very priest in presence there
With one accord resigned his share.
To Saint Vasishtha, high of soul,
And Rishyasring they gave the whole.
That largess pleased those Brahmans well,
Who bade the prince his wishes tell.
Then Dasaratha, mighty king,
Made answer thus to Rishyasring:
"O holy Hermit, of thy grace,
Vouchsafe the increase of my race."
He spoke; nor was his prayer denied:
The best of Brahmans thus replied:
"Four sons, O Monarch, shall be thine,
Upholders of thy royal line."

Canto XIV. Ravan Doomed.

The saint, well read in holy lore,
Pondered awhile his answer o'er,
And thus again addressed the king,
His wandering thoughts regathering:
"Another rite will I begin
Which shall the sons thou cravest win,
Where all things shall be duly sped
And first Atharva texts be read."

Then by Vibhandak's gentle son
Was that high sacrifice begun,
The king's advantage seeking still
And zealous to perform his will.
Now all the Gods had gathered there,
Each one for his allotted share:
Brahma, the ruler of the sky,
Sthanu, Narayan, Lord most high,
And holy Indra men might view
With Maruts(105) for his retinue;
The heavenly chorister, and saint,
And spirit pure from earthly taint,
With one accord had sought the place
The high-souled monarch's rite to grace.
Then to the Gods who came to take
Their proper share the hermit spake:
"For you has Dasaratha slain
The votive steed, a son to gain;
Stern penance-rites the king has tried,
And in firm faith on you relied,
And now with undiminished care
A second rite would fain prepare.
But, O ye Gods, consent to grant
The longing of your supplicant.
For him beseeching hands I lift,
And pray you all to grant the gift,
That four fair sons of high renown
The offerings of the king may crown."
They to the hermit's son replied:
"His longing shall be gratified.
For, Brahman, in most high degree
We love the king and honour thee."

These words the Gods in answer said,
And vanished thence by Indra led.
Thus to the Lord, the worlds who made,
The Immortals all assembled prayed:
"O Brahma, mighty by thy grace,
Ravan, who rules the giant race,
Torments us in his senseless pride,
And penance-loving saints beside.
For thou well pleased in days of old
Gavest the boon that makes him bold,
That God nor demon e'er should kill
His charmed life, for so thy will.
We, honouring that high behest,
Bear all his rage though sore distressed.
That lord of giants fierce and fel