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100
Ballads of Hindustan.
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.
