O mighty Dharma, thee I worship! Thee,
O Krish.na, the Creator! Faultless ones,
Both far and near, before you now I come,
A suppliant. On thee, O lord of prayer,
I call! on thee, O Indra too! to thee
O ancient one! I pray--immutable!"
The vision fled, the king arose from sleep.
His tangled hair, his body black and grimed,
Recalled to him his state--the plunderer
Of dead men's clothes. His recollection gone,
He thought not of his sorrowing wife and child,
For reason failed. The loss of kingdom, wealth,
And friends, his dwelling-place among the tombs,
Had overthrown his senses, and destroyed
His mind. Then to the burying-place the queen
Came, bearing the dead body of her son--
Pale and distracted. "My beloved son!
My child!" she kept exclaiming, while she threw
Dust on her head. "Alas! alas! O king!
O that thou could'st behold thy child," she said--
"Thy child now lying dead upon the earth,
Killed by a serpent's bite. Alas! my son!
So lovely! so delightful!" Then the king,
Rearing the sounds of mourning, went in haste
To rob the dead: nor did he recognize
His wife, in that sad mourner, changed by grief
As if into another. And the queen
Knew not the form that stood before her, clothed
In rags, with matted hair, withered and foul.
Then recollection dawned upon the king,