Kapilavastu’s king, Suddhodana,
  His step grown feeble, snowy white his hair,
  By cares oppressed and sick with hope deferred,
  For eight long years had waited for his son. 
  But sweet Yasodhara, in widow’s weeds,
  Her love by sorrow only purified
  As fire refines the gold by dross debased,
  Though tender memories bring unbidden tears,
  Wasted no time in morbid, selfish grief,
  But sought in care for others her own cure. 
  Both son and daughter to the aged king,
  She aids with counsels, soothes with tender care. 
  Father and mother to her little son,
  She lavishes on him a double love. 
  And oft on mercy’s missions going forth,
  Shunning the pomp and show of royal state,
  Leading Rahula, prattling by her side,
  The people saw her pass with swelling hearts,
  As if an angel clothed in human form.

  And now strange rumors reach the public ear,
  By home-bound pilgrims from Benares brought
  And merchantmen from Rajagriha come,
  That there a holy rishi had appeared
  Whom all believed a very living Buddh,
  While kings and peoples followed after him. 
  These rumors reached the sweet Yasodhara,
  And stirred these musings in her watchful heart: 
  “Stately and tall they say this rishi is,
  Gentle to old and young, to rich and poor,
  And filled with love for every living thing. 
  But who so gentle, stately, tall and grand
  As my Siddartha?  Who so full of love? 
  And he has found the light Siddartha sought! 
  It must be he—­my own, my best beloved! 
  And surely he will hither come, and bring
  To his poor people, now in darkness sunk,
  That living light he left his home to seek.”

  As the same sun that makes the cedars grow
  And sends their vital force through giant oaks,
  Clothes fields with green and decks the wayside flower,
  And crowns the autumn with its golden fruits,
  So that same love which swept through Buddha’s soul
  And drove him from his home to seek and save,
  Warmed into brighter glow each lesser love
  Of home and people, father, wife and child,[4]
  And often through those long and troubled years
  He felt a burning longing to return. 
  And now, when summer rains had ceased to fall,
  And his disciples were again, sent forth,
  Both love and duty with united voice
  Bade him revisit his beloved home,
  And Saraputra and Kasyapa joined
  The master wending on his homeward way,
  While light-winged rumor bore Yasodhara
  This joyful news:  “The holy rishi comes.”

  Without the southern gate a garden lay,
  Lumbini called, by playing fountains cooled,
  With shaded walks winding by banks of flowers,
  Whose mingled odors load each passing breeze. 
  Thither Yasodhara was wont to go,
  For there her lord and dearest love was born,
  And there they passed full many happy