The Bramin's meals are frugal—some fair tree
Yields him its fruitage, and the precious grain
Springing around in rich fertility,
The few and simple wants of life sustain.
A scanty mat upon the pavement spread
Before the temple's threshold, where the sky
Above the tranquil sleeper's humble bed
Has flung its star-enamelled canopy,
Suffices for his resting place—his dress
Betrays not splendour's pomp, nor priestly pride,
Careless, and free from aught of costliness,
The triple thread across the shoulder tied,
Around the waist the muslin's ample fold
Reaching with graceful flow below the knee,
The snow-white turban round the temples rolled
Complete the unpretending drapery.
He asks nor gold nor gems—to him the lore
The Shaster's venerated page affords,
Is dearer far than all the glittering store
That worldly men have purchased with their swords.
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