And with consuming woes distraught,

Upon his aged sire he thought.

His dear companions, swift to trace

The signs of anguish on his face,

Drew near, his sorrow to expel,

And pleasant tales began to tell.

Some woke sweet music's cheering sound,

And others danced in lively round.

With joke and jest they strove to raise

His spirits, quoting ancient plays;

But Bharat still, the lofty-souled,

Deaf to sweet tales his fellows told,

Unmoved by music, dance, and jest,

Sat silent, by his woe oppressed.

To him, begirt by comrades near,

Thus spoke the friend he held most dear:

“Hear thou,” thus Bharat made reply,

I dreamt I saw the king my sire

Sink headlong in a lake of mire

Down from a mountain high in air,

His body soiled, and loose his hair.

Upon the miry lake he seemed

To lie and welter, as I dreamed;

With hollowed hands full many a draught

Of oil he took, and loudly laughed.

With head cast down I saw him make

A meal on sesamum and cake;

The oil from every member dripped,

And in its clammy flood he dipped.

The ocean's bed was bare and dry,

The moon had fallen from the sky,

And all the world lay still and dead,

With whelming darkness overspread.

The earth was rent and opened wide,

The leafy trees were scorched, and died;

I saw the seated mountains split,

And wreaths of rising smoke emit.

The stately beast the monarch rode

His long tusks rent and splintered showed;

And flames that quenched and cold had lain

Blazed forth with kindled light again.

I looked, and many a handsome dame,

Arrayed in brown and sable came

And bore about the monarch, dressed,

On iron stool, in sable vest.

And then the king, of virtuous mind,

A blood-red wreath around him twined,

Forth on an ass-drawn chariot sped,

As southward still he bent his head.

Then, crimson-clad, a dame appeared

Who at the monarch laughed and jeered;

And a she-monster, dire to view,

Her hand upon his body threw.

Such is the dream I dreamt by night,

Which chills me yet with wild affright:

Either the king or RÁma, I

Or Lakshma? now must surely die.

For when an ass-drawn chariot seems

To bear away a man in dreams,

Be sure above his funeral pyre

The smoke soon rears its cloudy spire.

This makes my spirit low and weak,

My tongue is slow and loth to speak:

My lips and throat are dry for dread,

And all my soul disquieted.

My lips, relaxed, can hardly speak,

And chilling dread has changed my cheek

I blame myself in aimless fears,

And still no cause of blame appears.

I dwell upon this dream of ill

Whose changing scenes I viewed,

And on the startling horror still

My troubled thoughts will brood.

Still to my soul these terrors cling,

Reluctant to depart,

And the strange vision of the king