LITMIR.BIZ

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O King! rejoice;

      The fortune of my Lord the Prince is more

      Than kingdoms, and his hermit-rags will be

      Beyond fine cloths of gold. This was thy dream!

      And in seven nights and days these things shall fall."

      So spake the holy man, and lowly made

      The eight prostrations, touching thrice the ground;

      Then turned and passed; but when the King bade send

      A rich gift after him, the messengers

      Brought word, "We came to where he entered in

      At Chandra's temple, but within was none

      Save a grey owl which fluttered from the shrine."

      The gods come sometimes thus.

      But the sad King

      Marvelled, and gave command that new delights

      Be compassed to enthrall Siddartha's heart

      Amid those dancers of his pleasure-house,

      Also he set at all the brazen doors

      A doubled guard.

      Yet who shall shut out Fate?

      For once again the spirit of the Prince

      Was moved to see this world beyond his gates,

      This life of man, so pleasant if its waves

      Ran not to waste and woful finishing

      In Time's dry sands. "I pray you let me view

      Our city as it is," such was his prayer

      To King Suddhodana. "Your Majesty

      In tender heed hath warned the folk before

      To put away ill things and common sights,

      And make their faces glad to gladden me,

      And all the causeways gay; yet have I learned

      This is not daily life, and if I stand

      Nearest, my father, to the realm and thee,

      Fain would I know the people and the streets,

      Their simple usual ways, and workday deeds,

      And lives which those men live who are not kings.

      Give me good leave, dear Lord, to pass unknown

      Beyond my happy gardens; I shall come

      The more contented to their peace again,

      Or wiser, father, if not well content.

      Therefore, I pray thee, let me go at will

      Tomorrow, with my servants, through the streets."

      And the King said, among his Ministers

      "Belike this second flight may mend the first.

      Note how the falcon starts at every sight

      New from his hood, but what a quiet eye

      Cometh of freedom; let my son see all,

      And bid them bring me tidings of his mind."

      Thus on the morrow, when the noon was come,

      The Prince and Channa passed beyond the gates,

      Which opened to the signet of the King,

      Yet knew not they who rolled the great doors back

      It was the King's son in that merchant's robe,

      And in the clerkly dress his charioteer.

      Forth fared they by the common way afoot,

      Mingling with all the Sakya citizens,

      Seeing the glad and sad things of the town:

      The painted streets alive with hum of noon,

      The traders cross-legged 'mid their spice and grain,

      The buyers with their money in the cloth,

      The war of words to cheapen this or that,

      The shout to clear the road, the huge stone wheels,

      The strong slow oxen and their rustling loads,

      The singing bearers with the palanquins,

      The broad-necked hamals sweating in the sun,

      The housewives bearing water from the well

      With balanced chatties, and athwart their hips

      The black-eyed babes; the fly-swarmed sweetmeat shops,

      The weaver at his loom, the cotton-bow

      Twangling, the millstones grinding meal, the dogs

      Prowling for orts, the skilful armourer

      With tong and hammer linking shirts of mail,

      The blacksmith with a mattock and a spear

      Reddening together in his coals, the school

      Where round their Guru, in a grave half-moon,

      The Sakya children sang the mantra through,

      And learned the greater and the lesser gods;

      The dyers stretching waistcloths in the sun

      Wet from the vats—orange, and rose, and green;

      The soldiers clanking past with swords and shields,

      The camel-drivers rocking on the humps,

      The Brahman proud, the martial Kshatriya,

      The humble toiling Sudra; here a throng

      Gathered to watch some chattering snake-tamer

      Wind round his wrist the living jewellery

      Of asp and nag, or charm the hooded death

      To angry dance with drone of beaded gourd;

      There a long line of drums and horns, which went,

      With steeds gay painted and silk canopies,

      To bring the young bride home; and here a wife

      Stealing with cakes and garlands to the god

      To pray her husband's safe return from trade,

      Or beg a boy next birth; hard by the booths

      Where the sweat potters beat the noisy brass

      For lamps and lotas; thence, by temple walls

      And gateways, to the river and the bridge

      Under the city walls.

      These had they passed

      When from the roadside moaned a mournful voice,

      "Help, masters! lift me to my feet; oh, help!

      Or I shall die before I reach my house!"

      A stricken wretch it was, whose quivering frame,

      Caught by some deadly plague, lay in the dust

      Writhing, with fiery purple blotches specked;

      The chill sweat beaded on his brow, his mouth

      Was dragged awry with twichings of sore pain,

      The wild eyes swam with inward agony.

      Gasping, he clutched the grass to rise, and rose

      Half-way, then sank, with quaking feeble limbs

      And scream of terror, crying, "Ah, the pain!

      Good people, help!" whereon Siddartha ran,

      Lifted

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