Then many more, uncovered, four by four,
The aged first, then those in manhood's prime,
And then the young with many acolytes
Chanting in unison their sacred hymns,
Accompanied by many instruments,
Both wind and string, in solemn symphony;
And at respectful distance other castes,
Afraid to touch a Brahman's sacred robes
Or even mingle with his grief their tears.
And when they reached the fragrant funeral-pile,
Weeping they placed their dead on their last couch,
The child within its father's nerveless arms;
And when all funeral rites had been performed,
The widow circled thrice the funeral-pile,
Distributing her gifts with lavish hand,
Bidding her friends a long and last farewell--
Then stopped, and raised her tearless eyes and said:
"Farewell, a long farewell, to life and friends!
Farewell! O earth and air and sacred sun!
Nanda, my lord, Udra, my child, I come!"
Then pale but calm, with fixed ecstatic gaze
And steady steps she mounts the funeral-pile,
Crying, "They beckon me! I come! I come!"
Then sunk as if the silver cord were loosed
As still as death upon her silent dead.
Instant the flames from the four corners leaped,
Mingling in one devouring, eager blaze.
No groan, no cry, only the crackling flames,
The wailing notes of many instruments,
And solemn chant by many voices raised,
"Perfect is she who follows thus her lord."
O dark and cruel creeds, O perfect love,
Fitter for heaven than this sad world of ours!
More than enough the prince had seen and heard.
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