exhaled a smell
    Faint, over all the solitude,
      A heron as a sentinel
    Stood by the bank.  They called—­in vain,
      No answer came from hill or fell,
    The landscape lay in slumber’s chain,
      E’en Echo slept within her cell.

    Broad sunshine, yet a hush profound! 
      They turned with saddened hearts to go;
    Then from afar there came a sound
      Of silver bells;—­the priest said low,
    “O Mother, Mother, deign to hear,
      The worship-hour has rung; we wait
    In meek humility and fear. 
      Must we return home desolate? 
    Oh come, as late thou cam’st unsought,
      Or was it but an idle dream? 
    Give us some sign if it was not,
      A word, a breath, or passing gleam.”

    Sudden from out the water sprung
      A rounded arm, on which they saw
    As high the lotus buds among
      It rose, the bracelet white, with awe. 
    Then a wide ripple tost and swung
      The blossoms on that liquid plain,
    And lo! the arm so fair and young
      Sank in the waters down again. 
    They bowed before the mystic Power,
      And as they home returned in thought,
    Each took from thence a lotus flower
      In memory of the day and spot.

    Years, centuries, have passed away,
      And still before the temple shrine
    Descendants of the pedler pay
      Shell-bracelets of the old design
    As annual tribute.  Much they own
      In lands and gold—­but they confess
    From that eventful day alone
      Dawned on their industry—­success. 
    Absurd may be the tale I tell,
      Ill-suited to the marching times,
    I loved the lips from which it fell,
      So let it stand among my rhymes.

BUTTOO

    “Ho!  Master of the wondrous art! 
    Instruct me in fair archery,
    And buy for aye—­a grateful heart
    That will not grudge to give thy fee.” 
    Thus spoke a lad with kindling eyes,
    A hunter’s lowborn son was he—­
    To Dronacharjya, great and wise,
    Who sat with princes round his knee.

    Up Time’s fair stream far back—­oh far,
    The great wise teacher must be sought! 
    The Kurus had not yet in war
    With the Pandava brethren fought. 
    In peace, at Dronacharjya’s feet,
    Magic and archery they learned,
    A complex science, which we meet
    No more, with ages past inurned.

    “And who art thou,” the teacher said,
    “My science brave to learn so fain? 
    Which many kings who wear the thread
    Have asked to learn of me in vain.” 
    “My name is Buttoo,” said the youth,
    “A hunter’s son, I know not Fear;”
    The teacher answered, smiling smooth,
    “Then know him from this time, my dear.”