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the lamb

      Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun,

      The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.

      Whom, when they came unto the river-side,

      A woman—dove-eyed, young, with tearful face

      And lifted hands—saluted, bending low

      "Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday

      Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,

      Where I live lone and reared my child; but he

      Straying amid the blossoms found a snake,

      Which twined about his wrist, while he did laugh

      And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth

      Of that cold playmate. But, alas! ere long

      He turned so pale and still, I could not think

      Why he should cease to play, and let my breast

      Fall from his lips. And one said, 'He is sick

      Of poison'; and another, 'He will die.'

      But I, who could not lose my precious boy,

      Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light

      Back to his eyes; it was so very small

      That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think

      It could not hate him, gracious as he was,

      Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said,

      'There is a holy man upon the hill

      Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe

      Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure

      For that which ails thy son.' Whereon I came

      Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's,

      And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe,

      Praying thee tell what simples might be good.

      And thou, great sir, did'st spurn me not, but gaze

      With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;

      Then draw the face cloth back, saying to me,

      'Yea, little sister, there is that might heal

      Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing;

      For they who seek physicians bring to them

      What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find

      Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark

      Thou take it not from any hand or house

      Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died;

      It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.'

      Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!"

      The Master smiled

      Exceeding tenderly. "Yea, I spake thus,

      Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find The seed?"

      "I went, Lord, clasping to my breast

      The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut—

      Here in the jungle and towards the town—

      'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace,

      A tola-black'; and each who had it gave,

      For all the poor are piteous to the poor;

      But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here

      Hath any peradventure ever died

      Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said:

      'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead

      Are very many, and the living few!'

      So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back,

      And prayed of others; but the others said,

      Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave.'

      'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!'

      'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died

      Between the rain-time and the harvesting!'

      Ah, sir! I could not find a single house

      Where there was mustard-seed and none had died!

      Therefore I left my child—who would not suck

      Nor smile—beneath the wild vines by the stream,

      To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray

      Where I might find this seed and find no death,

      If now, indeed, my baby be not dead,

      As I do fear, and as they said to me."

      "My sister! thou hast found," the Master said,

      "Searching for what none finds—that bitter balm

      I had to give thee. He thou lovest slept

      Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today

      Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe

      The grief which all hearts share grows less for one.

      Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stay

      Thy tears and win the secret of that curse

      Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives

      O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice

      As these dumb beasts are driven—men their lords.

      I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"

      So entered they the city side by side,

      The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sun

      Gilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threw

      Long shadows down the street and through the gate

      Where the King's men kept watch. But when they saw

      Our Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back,

      The market-people drew their wains aside,

      In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayed

      The war of tongues to gaze on that mild face;

      The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand,

      Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web,

      The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost

      His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice

      Shiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milk

      Ran o'er the lota while the milkers watched

      The passage of our Lord moving so meek,

      With yet so beautiful a majesty.

      But most the women gathering in the doors

      Asked: "Who is this that brings the sacrifice,

      So graceful and peace-giving as he goes?

      What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet?

      Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?"

      And others said, "It is the holy man

      Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill."

      But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,

      Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which have

      No shepherd; wandering in the night with none

      To guide them; bleating blindly towards the knife

      Of

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