His brothers saw them floating down the stream,
And winged with fear made haste to learn the cause.
They too the master saw, and heard his words,
And all convinced received the perfect law,
And with their followers joined the Buddha's band.
The days pass on, and in the bamboo-grove
A great vihara as by magic rose,
Built by the king for Buddha's growing band,
A spacious hall where all might hear his words,
And little cells where each might take his rest,
A school and rest-house through the summer rains.
But soon the monsoons from the distant seas
Bring gathering clouds to veil the brazen sky,
While nimble lightnings dart their blinding flames,
And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills,
And heaven's downpourings drench the thirsty earth--
The master's seed-time when the people rest.
For now the sixty from their distant fields
Have gathered in to trim their lamps afresh
And learn new wisdom from the master's lips--
All but brave Purna on the Tartar steppes
Where summer is the fittest time for toil,
When India's rains force India's sons to rest.
The new vihara and the bamboo-grove
King Bimbasara to the master gave,
Where day by day he taught his growing school,
While rills, grown torrents, leap from rock to rock,
And Phalgu's swollen stream sweeps down the vale.
That Saraputra after called the Great
Had seen these new-come youths in yellow robes
Passing from street to street to ask for alms,
Receiving coarsest food with gentle thanks--
Had seen them meet the poor and sick and old
With kindly words and ever-helpful hands--
Had seen them passing to the bamboo-grove
Joyful as bridegrooms soon to meet their brides.
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