We do not curse thee, God forbid!
But to my inner eye
The future is no longer hid,
Thou too shalt like us die.
Die—for a son's untimely loss!
Die—with a broken heart!
Now help us to our bed of moss,
And let us both depart."
Upon the moss he laid them down,
And watched beside the bed;
Death gently came and placed a crown
Upon each reverend head.
Where the Sarayu's waves dash free
Against a rocky bank,
The monarch had the corpses three
Conveyed by men of rank;
There honoured he with royal pomp
Their funeral obsequies,—
Incense and sandal, drum and tromp,
And solemn sacrifice.