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." Unseen the magic arrow came, Amidst the laughter and the scorn Of royal youths--like lightning flame Sudden and sharp. They blew the horn, As down upon the ground he fell, Not hurt, but made a jest and game;-- He rose--and waved a proud farewell, But cheek and brow grew red with shame. And lo--a single, single tear Dropped from his eyelash as he past, "My place I gather is not here; No matter--what is rank or caste? In us is honor, or disgrace, Not out of us," 'twas thus he mused, "The question is--not wealth or place, But gifts well used, or gifts abused." "And I shall do my best to gain The science that man will not teach, For life is as a shadow vain, Until the utmost goal we reach To which the soul points. I shall try To realize my waking dream, And what if I should chance to die? None miss one bubble from a stream." So thinking, on and on he went, Till he attained the forest's verge, The garish day was well-nigh spent, Birds had already raised its dirge. Oh what a scene! How sweet and calm! It soothed at once his wounded pride, And on his spirit shed a balm That all its yearnings purified. What glorious trees! The sombre saul On which the eye delights to rest, The betel-nut--a pillar tall, With feathery branches for a crest, The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide, The pale faint-scented bitter neem, The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, With flowers that have the ruby's gleam,