3.
Their talk was of the City of the days
Of old, Earth’s wonder once; and of the fame
Of Baly its great founder, . . he whose name
In ancient story, and in poet’s praise,
Liveth and flourisheth for endless glory,
Because his might
Put down the wrong, and aye upheld the right.
Till for ambition, as old sages tell,
The mighty Monarch fell:
For he too, having made the World his own,
Then, in his pride, had driven
The Devetas from Heaven,
And seiz’d triumphantly the Swerga throne.
The Incarnate came before the Mighty One,
In dwarfish stature, and in mien obscure;
The sacred cord he bore,
And ask’d, for Brama’s sake, a little boon,
Three steps of Baly’s ample reign, no more.
Poor was the boon requir’d, and poor was he
Who begg’d, . . a little wretch it seem’d to be;
But Baly ne’er refus’d a suppliant’s prayer.
A glance of pity, in contemptuous mood,
He on the Dwarf cast down,
And bade him take the boon,
And measure where he would.
