No mortal men, but gods I deem,--moonlike, before whose wondering sight
My Rama's glorious face shall beam, from the dark forest bursting
bright.
Happy that gaze on Rama's face with beauteous teeth and smile of love,
Like the blue lotus in its grace, and like the starry king above.
Like to the full autumnal moon, and like the lotus in its bloom,
That youth who sees returning soon,--how blest shall be that mortal's
doom."
Dwelling in that sweet memory, on his last bed the monarch lay,
And slowly, softly seemed to die, as fades the moon at dawn away.
"Ah, Rama! ah, my son!" thus said, or scarcely said, the king of men,
His gentle hapless spirit fled in sorrow for his Rama then,
The shepherd of his people old at midnight on his bed of death,
The tale of his son's exile told, and breathed away his dying breath.
_Milman's Translation._





THE MAHA-BHARATA.


"It is a deep and noble forest, abounding in delicious fruits and fragrant
flowers, shaded and watered by perennial springs."

Though parts of the Maha-Bharata, or story of the great war, are of great
antiquity, the entire poem was undoubtedly collected and re-written in the
first or second century A. D. Tradition ascribes the Maha-Bharata to the
Brahman Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa.