Mârkandeya Purâna, Books VII and VIII

Books VII and VIII.
JOURNAL OF THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY.
{Scanned and edited by Christopher M. Weimer, May 2002}
ART. XIII.— Translation of the Mârka.n.deya Purâ.na. Books VII. VIII. By the Rev. B. HALE WORTHAM.
ONCE upon earth there lived a saintly king Named Harišchandra; pure in heart and mind, In virtue eminent, he ruled the world, Guarding mankind from evil. While he reigned No famine raged, nor pain; untimely death Ne'er cut men off; nor were the citizens Of his fair city lawless. All their wealth, And power, and works of righteousness, ne'er filled Their hearts with pride; in everlasting youth And loveliness the women passed their days.
It so fell out, that while this mighty king Was hunting in the forest, that he heard The sound of female voices raised in cry Of supplication. Then he turned and said, Leaving the deer to fly unheeded: Stop! Who art thou, full of tyranny and hate, That darest thus oppress the earth; while I, The tamer of all evil, live and rule? Then, too, the fierce Ganeša,—he who blinds The eyes, and foils the wills of men,—he heard The cry, and thus within himself he thought: This surely is the great ascetic's work, The mighty Višvâmitra; he whose acts Display the fruits of penance hard and sore. Upon the sciences he shows his power, While they, in patience, discipline of mind, And silence perfected, cry out with fear, 'What shall we do? The illustrious Kaušika Is powerful; and we, compared with him, Are feeble.' Thus they cry. What shall I do? My mind is filled with doubt. Yet stay; a thought Has come across me: Lo! this king who cries Unceasingly, 'Fear not!' meeting with him, And entering his heart, I will fulfil All my desire. Then filled with Rudra's son— Inspired with rage by Vigna Raj—the king Spake up and said: What evil doer is here, Binding the fire on his garment's hem, While I, his king, in power and arms renowned, Resplendent in my glory, pass for nought? Surely the never-ending sleep of death Shall overtake him, and his limbs shall fail, Smitten with darts from my far-reaching bow, Whose fame this lower world may scarce contain. Hearing the prince's words, the saint was filled With wrath o'erpow'ring, and the sciences Fell blasted in a moment at his glance.