of his bride
    Had called thy son his rites to guide—­
    Those rites are o’er, the steed is slain;
    Thy noble child is come again.” 
    Soon as the saint that speech had heard
    His spirit with desire was stirred
    To seek the city of the King
    And to his cot his son to bring. 
    With young disciples at his side
    Forth on his way the hermit hied,
    While peasants from their hamlets ran
    To reverence the holy man. 
    Each with his little gift of food,
    Forth came the village multitude,
    And, as they humbly bowed the head,
    “What may we do for thee?” they said. 
    Then he, of Brahmans first and best,
    The gathered people thus addressed:—­
    “Now tell me, for I fain would know,
    Why is it I am honored so?”
    They to the high-souled saint replied:—­
    “Our ruler is with thee allied. 
    Our master’s order we fulfil;
    O Brahman, let thy mind be still.”

    With joy the saintly hermit heard
    Each pleasant and delightful word,
    And poured a benediction down
    On King and ministers and town. 
    Glad at the words of that high saint
    Some servants hastened to acquaint
    Their King, rejoicing to impart
    The tidings that would cheer his heart. 
    Soon as the joyful tale he knew
    To meet the saint the monarch flew,
    The guest-gift in his hand he brought,
    And bowed before him and besought:—­
    “This day by seeing thee I gain
    Not to have lived my life in vain. 
    Now be not wroth with me, I pray,
    Because I wiled thy son away.” 
    The best of Brahmans answer made:—­
    “Be not, great lord of Kings, afraid. 
    Thy virtues have not failed to win
    My favor, O thou pure of sin.” 
    Then in the front the saint was placed,
    The King came next in joyous haste,
    And with him entered his abode,
    ’Mid glad acclaim as on they rode. 
    To greet the sage the reverent crowd
    Raised suppliant hands and humbly bowed. 
    Then from the palace many a dame
    Following well-dressed Santa came,
    Stood by the mighty saint and cried:—­
    “See, honor’s source, thy son’s dear bride.” 
    The saint, who every virtue knew,
    His arms around his daughter threw,
    And with a father’s rapture pressed
    The lady to his wondering breast. 
    Arising from the saint’s embrace
    She bowed her low before his face,
    And then, with palm to palm applied,
    Stood by her hermit father’s side. 
    He for his son, as laws ordain,
    Performed the rite that frees from stain,
    And, honored by the wise and good,
    With him departed to the wood.

CANTO XIX

THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCES