Onward through groves the peddler sped, Till full in front, the sunlit spire Arose before him. Paths which led To gardens trim, in gay attire, Lay all around. And lo! the manse, Humble but neat, with open door! He paused, and blessed the lucky chance That brought his bark to such a shore. Huge straw-ricks, log huts full of grain, Sleek cattle, flowers, a tinkling bell, Spoke in a language sweet and plain, "Here smiling Peace and Plenty dwell." Unconsciously he raised his cry, "Shell-bracelets, ho!" And at his voice Looked out the priest, with eager eye, And made his heart at once rejoice. "Ho, _Sankha_ peddler! Pass not by, But step thou in, and share the food Just offered on our altar high, If thou art in a hungry mood. Welcome are all to this repast! The rich and poor, the high and low! Come, wash thy feet, and break thy fast; Then on thy journey strengthened go." "Oh, thanks, good priest! Observance due And greetings! May thy name be blest! I came on business, but I knew, Here might be had both food and rest Without a charge; for all the poor Ten miles around thy sacred shrine Know that thou keepest open door, And praise that generous hand of thine. But let my errand first be told: For bracelets sold to thine this day, So much thou owest me in gold; Hast thou the ready cash to pay? "The bracelets were enameled,--so The price is high."--"How! Sold to mine? Who bought them, I should like to know?" "Thy daughter, with the large black eyne, Now bathing at the marble ghat." Loud laughed the priest at this reply, "I shall not put up, friend, with that; No daughter in the world have I; An only son is all my stay; Some minx has played a trick, no doubt: But cheer up, let thy heart be gay, Be sure that I shall find her out." "Nay, nay, good father! such a face Could not deceive, I must aver; At all events, she knows thy place, 'And if my father should demur To pay thee,'--thus she said,--'or cry He has no money, tell him straight The box vermilion-streaked to try, That's near the shrined'"--"Well, wait, friend, wait!" The priest said, thoughtful; and he ran And with the open box came back:-- "Here is the price exact, my man,-- No surplus over, and no lack. "How strange! how strange! Oh, blest art thou To have beheld her, touched her hand, Before whom Vishnu's self must bow, And Brahma and his heavenly band! Here have I worshiped her for years, And never seen the vision bright; Vigils and fasts and secret tears Have almost quenched my outward sight; And yet that dazzling form and face I have not seen, and thou, dear friend, To thee, unsought-for, comes the grace: What may its purport be, and end?