Like merchants on the swollen Ganges' bank Praying the farther shore to come to them, Taking no steps, seeking no means, to cross. Far better strive to cast out greed and hate. Live not for self, but live for others' good. Indulge no bitter speech, no bitter thoughts. Help those in need; give freely what we have. Kill not, steal not, and ever speak the truth. Indulge no lust; taste not the maddening bowl That deadens sense and stirs all base desires; And live in charity and gentle peace, Bearing all meekly, loving those who hate. This is the way to Brahma Loca's rest. And ye who may, come, follow after me. Leave wealth and home and all the joys of life, That we may aid a sad and suffering world In sin and sorrow groping blindly on, Becoming poor that others may be rich, Wanderers ourselves to lead the wanderers home. And ye who stay, ever remember this: That hearth is Brahma's altar where love reigns, That house is Brahma's temple where love dwells, Ye ask, my aged friends, if death can break The bonds that bind your souls in wedded love. Fear not; death has no power to conquer love. Go hand in hand till death shall claim his own, Then hand in hand ascend Nirvana's heights, There, hand in hand, heart beating close to heart, Enter that life whose joys shall never end, Perennial youth succeeding palsied age, Mansions of bliss for this poor house of clay, Labors of love instead of toil and tears." He spoke, and many to each other said: "Why hear this babbler rail at sacred things-- Our caste, our faith, our prayers and sacred hymns?" And strode away in proud and sovereign scorn; While some with gladness heard his solemn words, All soon forgotten in the giddy whirl Of daily business, daily joys and cares. But some drank in his words with eager ears, And asked him many questions, lingering long, And often sought him in the sacred grove To hear his burning words of living truth. And day by day some noble Brahman youth Forsook his wealth, forsook his home and friends, And took the yellow robe and begging-bowl To ask for alms where all had given him place, Meeting with gentleness the rabble's gibes, Meeting with smiles the Brahman's haughty scorn. Thus, day by day, this school of prophets grew, Beneath the banyan's columned, vaulted shade, All earnest learners at the master's feet, Until the city's busy, bustling throng Had come to recognize the yellow robe, The poor to know its wearer as a friend, The sick and suffering as a comforter, While to the dying pilgrim's glazing eyes He seemed a messenger from higher worlds Come down to raise his sinking spirit up And guide his trembling steps to realms of rest.