So thought the royal youth of his sad doom,
  When lo! a spotless figure, with a bow,
  A pouch with arrows dangling on her back,
  A hatchet in her hand for cutting wood,
  And with a pitcher on her head, appeared. 
  Here every day she came to gather wood,
  And, dressed in male attire, her heavy load
  Took to the nearest town, sold it, then reached,
  At close of day to cook the ev’ning meal,
  Her cottage on the outskirts of the wood,
  Where, with her sire, bent down with years, she lived,
  And dragged her daily miserable life. 
  Such was the maid that was upon that day,
  As if by instinct, drawn to the fair youth,
  And such the huntress Radha he beheld. 
  A fairer woman never breathed the air—­
  No, not in all the land of Panchala.

  The maid in pity saw his wretched plight,
  Then from the pitcher took her midday meal,
  And soon relieved his hunger and his thirst. 
  The grateful prince, delighted, told his tale,
  And she, well pleased, thus spake:  “Fair youth! grieve not,
  Behold the brook that yonder steals along,
  To this the tiger comes at noon to quench
  His thirst.  Then, safely perched upon a tree,
  We can for ever check his deadly course,”
  Both went, and saw at the expected hour
  The monarch of the forest near the brook. 
  In quick succession, lightning-like from them
  The arrows flew, and in a moment fell
  His massive body lifeless on the ground. 
  Then vowing oft to meet his valiant friend,
  The prince returned, and with the happy news
  Appeared before the king, who blest his son
  And said:  “My son! well hast thou done the deed;
  Thy life thou hast endangered for my men;
  Ask anything and I will give it thee.” 
  “I want not wealth nor power,” the prince replied,
  “But, noble father I one request I make. 
  I chanced to meet a huntress in the wood,
  And Radha is her name; she saved my life. 
  I but for her had died a lingering death,
  Her valour and her beauty I admire,
  And therefore grant me leave to marry her.”

  The king spake not, but forthwith gave command
  To banish from his home the reckless youth,
  Who brought disgrace upon his royal house,
  And who, he wished, should wed one worthy of
  The noble race of ancient Panchala. 
  Poor youth! he left his country and his home,
  He that was dreaded by his foes was gone.

  Vain lust of power impelled the neighbouring king,
  The traitor who usurped his sovereign’s throne,
  To march on Panchala with all his men. 
  He went, and to the helpless king proclaimed—­
  “Thou knowest well my armies are the best
  On earth, and folly it will be in thee
  To stand ’gainst them and shed thy people’s blood. 
  Send forth thy greatest archer, and with him
  My prowess I will try:  this will decide