On learning of sickness, old age and death:

"I am as all these men who cry upon their gods and are not heard or are not heeded - yet there must be aid!
For them and me and all there must be help!
Perchance the gods have need of help themselves, being so feeble that when sad lips cry they cannot save!
I would not let one cry whom I could save!
How can it be that Brahm would make a world and keep it miserable, since, if all powerful, He is not good, and if  not powerful, He is not God?"
A note here.  Victorians used the language masterfully but we are not used to long sentences with involved structure; the short, quick sentence, information conveyed in the least amount of words possible is the norm in a world rushed off its feet.  I've taken liberties with Sir Edwin's punctuation and the structure of the lines to make it a little easier to read for those who have less patience with language like his. 

About the Buddha, "the one who is awake":

For those who know nothing of the Buddha, he was a prince of India, born to great wealth.  When he was born, it was prophesied that he would either be a world conqueror or the savior of all men.  His father, very naturally looking askance on the idea of his beautiful son becoming a beggarly priest, tried to prevent the prophecy from coming true.  Just by the nature of things, he had no chance but he gave it his best shot.  He made a paradise on earth for his son; he shielded him from the knowledge, they say, that all men are born to grow old and sick and die.  It is, of course, the stuff of parables.  Siddhartha Gautama was clearly a genius if one cuts through all the fairy tale elements of his story, handsome, athletic, the master of all the arts and letters of his day (which were considerable), married to a beautiful woman who loved him dearly and about to become the father of a son, when the time for the fulfillment of the prophecy came due and the choice lay before him. 

Siddhartha had everything.  He gave up everything, for the sake of all men, all women, all those he loved, for all the world, to set us free.

So, to the poem.
Still in the works.  Don't wait, go buy a copy.
Ah! Blessed Lord!  Oh, High Deliverer!
Forgive this feeble script, which doth thee wrong,
Measuring with little wit thy lofty Love.
Ah!  Lover!  Brother!  Guide!  Lamp of the Law!
I take my refuge in thy name and thee!
I take my refuge in thy Law of Good!
I take my refuge in thy Order!  OM!
The Dew is on the lotus!  Rise, Great Sun!
And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.
Om Mani padme hum, the Sunrise comes!
The Dewdrop slips into the shining Sea!
The last words of the old Buddhist who told the tale.