29
The air is musical with song,
And lotus wreaths are strewed around,
The deep toned dhole, and brazen gong,
With cittaras and with flutes resound.
Perfumes are burning all the while;
And they have reached the Ganges flood,
And heaped upon the funeral pile
Cedar, and rose, and sandal wood.
The last red kisses of the sun
Are blushing on the river's breast,
And from his amaranthine throne
The flaming orb sinks down to rest.
And all is now accomplished—save
The final and the dismal rite,
Which on the brink of that clear wave
Must be performed, ere the pink light
With all its rainbow coloured dyes
Has faded from the sapphire skies.
