(VI.)

O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan,
Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen!
Their widow-robes of white,

With gold and jewels bright,
Each like an Eastern queen.
Woe! woe! around their palankeen,
As on a bridal day,

With symphony, and dance, and song,
Their kindred and their friends come on.
The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song!
And next the victim slaves in long array,
Richly bedight to grace the fatal day,
Move onward to their death;

The clarions' stirring breath

Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold,
And swells the woven gold,

That on the agitated air

Flutters and glitters to the torches' glare.

(VII.)

A man and maid of aspect wan and wild, Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came; O wretched father! O unhappy child! Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring— Is this the daring man

Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan?
Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel
Kehama's dreadful wrath?

Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring,
For not in that innumerable throng

Was one who loved the dead; for who could know What aggravated wrong

Provoked the desperate blow!

(VIII.)

Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight,
In order'd files the torches flow along,
One ever-lengthening line of gliding light :
Far-far behind,

Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour
Of horn, and trump, and tambour;
Incessant as the roar

Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour,
And louder than the dread commotion
Of breakers on a rocky shore,

When the winds rage over the waves,
And Ocean to the Tempest raves.

(IX.)

And now toward the bank they go, Where, winding on their way below, Deep and strong the waters flow. Here doth the funeral pile appear With myrrh and ambergris bestrew'd, And built of precious sandalwood. They cease their music, and their outcry here; Gently they rest their bier;

They wet the face of Arvalan—

No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite;
They feel his breast,—no motion there;
They feel his lips,—no breath;

For not with feeble, nor with erring hand,
The brave Avenger dealt the blow of death.
Then with a doubling peal and deeper blast,
The tambours and the trumpets sound on high,
And with a last and loudest cry
They call on Arvalan.

II.

THE RETREAT.

From Book XIII.

(v.)

'Twas a fair scene wherein they stood,
A green and sunny glade amid the wood,
And in the midst an aged Banian grew.
It was a goodly sight to see
That venerable tree,

For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread,
Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head;
And many a long depending shoot,
Seeking to strike its root,

Straight like a plummet, grew towards the ground.
Some on the lower boughs which crost their way
Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round,
With many a ring and wild contortion wound;
Some to the passing wind at times, with sway
Of gentle motion swung;

Others of younger growth, unmoved, were hung
Like stone-drops from the cavern's fretted height;
Beneath was smooth and fair to sight,

Nor weeds nor briars deform'd the natural floor,
And through the leafy cope which bower'd it o'er
Came gleams of chequer'd light.

So like a temple did it seem, that there
A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer.

(VII.)

They built them here a bower, of jointed cane, Strong for the needful use, and light and long Was the slight framework rear'd, with little pain; Lithe creepers, then, the wicker sides supply,

And the tall jungle-grass fit roofing gave
Beneath the genial sky.

And here did Kailyal, each returning day,
Pour forth libations from the brook to pay
The Spirits of her Sires their grateful rite;
In such libations, pour'd in open glades,
Beside clear streams and solitary shades,
The Spirits of the virtuous dead delight.
And duly here, to Marriataly's praise,
The Maid, as with an angel's voice of song,
Pour'd her melodious lays

Upon the gales of even,

And gliding in religious dance along, Moved graceful as the dark-eyed Nymphs of Heaven, Such harmony to all her steps was given.

(VIII.)

Thus ever, in her Father's doating eye,
Kailyal perform'd the customary rite;
He, patient of his burning pain the while,
Beheld her, and approved her pious toil;
And sometimes at the sight,
A melancholy smile

Would gleam upon his aweful countenance.
He, too, by day and night, and every hour,
Paid to a higher Power his sacrifice;
An offering, not of ghee, or fruit, and rice,
Flower-crown, or blood; but of a heart subdued,
A resolute, unconquer'd fortitude,
An agony represt, a will resign'd,

To her, who, on her secret throne reclin'd,
Amid the Sea of Milk by Veeshnoo's side,
Looks with an eye of mercy on mankind.
By the Preserver, with his power endued,

There Voomdavee beholds this lower clime,
And marks the silent sufferings of the good,
To recompense them in her own good time.

(Ix.)

O force of faith! O strength of virtuous will! Behold him in his endless martyrdom, Triumphant still!

The Curse still burning in his heart and brain,
And yet doth he remain

Patient the while, and tranquil, and content!
The pious soul hath framed unto itself,
A second nature, to exist in pain
As in its own allotted element.

(x.)

Such strength the will reveal'd had given This holy pair, such influxes of grace, That to their solitary resting place They brought the peace of Heaven. Yea, all around was hallow'd! Danger, Fear, Nor thought of evil ever enter'd here. A charm was on the Leopard when he came Within the circle of that mystic glade; Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid, And offer'd to her touch his speckled side; Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head, And eyes half-closed for pleasure, would he stand, Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.

(x1.)

Trampling his path through wood and brake, And canes which crackling fall before his way,

And tassel-grass, whose silvery feathers play