tle, by his valour wiped his sins,
Now he dwells in realms celestial which the faithful warrior wins!

And I weep not for Duryodhan, like a prince he fought and fell,
But my sorrow-stricken husband, who can his misfortunes tell?

Ay! my son was brave and princely, all resistless in the war,
Now he sleeps the sleep of warriors, sunk in gloom his glorious star!

Ay! My son mid crowned monarchs held the first and foremost way,
Now he rests upon the red earth, quenched his bright effulgent ray!

Ay! my son the best of heroes, he hath won the warrior's sky,
Kshatras nobly conquer, Krishna, when in war they nobly die!

Hark the loathsome cry of jackals, how the wolves their vigils keep,
Maidens rich in song and beauty erst were wont to watch his sleep!

Hark the foul and blood-beaked vultures flap their wings upon the dead,
Maidens waved their feathery _pankhas_ round Duryodhan's royal bed!

Peerless bowman, mighty monarch! nations still his hests obeyed,
As a lion slays a tiger, Bhima hath Duryodhan slayed!

Thirteen years o'er Kuru's empire proud Duryodhan held his sway,
Ruled Hastina's ancient city where fair Ganga's waters stray!

I have seen his regal splendour with these ancient eyes of mine,
Elephants and battle-chariots, steeds of war and herds of kine!

Kuru owns another master and Duryodhan's day is fled,
And I live to be a witness! Krishna, O that I were dead!

Mark Duryodhan's noble widow, mother proud of Lakshman bold,
Queenly in her youth and beauty, like an altar of bright gold!

Torn from husband's sweet embraces, from her son's entwining arms,
Doomed to life-long woe and anguish in her youth and in her charms!

Rend my hard and stony bosom crushed beneath this cruel pain,
Should Gandhari live to witness noble son and grandson slain?

Mark again Duryodhan's widow, how she hugs his gory head,
How with gentle hands and tender softly holds him on his bed!

How from dear departed husband turns she to her dearer son,
And the tear-drops of the mother choke the widow's bitter groan!

Like the fibre of the lotus tender-golden is her frame,
O my lotus! O my daughter! Bharat's pride and Kuru's fame!

If the truth resides in _Vedas_, brave Duryodhan dwells above,
Wherefore linger we in sadness severed from his cherished love?

If the truth resides in _Sastra_, dwells in sky my hero son,
For Gandhari and her daughter now their earthly task is done!"

IV

Funeral Rite

Victor of a deathful battle, s