He cut a flute in haste and pressed his lips to it to utter a song from it. And verily the music which flowed from its opening was divine and golden beyond description. Sometimes it sang softly as the moonbeam plays on a silent lake of emerald, dancing and trembling with so gentle a rhythm that only the soul of a poet could hear its melody; at other times it swelled its notes to the power of the roaring Maruts smiting against the unmovable Himalayas, as the wrath of Kali with the shiver of the cold snows from the eternal summits. Again, its melody dripped sweetly as the whitest of honey with the scent of a thousand flowers, of innumerable forms and shadings the most delicate. It wept, also, a song of despair and misery, so sadly, so pitifully, that it caused the tears to surge as readily as the Fountain of all the Sorrows.
So he incised on his flute this motto:
“Once upon a time the Golden Bird sang to me,
Now I shall sing a golden song to the gods.”
He went from village to village, from city to city, playing with the generosity of an inspired poet, followed by man, woman, child and beast alike, whenever he put his flute to his lips. They offered him their homes, their riches, their dearest possessions, but he scorned all, accepting only a little rice with spices, partaking of shelter with the humblest when the tempest-beaten jungle forbade his sleeping out of doors.
Quickly his fame had spread, and reached the ears of the Maharajah, who bade him appear at the palace, to vie with the court musicians, who were the most famous in the land. The court musicians, in their ignorance, eyed the half-naked poet with a defiant leer, as one by one they began playing, while nearby sat the Maharajah with his daughter, the fair Mahismati, and the courtiers around, all fairly laden with gems, appearing as enormous glistening scarabei.