the Vindhya mountains far away,
Then gently winds around this fruitful plain,
Its surface green with floating lotus leaves.
And bright with lotus blossoms, blue and white,
O'erhung with drooping trees and trailing vines,
Till through the eastern gate it hastens on,
To lose itself in Gunga's sacred stream.

Toward Gaya now Siddartha bent his steps,
Distant the journey of a single day
As men marked distance in those ancient times,
No longer heeded in this headlong age,
When we count moments by the miles we pass;
And one may see the sun sink out of sight.
Behind great banks of gray and wintry clouds,
While feathery snowflakes fill the frosty air,
And after quiet sleep may wake next day
To see it bathe green fields with floods of light,
And dry the sparkling dew from opening flowers,
And hear the joyful burst of vernal song,
And breathe the balmy air of opening spring.

And as he went, weary and faint and sad,
The valley opening showed a pleasant grove,
Where many trees mingled their grateful shade,
And many blossoms blended sweet perfumes;
And there, under a drooping vakul-tree,
A bower of roses and sweet jasmine vines,
Within a couch, without a banquet spread,
While near a fountain with its falling spray
Ruffled the surface of a shining pool,
Whose liquid cadence mingled with the songs
Of many birds concealed among the trees.

And there three seeming sister graces were,[2]
Fair as young Venus rising from the sea,
The one in seeming childlike innocence
Bathed in the pool, while her low liquid laugh
Rung sweet and clear; and one her vina tuned,
And as she played, the other lightly danced,
Clapping her hands, tinkling her silver bells,
Whose gauzy silken garments seemed to show
Rather than hide her slender, graceful limbs.
And she who played the vina sweetly sang;

"Come to our bower and take your rest--
Life is a weary road at best.
Eat, for your board is richly spread;
Drink, for your wine is sparkling red;
Rest, for the weary day is past;
Sleep, for the shadows gather fast.
Tune not your vina-strings too high,
Strained they will break and the music die.
Come to our bower and take your rest--
Life is a weary road at best."

But Buddha, full of pity, passing said:
"Alas, poor soul! flitting a little while
Like painted butterflies before the lamp
That soon w