weaver left his web,
     The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost
     His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice
     Shiva’s white bull fed free; the wasted milk
     Ran o’er the lota while the milkers watched
     The passage of our Lord moving so meek,
     With yet so beautiful a majesty. 
     But most the women gathering in the doors
     Asked, “Who is this that brings the sacrifice
     So graceful and peace-giving as he goes? 
     What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet? 
     Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?”
     And others said, “It is the holy man
     Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill.” 
     But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,
     Thinking, “Alas! for all my sheep which have
     No shepherd; wandering in the night with none
     To guide them; bleating blindly toward the knife
     Of Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin.”

     Then some one told the King, “There cometh here
     A holy hermit, bringing down the flock
     Which thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice.”

     The King stood in his hall of offering;
     On either hand the white-robed Brahmans ranged
     Muttered their mantras, feeding still the fire
     Which roared upon the midmost altar.  There
     From scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame,
     Hissing and curling as they licked the gifts
     Of ghee and spices and the Soma juice,
     The joy of Indra.  Round about the pile
     A slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran,
     Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down,
     The blood of bleating victims.  One such lay,
     A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound back
     With munja grass; at its stretched throat the knife
     Pressed by a priest, who murmured, “This, dread gods. 
     Of many yajnas cometh as the crown
     From Bimbasara:  take ye joy to see
     The spirted blood, and pleasure in the scent
     Of rich flesh roasting ’mid the fragrant flames;
     Let the King’s sins be laid upon this goat,
     And let the fire consume them burning it,
     For now I strike.”

                         But Buddha softly said,
     “Let him not strike, great King!” and therewith loosed
     The victim’s bonds, none staying him, so great
     His presence was.  Then, craving leave, he spake
     Of life, which all can take, but none can give,
     Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep,
     Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each,
     Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all
     Where pity is, for pity makes the world
     Soft to the weak and noble for the strong. 
     Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lent
     Sad, pleading words, showing how man, who prays
     For mercy to the gods, is merciless,
     Being as god to those; albeit all life