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Rh

The air is musical with song, And lotus wreaths are strewed around, The deep toned dhole, and brazen gong, With cittaras and with flutes resound. Perfumes are burning all the while; And they have reached the Ganges flood, And heaped upon the funeral pile Cedar, and rose, and sandal wood. The last red kisses of the sun Are blushing on the river's breast, And from his amaranthine throne The flaming orb sinks down to rest. And all is now accomplished—save The final and the dismal rite, Which on the brink of that clear wave Must be performed, ere the pink light With all its rainbow coloured dyes Has faded from the sapphire skies.