I give thee as a priceless boon
The Dew, the weapon of the Moon,
And add the weapon, deftly planned,
That strengthens Visvakarma's hand.
The Mortal dart whose point is chill,
And Slaughter, ever sure to kill;
All these and other arms, for thou
Art very dear, I give thee now.
Receive these weapons from my hand,
Son of the noblest in the land."
Facing the east, the glorious saint
Pure from all spot of earthly taint,
To Rama, with delighted mind,
That noble host of spells consigned.
He taught the arms, whose lore is won
Hardly by Gods, to Raghu's son.
He muttered low the spell whose call
Summons those arms and rules them all--
And each, in visible form and frame,
Before the monarch's son they came.
They stood and spoke in reverent guise
To Rama with exulting cries:--
"O noblest child of Raghu, see,
Thy ministers and thralls are we."
With joyful heart and eager hand
Rama received the wondrous band,
And thus with words of welcome cried:--
"Aye present to my will abide"--
Then hasted to the saint to pay
Due reverence, and pursued his way.
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