A HALF CONVERT.
Buddha! my earthly memory is so dimmed
By this poor passing life which travels a hem
Across my soul, and thought I cannot stem
Pours like a flood to wash all traces limned
Of former selves, that I shall ne’er recall
The steps I came, nor know the fleshly tents
In which I sojourned;—yet the fraying rents
Of time-worn garments I have seen, and all
The dust upon my feet, and I the sin
Of tiger and of cobra passions striven
To crush. These were strait gates, and through them driven
My chariot wheels, so prithee set me free
From other births, lest I seek Peter’s key,
O! Sakya Muni, let me trembling in.
Mary N. Gale.