Like wind that aids the flame's career.

That glorious chief, that prince of kings,

On Janasthán this ruin brings.

No Gods were there,—dismiss the thought

No heavenly legions came and fought.

His swift-winged arrows Ráma sent,

Each bright with gold and ornament.

To serpents many-faced they turned:

The giant hosts they ate and burned.

Where'er these fled in wild dismay