At length upspringing from the ground,

His arms about Hanúmán wound,

With tender tears of rapture sprung,

He dewed the neck to which he clung:

“Art thou a God or man,” he cried,

“Whom love and pity hither guide?

For this a hundred thousand kine,

A hundred villages be thine.

A score of maids of spotless lives

To thee I give to be thy wives,