said, he vanished, and was no more seen.

  Now other hands take up that mother's task.
  Another breast nurses that sweet young child
  With growing love; for who can nurse a child,
  Feel its warm breath, and little dimpled hands,
  Kiss its soft lips, look in its laughing eyes,
  Hear its low-cooing love-notes soft and sweet,
  And not feel something of that miracle,
  A mother's love—so old yet ever new,
  Stronger than death, bravest among the brave,
  Gentle as brave, watchful both night and day,
  That never changes, never tires nor sleeps.
  Whence comes this wondrous and undying love?
  Whence can it come, unless it comes from heaven,
  Whose life is love—eternal, perfect love!

  From babe to boy, from boy to youth he grew,
  But more in grace and knowledge than in years.
  At play his joyous laugh rang loud and clear,
  His foot was fleetest in all boyish games,
  And strong his arm, and steady nerve and eye,
  To whirl the quoit and send the arrow home;
  Yet seeming oft to strive, he'd check his speed
  And miss his mark to let a comrade win.
  In fullness of young life he climbed the cliffs
  Where human foot had never trod before.
  He led the chase, but when soft-eyed gazelles
  Or bounding deer, or any harmless thing,
  Came in the range of his unerring dart,
  He let them pass; for why, thought he, should men
  In wantonness make war on innocence?

  One day the Prince Siddartha saw the grooms
  Gathered about a stallion, snowy white,
  Descended from that great Nisaean stock
  His fathers brought from Iran's distant plain,
  Named Kantaka. Some held him fast with chains
  Till one could mount. He, like a lion snared,
  Frantic with rage and fear, did fiercely bound.
  They cut his tender mouth with bloody bit,
  Beating his foaming sides until the Prince,
  Sterner than was his wont, bade them desist,
  While he spoke soothingly, patted his head
  And stroked his neck, and dropped those galling chains,
  When Kantaka's fierce flaming eyes grew mild,
  He quiet stood, by gentleness subdued—
  Such mighty power hath gentleness and love—
  And from that day no horse so strong and fleet,
  So kind and true, easy to check and guide,
  As Kantaka, Siddartha's noble steed.

  To playmates he was gentle as a girl;
  Yet should the strong presume upon their strength
  To overbear or wrong those weaker than themselves,
  His sturdy arm and steady eye checked them,
  And he would gently say, "Brother, not so;
  Our strength was given to aid and not oppress."
  For in an ancient book he found a truth—
  A book no longer read, a truth forgot,
  Entombed in iron castes, and buried deep
  In speculations and in subtle creeds—
  That men, high, low, rich, poor, are brothers all,[10]
  Which, pondered much in his heart's fruitful soil,
  Had taken root as a great living truth
  That to a mighty doctrine soon would grow,
  A mighty tree to heal the nations with its leaves—
  Like some small grain of wheat, appearing dead,
  In mummy-case three thousand years ago[11]
  Securely wrapped and sunk in Egypt's tombs,
  Themselves buried beneath the desert sands,
  Which now brought forth, and planted in fresh soil,
  And watered by the dews and rains of heaven,
  Shoots up and yields a hundred-fold of grain,
  Until in golden harvests now it waves
  On myriad acres, many thousand miles
  From where the single ancient seed had grown.

  Thus he grew up with all that heart could wish
  Or power command; his very life itself,
  So fresh and young, sound body with sound mind,
  The living fountain of perpetual joy.
  Yet he would often sit and sadly think
  Sad thoughts and deep, and far beyond his years;
  How sorrow filled the world; how things were shared—
  One born to waste, another born to want;
  One for life's cream, others to drain its dregs;
  One born a master, others abject slaves.
  And when he asked his masters to explain,
  When all were brothers, how such things could be,
  They gave him speculations, fables old,
  How Brahm first Brahmans made to think for all,
  And then Kshatriyas, warriors from their birth,
  Then Sudras, to draw water and hew wood.
  "But why should one for others think, when all
  Must answer for themselves? Why brothers fight?
  And why one born another's slave, when all
  Might serve and help each other?" he would ask.
  But they could only answer: "Never doubt,
  For so the holy Brahmans always taught."
  Still he must think, and as he thought he sighed,
  Not for his petty griefs that last an hour,
  But for the bitter sorrows of the world
  That crush all men, and last from age to age.

  The good old king saw this—saw that the prince,
  The apple of his eye, dearer than life,
  Stately in form, supple and strong in limb,
  Quick to learn every art of peace and war,
  Displaying and excelling every grace
  And attribute of his most royal line,
  Whom all would follow whereso'er he led,
  So fit to rule the world if he would rule,
  Thought less of ruling than of saving men.
  He saw the glory of his ancient house
  Suspended on an if—if he will rule
  The empire of the world, and power to crush
  Those cruel, bloody kings who curse mankind,
  And power to make a universal peace;
  If not this high career, with glory crowned,
  Then seeking truth through folly's devious ways;
  By self-inflicted torture seeking bliss,
  And by self-murder seeking higher life;
  On one foot standing till the other pine,
  Arms stretched aloft, fingers grown bloodless claws,
  Or else, impaled on spikes, with festering sores
  Covered from head to foot, the body wastes
  With constant anguish and with slow decay.[12]
  "Can this be wisdom? Can such a life be good
  That shuns all duties lying in our path—
  Useless to others, filled with grief and pain?
  Not so my father's god teaches to live.
  Rising each morning most exact in time,
  He bathes the earth and sky with rosy light
  And fills all nature with new life and joy;
  The cock's shrill clarion calls us to awake
  And breathe this life and hear the bursts of song
  That fill each grove, inhale the rich perfume
  Of opening flowers, and work while day shall last.
  Then rising higher, he warms each dank, cold spot,
  Dispels the sickening vapors, clothes the fields
  With waving grain, the trees with golden fruit,
  The vines with grapes; and when 'tis time for rest,
  Sinks in the west, and with new glory gilds
  The mountain-tops, the clouds and western sky,
  And calls all nature to refreshing sleep.
  If he be God, the useful are like God;
  If not, God made the sun, who made all men
  And by his great example teaches them
  The diligent are wise, the useful good."

  Sorely perplexed he called his counselors,
  Grown gray in serving their beloved king,
  And said: "Friends of my youth, manhood and age,
  So wise in counsel and so brave in