ed their chariots, where the palm-tree standard rose!

Where the peerless ancient Bhishma on that dark and fatal day,
Warring with the banded nations, still resistless held his way!

On he came, his palm-tree standard still the front of battle knew,
And like sun from dark clouds parting Bhishma burst on Arjun's view!

And his eyes brave Arjun shaded at the awe-inspiring sight,
Half he wished to turn for shelter from that chief of godlike might!

But bold Krishna drove his chariot, whispered unto him his plan,
Arjun placed the young Sikhandin in the deathful battle's van!

Bhishma viewed the Pandav forces with a calm unmoving face,
Saw not Arjun's fair _gandiva_, saw not Bhima's mighty mace,

Smiled to see the young Sikhandin rushing to the battle's fore,
Like the foam upon the billow when the mighty storm-winds roar!

Bhishma thought of word he plighted and of oath that he had sworn,
Dropped his arms before the warrior who was but a female born!

And the standard which no warrior ever saw in base retreat,
Idly stood upon the chariot, threw its shade on Bhishma's seat!

And the flagstaff fell dissevered on the crushed and broken car,
As from azure sky of midnight falls the meteor's flaming star!

Not by young Sikhandin's arrows Bhishma's palm-tree standard fell,
Not Sikhandin's feeble lances did the peerless Bhishma quell,

True to oath the bleeding chieftan turned his darkening face away,
Turned and fell; the sun declining marked the closing of the day.

Ended thus the fatal battle, truce came with the close of day,
Kurus and the silent Pandavs went where Bhishma dying lay,

Arjun wept as for a father weeps a sad and sorrowing son,
Good Yudhishthir cursed the morning Kuru-kshetra's war begun,

Stood Duryodhan and his brothers mantled in the gloom of grief,
Foes like loving brothers sorrowed round the great the dying chief!

Arjun's keen and pointed arrows made the hero's dying bed,
And in soft and gentle accents to Duryodhan thus he said:

"List unto my words, Duryodhan, uttered with my latest breath,
List to Bhishma's dying counsel and revere the voice of death!

End this dread and deathful battle if thy stony heart can grieve,
Save the chieftains doomed to slaughter, bid the fated nations live!

Grant his kingdom to Yudhishthir, righteous man beloved of Heaven,
Keep thy own Hastina's regions, be the hapless past forgiven!"

Vain, alas! the voice of Bhishma like the voice of angel spoke,
Hatred dear