He found Kasyapa as the setting sun
  Was sinking low behind the western hills,
  And somber shadows darkened Phalgu’s vale,
  And asked a place to pass the gathering night. 
  “Here is a grotto, cooled by trickling streams
  And overhanging shades, fit place for sleep,”
  Kasyapa said, “that I would gladly give;
  But some fierce Naga nightly haunts the spot
  Whose poisoned breath no man can breathe and live.” 
  “Fear not for me,” the Buddha answered him,
  “For I this night will make my dwelling there.” 
  “Do as you will,” Kasyapa doubtful said,
  “But much I fear some dire catastrophe.” 
  Now mighty Mara, spirit of the air,
  The prince of darkness, roaming through the earth
  Had found this grotto in the sacred grove,
  And as a Naga there kept nightly watch
  For those who sought deliverance from his power,
  Who, when the master calmly took his seat,
  Belched forth a flood of poison, foul and black,
  And with hot, burning vapors filled the cave. 
  But Buddha sat unmoved, serene and calm
  As Brahma sits amid the kalpa fires
  That burn the worlds but cannot harm his heaven. 
  While Mara, knowing Buddha, fled amazed
  And left the Naga coiled in Buddha’s bowl.[3]
  Kasyapa, terrified, beheld the flames,
  And when the first faint rays of dawn appeared
  With all his fearful followers sought the cave,
  And found the master not consumed to dust,
  But full of peace, aglow with perfect love. 
  Kasyapa, full of wonder, joyful said: 
  “I, though a master, have no power like this
  To conquer groveling lusts and evil beasts.” 
  Then Buddha taught the source of real power,
  The power of love to fortify the soul,
  Until Kasyapa gathered all his stores,
  His sacred vessels, sacrificial robes,
  And cast them in the Phalgu passing near. 
  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—­