Then our Lord, After the manner of a Rishi, hailed The rising orb, and went--ablutions made-- Down by the winding path unto the town; And in the fashion of a Rishi passed From street to street, with begging-bowl in hand, Gathering the little pittance of his needs. Soon was it filled, for all the townsmen cried, "Take of our store, great sir!" and "Take of ours!" Marking his godlike face and eyes enwrapt; And mothers, when they saw our Lord go by, Would bid their children fall to kiss his feet, And lift his robe's hem to their brows, or run To fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes. And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow, Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care For those he knew not, save as fellow lives, The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maid Would dwell in sudden love and worship deep On that majestic form, as if she saw Her dreams of tenderest thought made true, and grace Fairer than mortal fire her breast. But he Passed onward with the bowl and yellow robe, By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts, Wending his way back to the solitudes To sit upon his hill with holy men, And hear and ask of wisdom and its roads. Midway on Ratnagiri's groves of calm, Beyond the city, but below the caves, Lodged such as hold the body foe to soul, And flesh a beast which men must chain and tame With bitter pains, till sense of pain is killed, And tortured nerves vex torturer no more-- Yogis and Brahmacharis, Bhikshus, all-- A gaunt and mournful band, dwelling apart. Some day and night had stood with lifted arms, Till--drained of blood and withered by disease Their slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbs Jutted from sapless shoulders like dead forks from forest trunks. Others had clenched their hands So long and with so fierce a fortitude, The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm. Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flints Gashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred these with fire, Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits, Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foul In rags of dead men wrapped about their loins. Certain there were inhabited the spots Where death pyres smouldered, cowering defiled With corpses for their company, and kites Screaming around them o'er the funeral-spoils; Certain who cried five hundred times a day The names of Shiva, wound with darting snakes About their sun-tanned necks and hollow flanks, One palsied foot drawn up against the ham. So gathered they, a grievous company; Crowns blistered by the blazing heat, eyes bleared, Sinews and muscles shrivelled, visages Haggard and wan as slain men's, five days dead;