The Ramayan

The tenth day passed: the prince again Was free from every legal stain. He bade them on the twelfth the great Remaining honour celebrate. Much gold he gave, and gems, and food, To all the Brahman multitude, And goats whose hair was white and fine, And many a thousand head of kine: Slaves, men and damsels, he bestowed, And many a car and fair abode: Such gifts he gave the Brahman race His father's obsequies to grace. Then when the morning's earliest ray Appeared upon the thirteenth day, Again the hero wept and sighed Distraught and sorrow-stupefied; Drew, sobbing in his anguish, near, The last remaining debt to clear, And at the bottom of the pyre, He thus bespake his royal sire: "O father, hast thou left me so, Deserted in my friendless woe, When he to whom the charge was given To keep me, to the wood is driven? Her only son is forced away Who was his helpless mother's stay: Ah, whither, father, art thou fled; Leaving the queen uncomforted?"

He looked upon the pile where lay The bones half-burnt and ashes grey, And uttering a piteous moan, Gave way, by anguish overthrown. Then as his tears began to well, Prostrate to earth the hero fell; So from its seat the staff they drag, And cast to earth some glorious flag. The ministers approached again The prince whom rites had freed from stain; So when Yayati fell, each seer, In pity for his fate, drew near. Satrughna saw him lying low O'erwhelmed beneath the crush of woe, And as upon the king he thought, He fell upon the earth distraught. When to his loving memory came Those noble gifts, that kingly frame, He sorrowed, by his woe distressed, As one by frenzied rage possessed: "Ah me, this surging sea of woe Has drowned us with its overflow: The source is Manthara, dire and dark, Kaikeyi is the ravening shark: And the great boons the monarch gave Lend conquering might to every wave. Ah, whither wilt thou go, and leave Thy Bharat in his woe to grieve, Whom ever 'twas thy greatest joy To fondle as a tender boy? Didst thou not give with thoughtful care Our food, our drink, our robes to wear? Whose love will now for us provide, When thou, our king and sire, hast died? At such a time bereft, forlorn, Why is not earth in sunder torn, Missing her monarch's firm control, His love of right, his lofty soul? Ah me, for Rama roams afar, My sire is where the Blessed are; How can I live deserted? I Will pass into the fire and die. Abandoned thus, I will not brook Upon Ayodhya's town to look, Once guarded by Ikshvaku's race: The wood shall be my dwelling place."