ur, "There he comes!"
While every eye was turned in loving gaze
Upon a little band in yellow robes
Who now drew near from out the sacred grove.
The master passed with calm, majestic grace,
Stately and tall, one arm and shoulder bare,
With head close shorn and bare unsandaled feet,
His noble brow, the wonder of his age,
Not clothed in terror like Olympic Jove's--
For love, not anger, beamed from out those eyes,
Changing from clearest blue to softest black,
That seem to show unfathomed depths within,
With tears of holy pity glittering now
For those poor souls come forth to honor him,
All sheep without a shepherd groping on.
The messengers with reverence let him pass,
Then hastened back to tell the waiting king
That he who dwelt so long upon the hill,
The prince who stopped the bloody sacrifice,
With other holy rishis had returned,
Whom all received with reverence and joy.
The king with keenest pleasure heard their words.
That noble form, that calm, majestic face,
Had never faded from his memory.
His words of wisdom, words of tender love,
Had often stayed his hands when raised to strike,
Had often put a bridle on his tongue
When harsh and bitter words leaped to his lips,
And checked those cruel acts of sudden wrath
That stain the annals of the greatest kings,
Until the people to each other said:
"How mild and gentle our good king has grown!"
And when he heard this prince had now returned,
In flower-embroidered purple robes arrayed,
With all the pomp and circumstance of state,
Followed by those who ever wait on power,
He issued forth and climbed the rugged hill
Until he reached the cave where Buddha sat,
Calm and majestic as the rounded moon
That moves serene along its heavenly path.
Greeting each other with such royal grace
As fits a prince greeting a brother prince,
The king inquired why he had left his home?
Why he, a Chakravartin's only son,
Had left his palace for a lonely cave,
Wore coarsest cloth instead of royal robes,
And for a scepter bore a begging-bowl?
"Youth," said the king, "with full and bounding pulse,
Youth is the time for boon companionship,
The time for pleasure, when all pleasures please;
Manhood, the time for gaining wealth and power;
But as the years creep on, the step infirm,
The arm grown feeble and the hair turned gray,
'Tis time to mortify the five desires,
To give religion