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 noble 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