  When Sagar thus had bowed to fate, The lords and commons of the state Approved with ready heart and will Prince An?umÁn his throne to fill. He ruled, a mighty king, unblamed, Sire of DilÍpa justly famed. To him, his child and worthy heir, The king resigned his kingdom's care, And on HimÁlaya's pleasant side His task austere of penance plied. Bright as a God in clear renown He planned to bring pure GangÁ down. There on his fruitless hope intent Twice sixteen thousand years he spent, And in the grove of hermits stayed Till bliss in heaven his rites repaid. DilÍpa then, the good and great, Soon as he learnt his kinsmen's fate, Bowed down by woe, with troubled mind, [pg 054]Pondering long no cure could find. “How can I bring,” the mourner sighed, “To cleanse their dust, the heavenly tide? How can I give them rest, and save Their spirits with the offered wave?” Long with this thought his bosom skilled In holy discipline was filled. A son was born, BhagÍrath named, Above all men for virtue famed. DilÍpa many a rite ordained, And thirty thousand seasons reigned. But when no hope the king could see His kinsmen from their woe to free, The lord of men, by sickness tried, Obeyed the law of fate, and died; He left the kingdom to his son, And gained the heaven his deeds had won. The good BhagÍrath, royal sage, Had no fair son to cheer his age. He, great in glory, pure in will, Longing for sons was childless still. Then on one wish, one thought intent, Planning the heavenly stream's descent, Leaving his ministers the care And burden of his state to bear, Dwelling in far Gokarna194 he Engaged in long austerity. With senses checked, with arms upraised, Five fires195 around and o'er him blazed. Each weary month the hermit passed Breaking but once his awful fast. In winter's chill the brook his bed, In rain, the clouds to screen his head. Thousands of years he thus endured Till BrahmÁ's favour was assured, And the high Lord of living things Looked kindly on his sufferings. With trooping Gods the Sire came near The king who plied his task austere: “Blest Monarch, of a glorious race, Thy fervent rites have won my grace. Well hast thou wrought thine awful task: Some boon in turn, O Hermit, ask.” BhagÍrath, rich in glory's light, The hero with the arm of might, Thus to the Lord of earth and sky Raised suppliant hands and made reply: “If the great God his favour deigns, And my long toil its fruit obtains, Let Sagar's sons receive from me Libations that they long to see. Let GangÁ with her holy wave The ashes of the heroes lave, That so my kinsmen may ascend To heavenly bliss that ne'er shall end. And give, I pray, O God, a son, Nor let my house be all undone. Sire of the worlds! be this the grace Bestowed upon IkshvÁku's race.” |
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