Rend my hard and stony bosom crushed beneath this cruel pain,
Should Gandhari live to witness noble son and grandson slain?
Mark again Duryodhan's widow, how she hugs his gory head,
How with gentle hands and tender softly holds him on his bed!
How from dear departed husband turns she to her dearer son,
And the tear-drops of the mother choke the widow's bitter groan!
Like the fibre of the lotus tender-golden is her frame,
O my lotus! O my daughter! Bharat's pride and Kuru's fame!
If the truth resides in Vedas, brave Duryodhan dwells above,
Wherefore linger we in sadness severed from his cherished love?
If the truth resides in Sastra, dwells in sky my hero son,
For Gandhari and her daughter now their earthly task is done!”
IV
Funeral Rite
Victor of a deathful battle, sad Yudhishthir viewed the plain,
Friends and kinsmen, kings and chieftains, countless troops untimely slain,
And he spake to wise Sudharman, pious priest of Kuru's race,
Unto Sanjay, unto Dhaumya, to Vidura full of grace,