scarcely reached its close,
When, as he stood, the sovereign rose,
And mounted swiftly to the skies
Before the wondering hermits' eyes.

But Indra, when he saw the king
His blissful regions entering,
With all the army of the Blest
Thus cried unto the unbidden guest:
"With thy best speed, Trisanku, flee:
Here is no home prepared for thee.
By thy great master's curse brought low,
Go, falling headlong, earthward go."

Thus by the Lord of Gods addressed,
Trisanku fell from fancied rest,
And screaming in his swift descent,
"O, save me, Hermit!" down he went.
And Visvamitra heard his cry,
And marked him falling from the sky,
And giving all his passion sway,
Cried out in fury, "Stay, O stay!"
By penance-power and holy lore,
Like Him who framed the worlds of yore,
Seven other saints he fixed on high
To star with light the southern sky.
Girt with his sages forth he went,
And southward in the firmament
New wreathed stars prepared to set
In many a sparkling coronet.
He threatened, blind with rage and hate,
Another Indra to create,
Or, from his throne the ruler hurled,
All Indraless to leave the world.
Yea, borne away by passion's storm,
The sage began new Gods to form.
But then each Titan, God, and saint,
Confused with terror, sick and faint,
To high souled Visvamitra hied,
And with