Kausalya, by her woe distressed,
With melancholy words addressed:
"Anew, my son, this sorrow springs
To rend my heart with keener stings:
These awful oaths which thou hast sworn
My breast with double grief have torn.
Thy soul, and faithful Lakshman's too,
Are still, thank Heaven! to virtue true.
True to thy promise, thou shalt gain
The mansions which the good obtain."

Then to her breast that youth she drew,
Whose sweet fraternal love she knew,
And there in strict embraces held
The hero, as her tears outwelled.
And Bharat's heart grew sick and faint
With grief and oft-renewed complaint,
And all his senses were distraught
By the great woe that in him wrought.
Thus he lay and still bewailed
With sighs and loud lament
Till all his strength and reason failed,
The hours of night were spent.

Canto LXXVI. The Funeral.

The saint Vasishtha, best of all
Whose words with moving wisdom fall,
Bharat, Kaikeyi's son, addressed,
Whom burning fires of grief distressed:
"O Prince, whose fame is widely spread,
Enough of grief: be comforted.
The time is come: arise, and lay
Upon the pyre the monarch's clay."

He heard the words Vasishtha spoke,
And slumbering resolution woke.
Then skilled in all the laws declare,
He bade his friends the rites prepare.
They raised the body from the oil,
And placed it, dripping, on the soil;
Then laid it on a bed, whereon
Wrought gold and precious jewels shone.
There, pallor o'er his features spread,
The monarch, as in sleep, lay dead.
Then Bharat sought his father's side,
And lifted up his voice and cried:
"O King, and has thy heart designed
To part and leave thy son behind?
Make Rama flee, who loves the right,
And Lakshman of the arm of might?
Whither, great Monarch, wilt thou go
And leave this people in their woe,
Mourning their hero, wild with grief,
Of Rama reft, their lion chief?
Ah, who will guard the people well
Who in Ayodhya's city dwell,
When thou, my sire, hast sought the sky,
And Rama has been forced to fly?
In widowed woe, bereft of thee,
The land no more is fair to see:
The city, to my aching sight,
Is gloomy as a moonless night."

Thus, with o'erwhelming sorrow pained,
Sad Bharat by the bed complained:
And thus Vasishtha, holy sage,
Spoke his deep anguish to assuage:
"O Lord of men, no longer stay;
The last remaining duties pay:
Haste, mighty-armed, as I advise,
The funeral rites to solemnize."

And Bharat heard Vasishtha's rede
Wit