"There is a story told
In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow
cold,
And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit,
With grave responses listening unto it:
Once, on the errands of his mercy bent,
Buddha, the holy and benevolent,
Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look,
Whose awful voice the hills and forests
shook.
'O son of peace!' the giant cried, 'thy fate
Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.
The unarmed Buddha, looking, with no trace
Of fear or anger, into the monster's face,
In pity said: 'Even thee I love."
Lo! as he spoke the sky-tall terror sank
To hand-breadth size: the huge abhorrence
shrank
Into the form and fashion of a dove,
And where the thunder of its rage was heard,
Circling above him sweetly sang the bird:
'Hate hath no harm for Love' so ran the
song—
'And peace, unweaponed, conquers every
wrong."
