At length, the transports of first meeting past,
  More of this new-found world he wished to see,
  More of its peace and joy he wished to know. 
  Led by his loving guides, enwrapt he saw
  Such scenes of beauty passing human speech,
  Such scenes of peace and joy past human thought,
  That he who sings must tune a heavenly lyre
  And seraphs touch his lips with living fire. 
  My unanointed lips will not presume
  To try such lofty themes, glad if I gain
  A distant prospect of the promised land,
  And catch some glimpses through the gates ajar. 
  Long time he wandered through these blissful scenes,
  Time measured by succession of delights,
  Till wearied by excess of very joy
  Both soul and body sunk in tranquil sleep. 
  He slept while hosts of devas sweetly sung: 
  “Hail, great physician! savior, lover, friend! 
  Joy of the worlds, guide to Nirvana, hail!”
  From whose bright presence Mara’s myriads fled. 
  But Mara’s self, subtlest of all, fled not,
  But putting on a seeming yogi’s form,
  Wasted, as if by fasts, to skin and bone,
  On one foot standing, rooted to the ground,
  The other raised against his fleshless thigh,
  Hands stretched aloft till joints had lost their use,
  And clinched so close, as if in firm resolve,
  The nails had grown quite through the festering palms,[5]
  His tattered robes, as if worn out by age,
  Hanging like moss from trees decayed and dead,
  While birds were nesting in his tangled hair. 
  And thus disguised the subtle Mara stood,
  And when the master roused him from his sleep
  His tempter cried in seeming ecstasy: 
  “O! happy wakening! joy succeeding grief! 
  Peace after trouble! rest that knows no end! 
  Life after death!  Nirvana found at last! 
  Here let us wait till wasted by decay
  The body’s worn-out fetters drop away.”

  “Much suffering-brother,” Buddha answered him,
  “The weary traveler, wandering through the night
  In doubt and darkness, gladly sees the dawn. 
  The storm-tossed sailor on the troubled sea,
  Wearied and drenched, with joy re-enters port. 
  But other nights succeed that happy dawn,
  And other seas may toss that sailor’s bark. 
  But he who sees Nirvana’s sacred Sun,
  And in Nirvana’s haven furls his sails,
  No more shall wander through the starless night,
  No more shall battle with the winds and waves. 
  O joy of joys! our eyes have seen that Sun! 
  Our sails have almost reached that sheltering port,
  But shall we, joyful at our own escape,
  Leave our poor brothers battling with the storm,
  Sails rent, barks leaking, helm and compass lost,
  No light to guide, no hope to cheer them on?”