“Leaderless the Kuru's forces, by a dire misfortune crost,
Like the moonless shades of midnight in their utter darkness lost!
Like a summer-driéd river, weary waste of arid sand,
Lost its pride of fresh'ning waters sweeping o'er the grateful land!
As a spark of fire consumeth summer's parched and sapless wood,
Kuru's lordless, lifeless forces shall be angry Arjun's food!
Bhima too will seek fulfilment of the dreadful vow he made,
Brave Satyaki wreak his vengeance for his sons untimely slayed!
Bid this battle cease, Duryodhan, pale and fitful is thy star,
Blood enough of friendly nations soaks this crimson field of war!
Bid them live,—the few survivors of a vast and countless host,
Let thy few remaining brothers live,—for many are the lost!
Kindly heart hath good Yudhishthir, still he seeks for rightful peace,
Render back his ancient kingdom, bid this war of kinsmen cease!”
“Kripa,” so Duryodhan answered, “in this sad and fatal strife,
Ever foremost of our warriors, ever careless of thy life,
Ever in the council chamber thou hast words of wisdom said,
Needless war and dire destruction by thy peaceful counsel stayed,
Every word that 'scapes thee, Kripa, is a word of truth and weight,
Nathless thy advice for concord, wise preceptor, comes too late!