Peerless bowman! mighty monarch! nations still his hests obeyed,
As a lion slays a tiger, Bhima hath Duryodhan slayed!
Thirteen years o’er Kuru’s empire proud Duryodhan held his sway,
Ruled Hastina’s ancient city where fair Ganga’s waters stray,
[352] I have seen his regal splendour with these ancient eyes of mine,
Elephants and battle-chariots, steeds of war and herds of kine,
Kuru owns another master and Duryodhan’s day is fled,
And I live to be a witness! Krishna, O that I were dead!
Mark Duryodhan’s noble widow, mother proud of Lakshman bold,
Queenly in her youth and beauty, like an altar of bright gold,
Torn from husband’s sweet embraces, from her son’s entwining arms,
Doomed to life-long woe and anguish in her youth and in her charms,
Rend my hard and stony bosom crushed beneath this cruel pain,
Should Gandhari live to witness noble son and grandson slain?
Mark again Duryodhan’s widow, how she hugs his gory head,
How with gentle hands and tender softly holds him on his bed,
How from dear departed husband turns she to her dearer son,
And the tear-drops of the mother choke the widow’s bitter groan,
Like the fibre of the lotus tender-golden is her frame,
O my lotus! O my daughter! Bharat’s pride and Kuru’s fame!
If the truth resides in Vedas, brave Duryodhan dwells above,
Wherefore linger we in sadness severed from his cherished love,
If the truth resides in Sastra, dwells in sky my hero son,
Wherefore linger we in sorrow since their earthly task is done?”
IV. Funeral Rite
Victor of a deathful battle, sad Yudhishthir viewed the plain,
Friends and kinsmen, kings and chieftains, countless troops untimely slain,
And he spake to wise Sudharman pious priest of Kuru’s race,
Unto Sanjay, unto Dhaumya, to Vidura full of grace,
[353] Spake unto the brave Yuyutsu, Kuru’s last surviving chief,
Spake to faithful Indrasena and to warriors sunk in grief:
“Pious rites are due to foemen and to friends and kinsmen slain,
None shall lack a fitting funeral, none shall perish on the plain.”
Wise Vidura and his comrades sped on sacred duty bound,
Sandalwood and scented aloes, fragrant oil and perfumes found,
Silken robes of costly splendour, fabrics by the artist wove,
Dry wood from the thorny jungle, perfume from the scented grove,
Shattered cars and splintered lances, hewed and ready for the fire,
Piled and ranged in perfect order into many a funeral pyre.
Kings and princes, noble warriors, were in rank and order laid,
And with streams of fragrant ghrita were the rich libations made,
Blazed the fire with wondrous radiance by the rich libations fed,
Sanctifying and consuming mortal remnants of the dead.
Brave Duryodhan and his brothers, Salya of the mighty car,
Bhurisravas king of nations, Jayadratha famed in war,
Abhimanyu son of Arjun, Lakshman proud Duryodhan’s son,
Somadatta and the Srinjays famed for deeds of valour done,
Matsya’s monarch proud Virata, Drupad fair Panchala’s king,
And his sons, Panchala’s princes, whose great deeds the minstrels sing,
Cultured monarch of Kosala and Gandhara’s wily lord,
Karna proud and peerless archer, matchless with his flaming sword,
Bhagadatta eastern monarch all resistless in his car,
Ghatotkacha son of Bhima, Alambusha famed in war,
And a hundred other monarchs all received the pious rite,
Till the radiance of the fire-light chased the shadows of the night!
Pitri-medha due to fathers was performed with pious care,
Hymns and wails and lamentations mingled in the midnight air,
[354] Sacred songs of rik and saman rose with women’s piercing wail,
And the creatures of the wide earth heard the sound subdued and pale,
Smokeless and with radiant lustre shone each red and lighted pyre,
Like the planets of the bright sky throbbing with celestial fire!
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