Lord of my soul—­what means my pain? 
      This horrid terror—­like
    Some cloud that hides a hurricane;
      Hang not, O lightning—­strike!”

    Thus while she spake, the king drew near
      With haggard look and wild,
    Weighed down with grief, and pale with fear,
      Bearing the lifeless child.

    Rustled the dry leaves ’neath his foot,
      And made an eerie sound,
    A neighboring owl began to hoot,
      All else was still around.

    At the first rustle of the leaves
      The Muni answered clear,
    “Lo, here he is—­oh wherefore grieves
      Thy soul, my partner dear?”

    The words distinct, the monarch heard,
      He could no further go,
    His nature to its depths was stirred,
      He stopped in speechless woe.

    No steps advanced—­the sudden pause
      Attention quickly drew,
    Rolled sightless orbs to learn the cause,
      But, hark!—­the steps renew.

    “Where art thou, darling—­why so long
      Hast thou delayed to-night? 
    We die of thirst—­we are not strong,
      This fasting kills outright.

    Speak to us, dear one—­only speak,
      And calm our idle fears,
    Where hast thou been, and what to seek? 
      Have pity on these tears.”

    With head bent low the monarch heard,
      Then came a cruel throb
    That tore his heart—­still not a word,
      Only a stifled sob!

    “It is not Sindhu—­who art thou? 
      And where is Sindhu gone? 
    There’s blood upon thy hands—­avow!”
      “There is.”—­“Speak on, speak on,”

    The dead child in their arms he placed,
      And briefly told his tale,
    The parents their dead child embraced,
      And kissed his forehead pale.

    “Our hearts are broken.  Come, dear wife,
      On earth no more we dwell;
    Now welcome Death, and farewell Life,
      And thou, O king, farewell!

    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 honored he with royal pomp
      Their funeral obsequies—­
    Incense and sandal, drum and tromp. 
      And solemn sacrifice.

    What is the sequel of the tale? 
      How died the king?—­Oh man,
    A prophet’s words can never fail—­
      Go, read the Ramayan.