Page:Ancient Ballads and Legends of Hindustan.djvu/136

100 Upon the eleventh day of the moon
 * They keep a rigorous fast,

All yesterday they fasted; soon
 * For water and repast

They shall upon me feebly call!
 * Ah, must they call in vain?

Bear thou the pitcher, friend—'tis all
 * I ask—down that steep lane."

He pointed,—ceased,—then sudden died!
 * The king took up the corpse,

And with the pitcher slowly hied,
 * Attended by Remorse,

Down the steep lane—unto the hut
 * Girt round with Bela trees;

Gleamed far a light—the door not shut
 * Was open to the breeze.