Next, Rishyasring, well-honored sage,
    And Santa, sought their hermitage. 
    The King himself, of prudent mind,
    Attended him, with troops behind,
    And all her men the town outpoured
    With Saint Vasishtha and their lord. 
    High mounted on a car of state,
    O’ercanopied fair Santa sate,
    Drawn by white oxen, while a band
    Of servants marched on either hand. 
    Great gifts of countless price she bore,
    With sheep and goats and gems in store. 
    Like Beauty’s self the lady shone
    With all the jewels she had on,
    As, happy in her sweet content,
    Peerless amid the fair she went. 
    Not Queen Paulomi’s self could be
    More loving to her lord than she. 
    She who had lived in happy ease,
    Honored with all her heart could please,
    While dames and kinsfolk ever vied
    To see her wishes gratified—­
    Soon as she knew her husband’s will
    Again to seek the forest, still
    Was ready for the hermit’s cot,
    Nor murmured at her altered lot. 
    The King attended to the wild
    That hermit and his own dear child,
    And in the centre of a throng
    Of noble courtiers rode along. 
    The sage’s son had let prepare
    A lodge within the wood, and there
    Awhile they lingered blithe and gay,
    Then, duly honored, went their way. 
    The glorious hermit Rishyasring
    Drew near and thus besought the King:—­
    “Return, my honored lord, I pray,
    Return, upon thy homeward way.” 
    The monarch, with the waiting crowd,
    Lifted his voice and wept aloud,
    And with eyes dripping still to each
    Of his good queens he spake this speech:—­
    “Kausalya and Sumitra dear,
    And thou, my sweet Kaikeyi, hear—­
    All upon Santa feast your gaze,
    The last time for a length of days.” 
    To ’Santa’s side the ladies leapt,
    And hung about her neck and wept,
    And cried, “O, happy be the life
    Of this great Brahman and his wife. 
    The Wind, the Fire, the Moon on high,
    The Earth, the Streams, the circling Sky,
    Preserve thee in the wood, true spouse,
    Devoted to thy husband’s vows. 
    And O dear Santa, ne’er neglect
    To pay the dues of meek respect
    To the great saint, thy husband’s sire,
    With all observance and with fire. 
    And, sweet one, pure of spot and blame. 
    Forget not thou thy husband’s claim;
    In every change, in good and ill,
    Let thy sweet words delight him still,
    And let thy worship constant be—­
    Her lord is woman’s deity. 
    To learn thy welfare, dearest friend,
    The King will many a Brahman send. 
    Let happy thoughts thy spirit cheer,
    And be not troubled, daughter dear.”