"
And when sufficient for the day was given,
He took a way leading without the walls,
And through rich gardens, through the fruitful fields,
Under dark mangoes and the jujube trees,
Eastward toward Sailagiri, hill of gems;
And through an ancient grove, skirting its base,
Where, soothed by every soft and tranquil sound,
Full many saints were wearing out their days
In meditation, earnest, deep, intent,
Seeking to solve the mystery of life,
Seeking, by leaving all its joys and cares,
Seeking, by doubling all its woes and pains,
To gain an entrance to eternal rest;
And winding up its rugged sides, to where
A shoulder of the mountain, sloping west,
O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.
This mountain cave was now his dwelling-place,
A stone his pillow, and the earth his bed,
His earthen alms-bowl holding all his stores
Except the crystal waters, murmuring near.
A lonely path, rugged, and rough, and steep;
A lonely cave, its stillness only stirred
By eagle's scream, or raven's solemn croak,
Or by the distant city's softened sounds,
Save when a sudden tempest breaks above,
And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills--
A path since worn by countless pilgrims' feet,
Coming from far to view this hallowed spot,
And bow in worship on his hard, cold bed,
And press his pillow with their loving lips.
For here, for six long years, the world-renowned,
The tender lover of all living things,
Fasted and watched and wrestled for the light,
Less for himself than for a weeping world.
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