oor fallen world of ours
Gives glimpses of its high and happy life.

O love! how beautiful! how pure! how sweet!
Life of the angels that surround God's throne!
But when corrupt, Pandora's box itself,
Whence spring all human ills and woes and crimes,
The very fire that lights the flames of hell.

The festival is past. The crowds have gone,
The diligent to their accustomed round
Of works and days, works to each day assigned,
The thoughtless and the thriftless multitude
To meet their tasks haphazard as they come,
But all the same old story to repeat
Of cares and sorrows sweetened by some joys.

Three days the sweet Yasodhara remained,
For her long journey taking needful rest.
But when the rosy dawn next tinged the east
And lit the mountain-tops and filled the park
With a great burst of rich and varied song,
The good old king bade the sweet girl farewell,
Imprinting on her brow a loving kiss,
While welling up from tender memories
Big tear-drops trickled down his furrowed cheeks.
And as her train, escorted by the prince
And noble youth, wound slowly down the hill,
The rising sun with glory gilds the city
That like a diadem circled its brow,
While giant shadows stretch across the plain;
And when they reach the plain they halt for rest
Deep in a garden's cooling shade, where flowers
That fill the air with grateful fragrance hang
By ripening fruits, and where all seems at rest
Save two young hearts and tiny tireless birds
That dart from flower to newer to suck their sweets,
And even the brook that babbled down the hill
Now murmurs dreamily as if asleep.
Sweet spot! sweet hour! how quick its moments fly!
How soon the cooling winds and sinking sun
And bustling stir of preparation tells
'Tis time for her to go; and when they part,
The gentle pressure of the hand, one kiss--
A kiss not given yet not resisted--tells
A tale of love that words are poor to tell.
And when she goes how lonely seems her way
Through groves, through fields, through busy haunts of men;
And as he climbs the hill and often stops
To watch her lessening train until at length
Her elephant seems but a moving speck,
Proud Kantaka, pawing and neighing, asks
As plain as men could ever ask in, words:
"What makes my master choose this laggard pace?"

At length she climbs those rocky, rugged hills.
That guarded well the loveliest spot on earth
U