The saint Va?ish?ha, best of all

Whose words with moving wisdom fall,

Bharat, KaikeyÍ's son, addressed,

Whom burning fires of grief distressed:

Enough of grief: be comforted.

The time is come: arise, and lay

He heard the words Va?ish?ha spoke,

And slumbering resolution woke.

Then skilled in all the laws declare,

He bade his friends the rites prepare.

They raised the body from the oil,

And placed it, dripping, on the soil;

Then laid it on a bed, whereon

Wrought gold and precious jewels shone.

There, pallor o'er his features spread,

The monarch, as in sleep, lay dead.

Then Bharat sought his father's side,

And lifted up his voice and cried:

To part and leave thy son behind?

Make RÁma flee, who loves the right,

And Lakshma? of the arm of might?

Whither, great Monarch, wilt thou go

And leave this people in their woe,

Mourning their hero, wild with grief,

Of RÁma reft, their lion chief?

Ah, who will guard the people well

Who in AyodhyÁ's city dwell,

When thou, my sire, hast sought the sky,

And RÁma has been forced to fly?

In widowed woe, bereft of thee,

The land no more is fair to see:

The city, to my aching sight,

Thus, with o'erwhelming sorrow pained,

Sad Bharat by the bed complained:

And thus Va?ish?ha, holy sage,

Spoke his deep anguish to assuage:

The last remaining duties pay:

Haste, mighty-armed, as I advise,

And Bharat heard Va?ish?ha's rede

With due attention and agreed.

He summoned straight from every side

Chaplain, and priest, and holy guide.

The sacred fires he bade them bring

Forth from the chapel of the king,

Wherein the priests in order due,

And ministers, the offerings threw.

Distraught in mind, with sob and tear,

They laid the body on a bier,

And servants, while their eyes brimmed o'er

The monarch from the palace bore.

Another band of mourners led

The long procession of the dead:

Rich garments in the way they cast,

And gold and silver, as they passed.

Then other hands the corse bedewed

With fragrant juices that exude

From sandal, cedar, aloe, pine,

And every perfume rare and fine.

Then priestly hands the mighty dead

Upon the pyre deposited.

The sacred fires they tended next,

And muttered low each funeral text;

And priestly singers who rehearse