At length they passed the city's outer gate
And down a stream, now spread in shining pools,
Now leaping in cascades, now dashing on,
A line of foam along its rocky bed,
Bordered by giant trees with densest shade.
Here, day by day, the city bring their dead;
Here, day by day, they build the funeral-piles;
Here lamentations daily fill the air;
Here hissing flames each day taste human flesh,
And friendly watchmen guard the smoldering pile
Till friends can cull the relics from the dust.
And here, just finished, rose a noble pile
By stately Brahmans for a Brahman built
Of fragrant woods, and drenched with fragrant oils,
Loading the air with every sweet perfume
That India's forests or her fields can yield;
Above, a couch of sacred cusa-grass,
On which no dreams disturb the sleeper's rest.
And now the sound of music reaches them,
Far off at first, solemn and sad and slow,
Rising and swelling as it nearer comes,
Until a long procession comes in view.
Four Brahmans first, bearing in bowls the fire
No more to burn on one deserted hearth,
Then stately Brahmans on their shoulders bore
A noble brother of their sacred caste,
In manhood's bloom and early prime cut down.
Then Brahman youth, bearing a little child
Half hid in flowers, and as in seeming sleep.
Then other Brahmans in a litter bore
One young and fair, in early womanhood,
Her youthful beauty joined with matron grace,
In bridal dress adorned with costly gems--
The very face the prince had dreaming seen,
The very child she carried in her arms.
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