That night they slept and took their rest; And then the mighty saint addressed, With pleasant smile and accents mild These words to Raghu's princely child:-- "Well pleased am I. High fate be thine, Thou scion of a royal line. Now will I, for I love thee so, All heavenly arms on thee bestow. Victor with these, whoe'er oppose, Thy hand shall conquer all thy foes-- Though Gods and spirits of the air, Serpents and fiends, the conflict dare. I'll give thee as a pledge of love The mystic arms they use above, For worthy thou to have revealed The weapons I have learnt to wield. First, son of Raghu, shall be thine The arm of Vengeance, strong, divine: The arm of Fate, the arm of Right, And Vishnu's arm of awful might:-- That, before which no foe can stand, The thunderbolt of Indra's hand; And Śiva's trident, sharp and dread, And that dire weapon, Brahmá's Head. And two fair clubs, O royal child, One Charmer and one Pointed styled-- With flame of lambent fire aglow, On thee, O Chieftain, I bestow. And Fate's dread net and Justice' noose That none may conquer, for thy use:-- And the great cord, renowned of old, Which Varun ever loves to hold. Take these two thunderbolts, which I Have got for thee, the Moist and Dry. Here Śiva's dart to thee I yield, And that which Vishnu wont to wield. I give to thee the arm of Fire, Desired by all and named the Spire. To thee I grant the Wind-God's dart, Named Crusher, O thou pure of heart. This arm, the Horse's Head, accept, And this, the Curlew's Bill yclept, And these two spears, the best e'er flew, Named the Invincible and True. And arms of fiends I make thine own, Skull-wreath and mace that smashes bone. And Joyous, which the spirits bear, Great weapon of the sons of air. Brave offspring of the best of lords, I give thee now the Gem of swords-- And offer next, thine hand to arm, The heavenly bard's beloved charm. Now with two arms I thee invest Of never-ending Sleep and Rest-- With weapons of the Sun and Rain, And those that dry and burn amain; And strong Desire with conquering touch, The dart that Káma prizes much. I give the arm of shadowy powers That bleeding flesh of man devours. I give the arms the God of Gold And giant fiends exult to hold. This smites the foe in battle-strife, And takes his fortune, strength, and life. I give the arms called False and True, And great Illusion give I too; The hero's arm called Strong and Bright That spoils the foeman's strength in fight. I give thee as a priceless boon The Dew, the weapon of the Moon, And add the weapon, deftly planned, That strengthens Viśvakarmá's hand. The Mortal dart whose point is chill, And Slaughter, ever sure to kill; All these and other arms, for thou