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the Wood-God's shrine,

      One arm clasping her crimson sari close

      To wrap the babe, that jewel of her joys,

      The other lifted high in comely curve

      To steady on her head the bowl and dish

      Which held the dainty victuals for the God.

      But Radha, sent before to sweep the ground

      And tie the scarlet threads around the tree,

      Came eager, crying, "Ah, dear Mistress! look!

      There is the Wood-God sitting in his place,

      Revealed, with folded hands upon his knees.

      See how the light shines round about his brow!

      How mild and great he seems, with heavenly eyes!

      Good fortune is it thus to meet the gods."

      So,—thinking him divine,—Sujata drew

      Tremblingly nigh, and kissed the earth and said,

      With sweet face bent: "Would that the Holy One

      Inhabiting his grove, Giver of good,

      Merciful unto me his handmaiden,

      Vouchsafing now his presence, might accept

      These our poor gifts of snowy curds, fresh made,

      With milk as white as new-carved ivory!"

      Therewith into the golden bowl she poured

      The curds and milk, and on the hands of Buddh

      Dropped attar from a crystal flask-distilled

      Out of the hearts of roses; and he ate,

      Speaking no word, while the glad mother stood

      In reverence apart. But of that meal

      So wondrous was the virtue that our Lord

      Felt strength and life return as though the nights

      Of watching and the days of fast had passed

      In dream, as though the spirit with the flesh

      Shared that fine meat and plumed its wings anew,

      Like some delighted bird at sudden streams

      Weary with flight o'er endless wastes of sand,

      Which laves the desert dust from neck and crest—

      And more Sujata worshipped, seeing our Lord

      Grow fairer and his countenance more bright:

      "Art thou indeed the God?" she lowly asked,

      "And hath my gift found favour?"

      But Buddh said, "What is it thou dost bring me?"

      "Holy one!"

      Answered Sujata, "from our droves I took

      Milk of a hundred mothers newly-calved,

      And with that milk I fed fifty white cows,

      And with their milk twenty-and-five, and then

      With theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirs

      The six noblest and best of all our herds,

      That yield I boiled with sandal and fine spice

      In silver lotas, adding rice, well grown

      From chosen seed, set in new-broken ground,

      So picked that every grain was like a pearl.

      This did I of true heart, because I vowed,

      Under thy tree, if I should bear a boy

      I would make offering for my joy, and now

      I have my son and all my life is bliss!"

      Softly our Lord drew down the crimson fold,

      And, laying on the little head those hands

      Which help the world, he said: "Long be thy bliss!

      And lightly fall on him the load of life!

      For thou hast holpen me who am no God,

      But one thy Brother; heretofore a Prince

      And now a wanderer, seeking night and day

      These six hard years that light which somewhere shines

      To lighten all men's darkness, if they knew!

      And I shall find the light; yea, now it dawned

      Glorious and helpful, when my weak flesh failed

      Which this pure food, fair Sister, hath restored,

      Drawn manifold through lives to quicken life

      As life itself passes by many births

      To happier heights and purging off of sins.

      Yet dost thou truly find it sweet enough

      Only to live? Can life and love suffice?"

      Answered Sujata: "Worshipful! my heart

      Is little, and a little rain will fill

      The lily's cup which hardly moists the field.

      It is enough for me to feel life's sun

      Shine in my lord's grace and my baby's smile,

      Making the loving summer of our home.

      Pleasant my days pass filled with household cares

      From sunrise when I wake to praise the gods,

      And give forth grain, and trim the tulsi-plant,

      And set my handmaids to their tasks, till noon

      When my lord lays his head upon my lap

      Lulled by soft songs and wavings of the fan;

      And so to supper-time at quiet eve,

      When by his side I stand and serve the cakes.

      Then the stars light their silver lamps for sleep,

      After the temple and the talk with friends.

      How should I not be happy, blest so much,

      And bearing him this boy whose tiny hand

      Shall lead his soul to Swerga, if it need?

      For holy books teach when a man shall plant

      Trees for the travelers' shade, and dig a well

      For the folks' comfort, and beget a son,

      It shall be good for such after their death;

      And what the books say, that I humbly take,

      Being not wiser than those great of old

      Who spake with gods, and knew the hymns and charms,

      And all the ways of virtue and of peace.

      Also I think that good must come of good

      And ill of evil—surely—unto all—

      In every place and time—seeing sweet fruit

      Groweth from wholesome roots, and bitter things

      From poison-stocks; yea, seeing, too, how spite

      Breeds hate, and kindness friends, and patience peace

      Even while we live; and when 't is willed we die

      Shall there not be as good a `Then' as `Now'?

      Haply much better! since one grain of rice

      Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,

      And

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