But where is now that erring, wandering son,
The pride of all these loyal, loving hearts,
Heir to this wealth and hope of this proud house?
Seven clothed in coarsest yellow robes draw near
With heads close shorn and bare, unsandaled feet,
Alms-bowl on shoulder slung and staff in hand,
But moving with that gentle stateliness
That birth and blood, not wealth and effort, give,
All in the strength of manhood's early prime,
All heirs to wealth rejected, cast aside,
But all united in the holy cause
Of giving light and hope and help to all,
While earnest greetings from the evening's hosts
Show they are welcome and expected guests.
Startled, the stately Brahmans turn aside.
"The heir has lost his reason," whispered they,
"And joined that wandering prince who late appeared
Among the yogis in the sacred grove,
Who thinks he sees the truth by inner sight,
Who fain would teach the wise, and claims to know
More than the fathers and the Vedas teach."
But as he nearer came, his stately form,
His noble presence and his earnest face,
Beaming with gentleness and holy love,
Hushed into silence every rising sneer.
One of their number, wise in sacred lore,
Profoundly learned, in all the Vedas versed,
With courtly grace saluting Buddha, said:
"Our Brahman masters teach that many ways
Lead up to Brahma Loca, Brahma's rest,
As many roads from many distant lands
All meet before Benares' sacred shrines.
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