And once at such a time the o'erwrought Prince Fell to the earth in deadly swoon, all spent, Even as one slain, who hath no longer breath Nor any stir of blood; so wan he was, So motionless. But there came by that way A shepherd-boy, who saw Siddartha lie With lids fast-closed, and lines of nameless pain Fixed on his lips--the fiery noonday sun Beating upon his head--who, plucking boughs From wild rose-apple trees, knitted them thick Into a bower to shade the sacred face. Also he poured upon the Master's lips Drops of warm milk, pressed from his she-goat's bag, Lest, being of low caste, he do wrong to one So high and holy seeming. But the books Tell how the jambu-branches, planted thus, Shot with quick life in wealth of leaf and flower And glowing fruitage interlaced and close, So that the bower grew like a tent of silk Pitched for a king at hunting, decked with studs Of silver-work and bosses of red gold. And the boy worshipped, deeming him some God; But our Lord, gaining breath, arose and asked Milk in the shepherd's lots. "Ah, my Lord, I cannot give thee," quoth the lad; "thou seest I am a Sudra, and my touch defiles!" Then the World-honoured spake: "Pity and need Make all flesh kin. There is no caste in blood, Which runneth of one hue, nor caste in tears, Which trickle salt with all; neither comes man To birth with tilka-mark stamped on the brow, Nor sacred thread on neck. Who doth right deeds Is twice-born, and who doeth ill deeds vile. Give me to drink, my brother; when I come Unto my quest it shall be good for thee." Thereat the peasant's heart was glad, and gave. And on another day there passed that road A band of tinselled, girls, the nautch-dancers Of Indra's temple in the town, with those Who made their music--one that beat a drum Set round with peacock-feathers, one that blew The piping bansuli, and one that twitched A three-string sitar. Lightly tripped they down From ledge to ledge and through the chequered paths To some gay festival, the silver bells Chiming soft peals about the small brown feet, Armlets and wrist-rings tattling answer shrill; While he that bore the sitar thrummed and twanged His threads of brass, and she beside him sang-- "Fair goes the dancing when the sitar's tuned; Tune us the sitar neither low nor high, And we will dance away the hearts of men. "The string o'erstretched breaks, and the music flies, The string o'erslack is dumb, and music dies; Tune us the sitar neither low nor high."