'Tis meet and right in many a way That I to thee should honor pay. This seems a marvel to mine eyes-- All sin thy visit purifies; And I by seeing thee, O Sage, Have reaped the fruit of pilgrimage. Then say what thou wouldst have me do. That thou hast sought this interview. Favored by thee, my wish is still, O Hermit, to perform thy will. Nor needest thou at length explain The object that thy heart would gain. Without reserve I grant it now-- My deity, O Lord, art thou." The glorious hermit, far renowned. With highest fame and virtue crowned, Rejoiced these modest words to hear Delightful to the mind and ear. CANTO XXI VIŚVÁMITRA'S SPEECH 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, Vaśishtha 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 Ráma'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 Ráma, 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 Ráma well