Some brought the garden's choicest treasures forth,
Some gathered lotuses from Phalgu's stream,
Some climbed the trees to pluck their varied bloom,
While children gathered every wayside flower
To strew his way--their lover, savior, guide.
King Bimbasara from his watch-tower saw
The wild commotion and the moving throng,
And sent swift messengers to learn the cause.
With winged feet through vacant streets they flew,
And through the gates and out an avenue
Where aged trees that grew on either side,
Their giant branches interlocked above,
Made nature's gothic arch and densest shade,
While gentle breezes, soft as if they came
From devas' hovering wings, rustle the leaves
And strew the way with showers of falling bloom,
As if they, voiceless, felt the common joy.
And there they found the city's multitudes,
Not as in tumult, armed with clubs and staves,
And every weapon ready to their hands,
But stretching far on either side the way,
Their flower-filled hands in humble reverence joined,
The only sound a murmur, "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.
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