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.'
Bhagirath, 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 favor deigns,
And my long toil its fruit obtains,
Let Sagar's sons receive from me
Libations that they long to see.
Let Ganga 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 Ikshvaku's race,'
The Sire, when thus the King had prayed,
In sweet kind words his answer made:--
'High, high thy thought and wishes are,
Bhagirath of the mighty car!
Ikshvaku's line is blest in thee,
And as thou prayest it shall be.
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