To Rama then they lowly bent,
    And round him in due reverence went—­
    To his command they answered, “Yea,”
    And as they came so went away. 
    When thus the arms had homeward flown,
    With pleasant words and modest tone,
    E’en as he walked, the prince began
    To question thus the holy man:—­
    “What cloudlike wood is that which near
    The mountain’s side I see appear? 
    O tell me, for I long to know: 
    Its pleasant aspect charms me so. 
    Its glades are full of deer at play,
    And sweet birds sing on every spray. 
    Passed is the hideous wild—­I feel
    So sweet a tremor o’er me steal—­
    And hail with transport fresh and new
    A land that is so fair to view. 
    Then tell me all, thou holy Sage,
    And whose this pleasant hermitage
    In which those wicked ones delight
    To mar and kill each holy rite—­
    And with foul heart and evil deed
    Thy sacrifice, great Saint, impede. 
    To whom, O Sage, belongs this land
    In which thine altars ready stand? 
    ’Tis mine to guard them, and to slay
    The giants who the rites would stay. 
    All this, O best of saints, I burn
    From thine own lips, my lord, to learn.”

CANTO XXXI

THE PERFECT HERMITAGE

    Thus spoke the prince of boundless might,
    And thus replied the anchorite:—­
    “Chief of the mighty arm, of yore
    Lord Vishnu, whom the Gods adore
    For holy thought and rites austere,
    Of penance made his dwelling here. 
    This ancient wood was called of old
    Grove of the Dwarf, the mighty-souled—­
    And when perfection he attained
    The grove the name of Perfect gained. 
    Bali of yore, Virochan’s son,
    Dominion over Indra won—­
    And when with power his proud heart swelled,
    O’er the three worlds his empire held. 
    When Bali then began a rite,
    The Gods and Indra in affright
    Sought Vishnu in this place of rest,
    And thus with prayers the God addressed:—­
    ’Bali, Virochan’s mighty son,
    His sacrifice has now begun: 
    Of boundless wealth, that demon king
    Is bounteous to each living thing. 
    Though suppliants flock from every side
    The suit of none is e’er denied. 
    Whate’er, where’er, howe’er the call,
    He hears the suit and gives to all. 
    Now with thine own illusive art
    Perform, O Lord, the helper’s part: 
    Assume a dwarfish form, and thus
    From fear and danger rescue us.’ 
    Thus in their dread the Immortals sued
    The God, a dwarfish shape indued:—­
    Before Virochan’s son he came,
    Three steps of land his only claim. 
    The boon obtained, in wondrous wise
    Lord Vishnu’s form increased in size;
    Through all the worlds, tremendous,