Its glades are full of deer at play,
And sweet birds sing on every spray.
Passed is the hideous wild--I feel
So sweet a tremor o'er me steal--
And hail with transport fresh and new
A land that is so fair to view.
Then tell me all, thou holy Sage,
And whose this pleasant hermitage
In which those wicked ones delight
To mar and kill each holy rite--
And with foul heart and evil deed
Thy sacrifice, great Saint, impede.
To whom, O Sage, belongs this land
In which thine altars ready stand?
'Tis mine to guard them, and to slay
The giants who the rites would stay.
All this, O best of saints, I burn
From thine own lips, my lord, to learn."
CANTO XXXI
THE PERFECT HERMITAGE
Thus spoke the prince of boundless might,
And thus replied the anchorite:--
"Chief of the mighty arm, of yore
Lord Vishnu, whom the Gods adore
For holy thought and rites austere,
Of penance made his dwelling here.
This ancient wood was called of old
Grove of the Dwarf, the mighty-souled--
And when perfection he attained
The grove the name of Perfect gained.
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