At length they passed the city's outer gate And down a stream, now spread in shining pools, Now leaping in cascades, now dashing on, A line of foam along its rocky bed, Bordered by giant trees with densest shade. Here, day by day, the city bring their dead; Here, day by day, they build the funeral-piles; Here lamentations daily fill the air; Here hissing flames each day taste human flesh, And friendly watchmen guard the smoldering pile Till friends can cull the relics from the dust. And here, just finished, rose a noble pile By stately Brahmans for a Brahman built Of fragrant woods, and drenched with fragrant oils, Loading the air with every sweet perfume That India's forests or her fields can yield; Above, a couch of sacred cusa-grass, On which no dreams disturb the sleeper's rest. And now the sound of music reaches them, Far off at first, solemn and sad and slow, Rising and swelling as it nearer comes, Until a long procession comes in view. Four Brahmans first, bearing in bowls the fire No more to burn on one deserted hearth, 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."