"
And there in presence of that base-born throng,
Who gazed with tears and wonder on the scene,
And in a higher presence, who can doubt
He made her first of that great sisterhood,
Since through the ages known in every land,
Who gently raise the dying soldier's head,
Where cruel war is mangling human limbs;
Who smooth the pillow, bathe the burning brow
Of sick and helpless strangers taken in;
Whose tender care has made the orphans' home,
For those poor waifs who know no mother's love.
Then toward the palace they together went
To their Rahula and the aged king,
While streets were lined and doors and windows filled
With eager gazers at the prince returned
In coarsest robes, with closely shaven head,
Returned a Buddha who went forth a prince.
Through all these troubled, weary, waiting years,
The king still hoped to see his son return
In royal state, with kings for waiting-men,
To rule a willing world as king of kings.
But now that son enters his palace-gates
In coarsest beggar-garb, his alms-bowl filled
With Sudras' leavings for his daily food.
The king with mingled grief and anger said:
"Is this the end of all our cherished hopes,
The answer to such lofty prophecies,
To see the heir of many mighty king's
Enter his kingdom like a beggar-tramp?
This the return for all the patient love
Of sweet Yasodhara, and this the way
To teach his duty to your royal son?"
The prince with reverence kissed his father's hand,
Bent loving eyes upon his troubled brow
That banished all his bitterness and said:
"How hard it is to give up cherished hopes
I know full well.
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