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