Meanwhile the temple-gates wide open stood,
  And when the king, in royal purple robed,
  And decked with gems, attended by his court,
  To clash of cymbals, sound of shell and drum,
  Through streets swept clean and sprinkled with perfumes,
  Adorned with flags, and filled with shouting crowds,
  Drew near the sacred shrine, a greater came,
  Through unswept ways, where dwelt the toiling poor,
  Huddled in wretched huts, breathing foul air,
  Living in fetid filth and poverty—­
  No childhood’s joys, youth prematurely old,
  Manhood a painful struggle but to live,
  And age a weary shifting of the scene;
  While all the people drew aside to gaze
  Upon his gentle but majestic face,
  Beaming with tender, all-embracing love. 
  And when the king and royal train dismount,
  ’Mid prostrate people and the stately priests,
  On fragrant flowers that carpeted his way,
  And mount the lofty steps to reach the shrine,
  Siddartha came, upon the other side,
  ’Mid stalls for victims, sheds for sacred wood,
  And rude attendants on the pompous rites,
  Who seized a goat, the patriarch of the flock,
  And bound him firm with sacred munja grass,
  And bore aloft, while Buddha followed where
  A priest before the blazing altar stood
  With glittering knife, and others fed the fires,
  While clouds of incense from the altar rose,
  Sweeter than Araby the blest can yield,
  And white-robed Brahmans chant their sacred hymns. 
  And there before that ancient shrine they met,
  The king, the priests, the hermit from the hill,
  When one, an aged Brahman, raised his hands,
  And praying, lifted up his voice and cried: 
  “O hear! great Indra, from thy lofty throne
  On Meru’s holy mountain, high in heaven. 
  Let every good the king has ever done
  With this sweet incense mingled rise to thee;
  And every secret, every open sin
  Be laid upon this goat, to sink from sight,
  Drunk by the earth with his hot spouting blood,
  Or on this altar with his flesh be burned.” 
  And all the Brahman choir responsive cried: 
  “Long live the king! now let the victim die!”
  But Buddha said:  “Let him not strike, O king! 
  For how can God, being good, delight in blood? 
  And how can blood wash out the stains of sin,
  And change the fixed eternal law of life
  That good from good, evil from evil flows?”
  This said, he stooped and loosed the panting goat,
  None staying him, so great his presence was. 
  And then with loving tenderness he taught
  How sin works out its own sure punishment;
  How like corroding rust and eating moth
  It wastes the very substance of the soul;
  Like poisoned blood it surely, drop by drop,
  Pollutes the very fountain of the life;
  Like deadly drug it changes into stone
  The living fibres of a loving heart;