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Beneath a gilded canopy, Appears the fast decaying corse. And there the sultry air is stirred With silver handled Chowries wrought With the rich plume of some rare bird, Or those more precious cow-tails brought From glad Kathay's far distant wall, Or the steep hills of the Nepaul.

Behind, a thick promiscuous troop Of veiled and turbaned heads is seen, And in the centre of the group, Each in an open palanquin The Rajah's wives are borne—a pair Of brighter forms have never blest The eye of man—both are so fair, None can say which is loveliest— She who so stately and so proud With lofty mien and eyes of light, Receives the homage of the croud