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starry champak's white and gold

      Lurks in those little, naked, grey spring-buds.

      Ah, Sir! I know there might be woes to bear

      Would lay fond Patience with her face in dust;

      If this my babe pass first I think my heart

      Would break—almost I hope my heart would break!

      That I might clasp him dead and wait my lord

      In whatsoever world holds faithful wives—

      Duteous, attending till his hour should come.

      But if Death called Senani, I should mount

      The pile and lay that dear head in my lap,

      My daily way, rejoicing when the torch

      Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.

      For it is written if an Indian wife

      Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul

      For every hair upon her head a crore

      Of years in Swerga. Therefore fear I not.

      And therefore, Holy Sir! my life is glad,

      Nowise forgetting yet those other lives

      Painful and poor, wicked and miserable,

      Whereon the gods grant pity! but for me,

      What good I see humbly I seek to do,

      And live obedient to the law, in trust

      That what will come, and must come, shall come well."

      Then spake our Lord: "Thou teachest them who teach,

      Wiser than wisdom in thy simple lore.

      Be thou content to know not, knowing thus

      Thy way of right and duty: grow, thou flower

      With thy sweet kind in peaceful shade—the light

      Of Truth's high noon is not for tender leaves

      Which must spread broad in other suns and lift

      In later lives a crowned head to the sky.

      Thou who hast worshipped me, I worship thee!

      Excellent heart! learned unknowingly,

      As the dove is which flieth home by love.

      In thee is seen why there is hope for man

      And where we hold the wheel of life at will.

      Peace go with thee, and comfort all thy days!

      As thou accomplishest, may I achieve!

      He whom thou thoughtest God bids thee wish this."

      "May'st thou achieve," she said, with earnest eyes

      Bent on her babe, who reached its tender hands

      To Buddh—knowing, belike, as children know,

      More than we deem, and reverencing our Lord;

      But he arose—made strong with that pure meat—

      And bent his footsteps where a great Tree grew,

      The Bodhi-tree (thenceforward in all years

      Never to fade, and ever to be kept

      In homage of the world), beneath whose leaves

      It was ordained that Truth should come to Buddh

      Which now the Master knew; wherefore he went

      With measured pace, steadfast, majestical,

      Unto the Tree of Wisdom. Oh, ye Worlds!

      Rejoice! our Lord wended unto the Tree!

      Whom—as he passed into its ample shade,

      Cloistered with columned dropping stems, and roofed

      With vaults of glistening green—the conscious earth

      Worshipped with waving grass and sudden flush

      Of flowers about his feet. The forest-boughs

      Bent down to shade him; from the river sighed

      Cool wafts of wind laden with lotus-scents

      Breathed by the water-gods. Large wondering eyes

      Of woodland creatures—panther, boar, and deer—

      At peace that eve, gazed on his face benign

      From cave and thicket. From its cold cleft wound

      The mottled deadly snake, dancing its hood

      In honour of our Lord; bright butterflies

      Fluttered their vans, azure and green and gold,

      To be his fan-bearers; the fierce kite dropped

      Its prey and screamed; the striped palm-squirrel raced

      From stem to stem to see; the weaver-bird

      Chirped from her swinging nest; the lizard ran;

      The koil sang her hymn; the doves flocked round;

      Even the creeping things were 'ware and glad.

      Voices of earth and air joined in one song,

      Which unto ears that hear said: "Lord and Friend!

      Lover and Saviour! Thou who hast subdued

      Angers and prides, desires and fears and doubts,

      Thou that for each and all hast given thyself,

      Pass to the Tree! The sad world blesseth thee

      Who art the Buddh that shall assuage her woes.

      Pass, Hailed and Honoured! strive thy last for us,

      King and high Conqueror! thine hour is come;

      This is the Night the ages waited for!"

      Then fell the night even as our Master sate

      Under that Tree. But he who is the Prince

      Of Darkness, Mara—knowing this was Buddh

      Who should deliver men, and now the hour

      When he should find the Truth and save the worlds—

      Gave unto all his evil powers command.

      Wherefore there trooped from every deepest pit

      The fiends who war with Wisdom and the Light,

      Arati, Trishna, Raga, and their crew

      Of passions, horrors, ignorances, lusts.

      The brood of gloom and dread; all hating Buddh,

      Seeking to shake his mind; nor knoweth one,

      Not even the wisest, how those fiends of Hell

      Battled that night to keep the Truth from Buddh:

      Sometimes with terrors of the tempest, blasts

      Of demon-armies clouding all the wind,

      With thunder, and with blinding lightning flung

      In jagged javelins of purple wrath

      From splitting skies; sometimes with wiles and words

      Fair-sounding, 'mid hushed leaves and softened airs

      From shapes of witching beauty; wanton songs,

      Whispers of love; sometimes with royal allures

      Of proffered rule; sometimes with mocking doubts,

      Making truth vain. But whether these befell

      Without and visible,

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