Won by the rite the glorious prize
Still in his royal palace lies--
Laid up in oil of precious scent
With aloes-wood and incense blent."
Then Rama answering, "Be it so,"
Made ready with the rest to go.
The saint himself was now prepared,
But ere beyond the grove he fared,
He turned him and in words like these
Addressed the sylvan deities:--
"Farewell! each holy rite complete,
I leave the hermits' perfect seat:
To Ganga's northern shore I go
Beneath Himalaya's peaks of snow."
With reverent steps he paced around
The limits of the holy ground--
And then the mighty saint set forth
And took his journey to the north.
His pupils, deep in Scripture's page,
Followed behind the holy sage,
And servants from the sacred grove
A hundred wains for convoy drove.
The very birds that winged that air,
The very deer that harbored there,
Forsook the glade and leafy brake
And followed for the hermits' sake.
They travelled far, till in the west
The sun was speeding to his rest,
And made, their portioned journey o'er,
Their halt on Sona's distant shore.
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