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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.