seen them passing to the bamboo-grove
Joyful as bridegrooms soon to meet their brides.
He, Vashpa and Asvajit met one day,
Whom he had known beneath the banyan-tree,
Two of the five who first received the law,
Now clothed in yellow, bearing begging-bowls,
And asked their doctrine, who their master was,
That they seemed joyful, while within the grove
All seemed so solemn, self-absorbed and sad.
They bade him come and hear the master's words,
And when their bowls were filled, he followed them,
And heard the living truth from Buddha's lips,
And said: "The sun of wisdom has arisen.
What further need of our poor flickering lamps?"
And with Mugallan joined the master's band.

And now five strangers from the Tartar steppes,
Strangers in form and features, language, dress,
Guided by one as strange in dress as they,
Weary and foot-sore, passed within the gates
Of Rajagriha, while the rising sun
Was still concealed behind the vulture-peak,
A laughing-stock to all the idle crowd,
Whom noisy children followed through the streets
As thoughtless children follow what is strange,
Until they met the master asking alms,
Who with raised hand and gentle, mild rebuke
Hushed into silence all their noisy mirth.
"These are our brothers," Buddha mildly said.
"Weary and worn they come from distant lands,
And ask for kindness--not for mirth and jeers."
They knew at once that calm, majestic face,
That voice as sweet as Brahma's, and those eyes
Beaming with tender, all-embracing love,
Of which, while seated round their argol fires
In their black tents, brave Purna loved to tell,
And bowed in worship at the master's feet.
He bade them rise, and learned from whence they came,
And led them joyful to the bamboo-grove,
Where some brought water from the nearest stream
To bathe their festered feet and weary limbs,
While some brought food and others yellow robes--
Fitter for India's heat than skins and furs--
All welcoming their new-found friends who came
From distant lands, o'er desert wastes and snows,
To see the master, hear the perfect law,
And bring the message noble Purna sent.

The months pass on; the monsoons cease to blow,
The thunders cease to roll, the rains to pour;
The earth, refreshed, is clothed with living green,
And flowers burst forth where all was parched and bare,
And busy toil succeeds long days of rest.
The time for mi