"Mark my unconsoled daughters, widowed queens of Kuru's house,
Wailing for their dear departed, like the osprey for her spouse!

How each cold and fading feature wakes in them a woman's love,
How amidst the lifeless warriors still with restless steps they rove,

Mothers hug their slaughtered children all unconscious in their sleep,
Widows bend upon their husbands and in ceaseless sorrow weep!

Mighty Bhishma, hath he fallen? quenched is archer Karna's pride?
Drupad monarch of Panchala sleeps by foeman Drona's side?

Shining mail and costly jewels, royal bangles strew the plain,
Golden garlands rich and burnished deck the chiefs untimely slain,

Lances hurled by stalwart fighters, clubs of mighty wrestlers killed,
Swords and bows of ample measure, quivers still with arrows filled!

Mark the unforgotten heroes, jungle prowlers 'mid them stray,
On their brow and mailed bosoms heedless perch the birds of prey!

Mark they great unconquered heroes famed on earth from west to east,
_Kankas_ perch upon their foreheads, hungry wolves upon them feast!

Mark the kings, on softest cushion scarce the needed rest they found,
Now they lie in peaceful slumber on the hard and reddened ground!

Mark the youths who morn and evening listed to the minstrel's song,
In their ear the loathsome jackal doth his doleful wail prolong!

See the chieftains with their maces and their swords of trusty steel,
Still they grasp their tried weapons,--do they still the life-pulse feel?"

III

Gandhari's Lament for Duryodhan

Thus to Krishna, Queen Gandhari strove her woeful thoughts to tell,
When alas! her wandering vision on her son Duryodhan fell,

Sudden anguish smote her bosom and her senses seemed to stray,
Like a tree by tempest shaken senseless on the earth she lay!

Once again she waked in sorrow, once again she cast her eye
Where her son in blood empurpled slept beneath the open sky,

And she clasped her dear Duryodhan, held him close unto her breast,
Sobs convulsive shook her bosom as the lifeless form she prest,

And her tears like rains of summer fell and washed his noble head,
Decked with garlands still untarnished, graced with _nishkas_ bright
and red!

"'Mother!' said my dear Duryodhan when he went unto the war,
'Wish me joy and wish me triumph as I mount the battle-car!'

'Son!' I said to dear Duryodhan, 'Heaven avert a cruel fate,
_Yato dharma stato jayah!_ Triumph doth on Virtue wait!'

But he set his heart on bat