oly caste,
From Brahma sprung and Brahma's only heirs;
But yet in Bactria, whence our fathers came,
And where their brothers and our kindred dwell,
No Brahman ever wore the sacred cord.
Has mighty Brahma there no son, no heir?
The Brahman mother suffers all the pangs
Kshatriyas, Sudras or the Vassas feel.
The Brahman's body, when the soul has fled,
A putrid mass, defiles the earth and air,
Vile as the Sudras or the lowest beasts.
The Brahman murderer, libertine or thief
Ye say will be reborn in lowest beast,
While some poor Sudra, full of gentleness
And pity, charity and trust and love,
May rise to Brahma Loca's perfect rest,
Why boast of caste, that seems so little worth
To raise the soul or ward off human ill?
Why pray for what we do not strive to gain?
Like merchants on the swollen Ganges' bank
Praying the farther shore to come to them,
Taking no steps, seeking no means, to cross.
Far better strive to cast out greed and hate.
Live not for self, but live for others' good.
Indulge no bitter speech, no bitter thoughts.
Help those in need; give freely what we have.
Kill not, steal not, and ever speak the truth.
Indulge no lust; taste not the maddening bowl
That deadens sense and stirs all base desires;
And live in charity and gentle peace,
Bearing all meekly, loving those who hate.
This is the way to Brahma Loca's rest.
And ye who may, come, follow after me.
Leave wealth and home and all the joys of life,
That we may aid a sad and suffering world
In sin and sorrow groping blindly on,
Becoming poor that others may be rich,
Wanderers ourselves to lead the wanderers home.
And ye who stay, ever remember this:
That hearth is Brahma's altar where love reigns,
That house is Brahma's temple where love dwells,
Ye ask, my aged friends, if death can break
The bonds that bind your souls in wedded love.
Fear not; death has no power to conquer love.
Go hand in hand till death shall claim his own,
Then hand in hand ascend Nirvana's heights,
There, hand in hand, heart beating close to heart,
Enter that life whose joys shall never end,
Perennial youth succeeding palsied age,
Mansions of bliss for this poor house of clay,
Labors of love instead of toil and tears."

He spoke, and many to each other said:
"Why hear this babbler rail at sacred things--
Our caste, our faith, our prayers and sacred hymns?"
And strode aw