Then stately Brahmans on their shoulders bore
  A noble brother of their sacred caste,
  In manhood’s bloom and early prime cut down. 
  Then Brahman youth, bearing a little child
  Half hid in flowers, and as in seeming sleep. 
  Then other Brahmans in a litter bore
  One young and fair, in early womanhood,
  Her youthful beauty joined with matron grace,
  In bridal dress adorned with costly gems—­
  The very face the prince had dreaming seen,
  The very child she carried in her arms. 
  Then many more, uncovered, four by four,
  The aged first, then those in manhood’s prime,
  And then the young with many acolytes
  Chanting in unison their sacred hymns,
  Accompanied by many instruments,
  Both wind and string, in solemn symphony;
  And at respectful distance other castes,
  Afraid to touch a Brahman’s sacred robes
  Or even mingle with his grief their tears. 
  And when they reached the fragrant funeral-pile,
  Weeping they placed their dead on their last couch,
  The child within its father’s nerveless arms;
  And when all funeral rites had been performed,
  The widow circled thrice the funeral-pile,
  Distributing her gifts with lavish hand,
  Bidding her friends a long and last farewell—­
  Then stopped, and raised her tearless eyes and said: 
  “Farewell, a long farewell, to life and friends! 
  Farewell!  O earth and air and sacred sun! 
  Nanda, my lord, Udra, my child, I come!”
  Then pale but calm, with fixed ecstatic gaze
  And steady steps she mounts the funeral-pile,
  Crying, “They beckon me!  I come!  I come!”
  Then sunk as if the silver cord were loosed
  As still as death upon her silent dead. 
  Instant the flames from the four corners leaped,
  Mingling in one devouring, eager blaze. 
  No groan, no cry, only the crackling flames,
  The wailing notes of many instruments,
  And solemn chant by many voices raised,
  “Perfect is she who follows thus her lord.” 
  O dark and cruel creeds, O perfect love,
  Fitter for heaven than this sad world of ours!

  More than enough the prince had seen and heard. 
  Bowed by the grievous burdens others bore,
  Feeling for others’ sorrows as his own,
  Tears of divinest pity filled his eyes
  And deep and all-embracing love his heart. 
  Home he returned, no more to find its rest.

  But soon a light shines in that troubled house—­
  A son is born to sweet Yasodhara. 
  Their eyes saw not, neither do ours, that sun
  Whose light is wisdom and whose heat is love,
  Sending through nature waves of living light,
  Giving its life to everything that lives,
  Which through the innocence of little ones
  As through wide-open windows sends his rays
  To light the darkest, warm the coldest heart. 
  Sweet infancy! life’s solace and its rest,
  Driving away the loneliness of age,