Ten days have passed, and now the rising sun. 
  That hangs above the distant mountain-peaks
  Is mirrored back by countless rippling waves
  That dance upon the Ganges’ yellow stream,
  Swollen by rains and melted mountain-snows,
  And glorifies the thousand sacred fanes[2]
  With gilded pinnacles and spires and domes
  That rise in beauty on its farther bank,
  While busy multitudes glide up and down
  With lightly dipping oars and swelling sails. 
  And pilgrims countless as those shining waves,
  From far and near, from mountain, hill and plain,
  With dust and travel-stained, foot-sore, heart-sick,
  Here came to bathe within the sacred stream,
  Here came to die upon its sacred banks,
  Seeking to wash the stains of guilt away,
  Seeking to lay their galling burdens down. 
  Scoff not at these poor heavy-laden souls! 
  Blindly they seek, but that all-seeing Eye
  That sees the tiny sparrow when it falls,
  Is watching them, His angels hover near. 
  Who knows what visions meet their dying gaze? 
  Who knows what joys await those troubled hearts?

  The ancient writings say that having naught
  To pay the ferryman, the churl refused
  To ferry him across the swollen stream,
  When he was raised and wafted through the air. 
  What matter whether that all-powerful Love
  Which moves the worlds, and bears with all our sins,
  Sent him a chariot and steeds of fire,
  Or moved the heart of some poor fisherman
  To bear him over for a brother’s sake? 
  All power is His, and men can never thwart
  His all-embracing purposes of love. 
  Now past the stream and near the sacred grove
  The deer-park called, the five saw him approach. 
  But grieved at his departure from the way
  The ancient sages taught, said with themselves
  They would not rise or do him reverence. 
  But as he nearer came, the tender love,
  The holy calm that shone upon his face,
  Made them at once forget their firm resolve. 
  They rose together, doing reverence,
  And bringing water washed his way-soiled feet,
  Gave him a mat, and said as with one voice: 
  “Master Gautama, welcome to our grove. 
  Here rest your weary limbs and share our shade. 
  Have you escaped from karma’s fatal chains
  And gained clear vision—­found the living light?”

  “Call me not master.  Profitless to you
  Six years have passed,” the Buddha answered them,
  “In doubt and darkness groping blindly on. 
  But now at last the day has surely dawned. 
  These eyes have seen Nirvana’s sacred Sun,
  And found the noble eightfold path that mounts
  From life’s low levels, mounts from death’s dark shades
  To changeless day, to never-ending rest.” 
  Then with the prophet’s newly kindled zeal,
  Zeal for the truth his opened eyes had seen,
  Zeal for the friends whose struggles he