'Where is my pride, which was so dear to me, My pride, and my vain confidence of strength? Gone, yea, and my desire even gone to be Myself my own redeemer and not owe Redemption as a debt of gratitude To any; sense of debt is sweet to me Now, and my heart is meekly glad to know That I henceforth am not my own, but His Who died to save me from myself and sin. Nirvâna, which I erst befooled myself To deem desirable, what dreary doom Were it! Instead of life, and love, and joy, True peace, and ever-springing gratitude Growing greater every moment, like a stream Increasing every moment to the sea With fresh floods from fresh tributaries poured-- Instead of this, blank death and nothingness! End unattainable, I now can see, Even were it good. To lose this power to think And suffer and enjoy, to quench in night Utter, unending, reason's starry lamp, And hope's, and memory's, and be naught at all! I shudder backward from the crumbling brink Of such annihilation of myself Imagined only, and I eager spring Endeavoring upward toward that different good Assured to me and native now I know, The prospect of eternal life with joy.' So Krishna mused, was grateful, and aspired, Rescued from the abyss to hope of heaven. But the new life of love within his heart, Of love and love's delicious gratitude, Swelled with sweet pain to unappeasable Desire of vent and overflow in word Or deed to testify itself abroad. When, the next day, the daily trysting-time Drew them that loved the Lord together for prayer, The Indian, who by fellow instinct now Divined the secret of those gatherings, came And sought to be admitted of the band. They welcomed him with hospitable joy, Which borrowed tears from sorrow to express Itself in silence when he spoke and said: