clouds,
  While feathery snowflakes fill the frosty air,
  And after quiet sleep may wake next day
  To see it bathe green fields with floods of light,
  And dry the sparkling dew from opening flowers,
  And hear the joyful burst of vernal song,
  And breathe the balmy air of opening spring.

  And as he went, weary and faint and sad,
  The valley opening showed a pleasant grove,
  Where many trees mingled their grateful shade,
  And many blossoms blended sweet perfumes;
  And there, under a drooping vakul-tree,
  A bower of roses and sweet jasmine vines,
  Within a couch, without a banquet spread,
  While near a fountain with its falling spray
  Ruffled the surface of a shining pool,
  Whose liquid cadence mingled with the songs
  Of many birds concealed among the trees.

  And there three seeming sister graces were,[2]
  Fair as young Venus rising from the sea,
  The one in seeming childlike innocence
  Bathed in the pool, while her low liquid laugh
  Rung sweet and clear; and one her vina tuned,
  And as she played, the other lightly danced,
  Clapping her hands, tinkling her silver bells,
  Whose gauzy silken garments seemed to show
  Rather than hide her slender, graceful limbs. 
  And she who played the vina sweetly sang;

      “Come to our bower and take your rest—­
      Life is a weary road at best. 
      Eat, for your board is richly spread;
      Drink, for your wine is sparkling red;
      Rest, for the weary day is past;
      Sleep, for the shadows gather fast. 
      Tune not your vina-strings too high,
      Strained they will break and the music die. 
      Come to our bower and take your rest—­
      Life is a weary road at best.”

  But Buddha, full of pity, passing said: 
  “Alas, poor soul! flitting a little while
  Like painted butterflies before the lamp
  That soon will burn your wings; like silly doves,
  Calling the cruel kite to seize and kill;
  Displaying lights to be the robber’s guide;
  Enticing men to wrong, who soon despise. 
  Ah! poor, perverted, cold and cruel world! 
  Delights of love become the lures of lust,
  The joys of heaven changed into fires of hell.”

[1]I am aware there are many who think that Buddha did not believe in prayer, which Arnold puts into his own mouth in these words, which sound like the clanking of chains in a prison-vault: 

  “Pray not! the darkness will not brighten!  Ask
  Nought from Silence, for it cannot speak!”

Buddha did teach that mere prayers without any effort to overcome our evils is of no more use than for a merchant to pray the farther bank of a swollen stream to come to him without seeking any means to cross, which merely differs in words from the declaration of St. James that faith without works is dead; but if he ever taught that the earnest yearning of a soul for help, which is the essence of prayer, is no aid in the struggle for a higher life, then my whole reading has been at fault, and the whole Buddhist worship has been a departure from the teachings of its founder.