im standing there.

Rama then establishes his brothers, sons, and nephews in different
cities of the kingdom, buries the three queens of his father, and
awaits death. He has not long to wait; Death comes, wearing a hermit's
garb, asks for a private interview, and threatens any who shall
disturb their conference. Lakshmana disturbs them, and so dies before
Rama. Then Rama is translated.

Cantos sixteen to nineteen form the third division of the epic, and
treat of Rama's descendants. The interest wanes, for the great hero is
gone.

_Sixteenth canto. Kumudvati's wedding_.--As Kusha lies awake one
night, a female figure appears in his chamber; and in answer to his
question, declares that she is the presiding goddess of the ancient
capital Ayodhya, which has been deserted since Rama's departure to
heaven. She pictures the sad state of the city thus:

I have no king; my towers and terraces
Crumble and fall; my walls are overthrown;
As when the ugly winds of evening seize
The rack of clouds in helpless darkness blown.

In streets where maidens gaily passed at night,
Where once was known the tinkle and the shine
Of anklets, jackals slink, and by the light
Of flashing fangs, seek carrion, snarl, and whine.

The water of the pools that used to splash
With drumlike music, under maidens' hands,
Groans now when bisons from the jungle lash
It with their clumsy horns, and roil its sands.

The peacock-pets are wild that once were tame;
They roost on trees, not perches; lose desire
For dancing to the drums; and feel no shame
For fans singed close by sparks of forest-fire.

On stairways where the women once were glad
To leave their pink and graceful footprints, here
Unwelcome, blood-stained paws of tigers pad,
Fresh-smeared from slaughter of the forest deer.

Wall-painted elephants in lotus-brooks,
Receiving each a lily from his mate,
Are torn and gashed, as if by cruel hooks,
By claws of lions, showing furious hate.

I see my pillared caryatides
Neglected, weathered, stained by passing time,
Wearing in place of garments that should please,
The skins of sloughing cobras, foul with slime.

The balconies grow black with long neglect,
And grass-blades sprout through floors no longer tight;
They still receive but cannot now reflect
The old, familiar moonbeams, pearly white.

The vines that blossomed in my garden bowers,