When th' eighth year passed The careful King bethought to teach his son All that a Prince should learn, for still he shunned The too vast presage of those miracles, The glories and the sufferings of a Buddh. So, in full council of his Ministers, "Who is the wisest man, great sirs," he asked, "To teach my Prince that which a Prince should know?" Whereto gave answer each with instant voice "King! Viswamitra is the wisest one, The farthest-seen in Scriptures, and the best In learning, and the manual arts, and all." Thus Viswamitra came and heard commands; And, on a day found fortunate, the Prince Took up his slate of ox-red sandal-wood, All-beautified by gems around the rim, And sprinkled smooth with dust of emery, These took he, and his writing-stick, and stood With eyes bent down before the Sage, who said, "Child, write this Scripture, speaking slow the verse 'Gayatri' named, which only High-born hear:-- "Om, tatsaviturvarenyam Bhargo devasya dhimahi Dhiyo yo na prachodayat." "Acharya, I write," meekly replied The Prince, and quickly on the dust he drew-- Not in one script, but many characters The sacred verse; Nagri and Dakshin, Ni, Mangal, Parusha, Yava, Tirthi, Uk, Darad, Sikhyani, Mana, Madhyachar, The pictured writings and the speech of signs, Tokens of cave-men and the sea-peoples, Of those who worship snakes beneath the earth, And those who flame adore and the sun's orb, The Magians and the dwellers on the mounds; Of all the nations all strange scripts he traced One after other with his writing-stick. Reading the master's verse in every tongue; And Viswamitra said, "It is enough, Let us to numbers.