The queen Ghritachi, nymph most fair,
    Married to Kusanabha, bare
    A hundred daughters lovely faced,
    With every charm and beauty graced. 
    It chanced the maidens, bright and gay
    As lightning-flashes on a day
    Of rain-time, to the garden went
    With song and play and merriment—­
    And there in gay attire they strayed,
    And danced, and laughed, and sang, and played. 
    The God of Wind who roves at will
    All places, as he lists, to fill,
    Saw the young maidens dancing there,
    Of faultless shape and mien most fair—­
    “I love you all, sweet girls,” he cried,
    “And each shall be my darling bride. 
    Forsake, forsake your mortal lot,
    And gain a life that withers not. 
    A fickle thing is youth’s brief span,
    And more than all is mortal man. 
    Receive unending youth, and be
    Immortal, O my loves, with me,”
    The hundred girls, to wonder stirred,
    The wooing of the Wind-God heard,
    Laughed, as a jest, his suit aside,
    And with one voice they thus replied:—­
    “O mighty Wind, free spirit who
    All life pervadest, through and through—­
    Thy wondrous power we maidens know;
    Then wherefore wilt thou mock us so? 
    Our sire is Kusanabha, King;
    And we, forsooth, have charms to bring
    A God to woo us from the skies;
    But honor first we maidens prize. 
    Far may the hour, we pray, be hence,
    When we, O thou of little sense,
    Our truthful father’s choice refuse,
    And for ourselves our husbands choose. 
    Our honored sire our lord we deem,
    He is to us a God supreme—­
    And they to whom his high decree
    May give us shall our husbands be.”

    He heard the answer they returned,
    And mighty rage within him burned. 
    On each fair maid a blast he sent—­
    Each stately form he bowed and bent. 
    Bent double by the Wind-God’s ire
    They sought the palace of their sire,
    There fell upon the ground with sighs,
    While tears and shame were in their eyes. 
    The King himself, with, troubled brow,
    Saw his dear girls so fair but now,
    A mournful sight all bent and bowed—­
    And grieving, thus he cried aloud:—­
    “What fate is this, and what the cause? 
    What wretch has scorned all heavenly laws? 
    Who thus your forms could curve and break? 
    You struggle, but no answer make.” 
    They heard the speech of that wise king
    Of their misfortune questioning. 
    Again the hundred maidens sighed,
    Touched with their heads his feet, and cried:—­
    “The God of Wind, pervading space,
    Would bring on us a foul disgrace,
    And choosing folly’s evil way
    From virtue’s path in scorn would stray. 
    But we in words like these reproved
    The God of Wind whom passion