2. Along the mead the hallowed Steed Still wanders wheresoever he will, O'er hill, or dale, or plain; No human hand hath trick'd that mane From which he shakes the morning dew; His mouth has never felt the rein, His lips have never froth'd the chain; For pure of blemish and of stain, {76} His neck unbroke to mortal yoke, Like Nature free the Steed must be, Fit offering for the Immortals he. A year and day the Steed must stray Wherever chance may guide his way, Before he fall at Seeva's shrine; The year and day have past away, Nor touch of man hath marr'd the rite divine. And now at noon the Steed must bleed; The perfect rite to-day must force the meed Which Fate reluctant shudders to bestow; Then must the Swerga-God Yield to the Tyrant of the World below; Then must the Devetas obey The Rajah's rod, and groan beneath his hateful sway. 3. The Sun rides high; the hour is nigh; The multitude who long, Lest aught should mar the rite, In circle wide on every side, Have kept the Steed in sight, Contract their circle now, and drive him on. Drawn in long files before the Temple-court, {77} The Rajah's archers flank an ample space; Here, moving onward still, they drive him near, Then, opening, give him way to enter here. 4. Behold him, how he starts and flings his head! On either side in glittering order spread, The archers ranged in narrowing lines appear; The multitude behind close up the rear With moon-like bend, and silently await The awful end, The rite that shall from Indra wrest his power. In front, with far-stretch'd walls, and many a tower Turret and dome and pinnacle elate, The huge Pagoda seems to load the land: And there before the gate The Bramin band expectant stand, The axe is ready for Kehama's hand. 5. Hark! at the Golden Palaces The Bramin strikes the time! One, two, three, four, a thrice-told chime, And then again, one, two. {78} The bowl that in its vessel floats, anew Must fill and sink again, Then will the final stroke be due. The Sun rides high, the noon is nigh, And silently, as if spell-bound, The multitude expect the sound. 6. Lo! how the Steed, with sudden start, Turns his quick head to every part; Long files of men on every side appear. The sight might well his heart affright, And yet the silence that is here Inspires a stranger fear; For not a murmur, not a sound Of breath or motion rises round, No stir is heard in all that mighty crowd; He neighs, and from the temple-wall The voice re-echoes loud, Loud and distinct, as from a hill Across a lonely vale, when all is still.