‘The Light of Asia,’ the most successful of his works, attracted instant attention on its appearance, as a novelty of rich Indian local color.  In substance it is a graceful and dramatic paraphrase of the mass of more or less legendary tales of the life and spiritual career of the Buddha, Prince Gautama, and a summary of the principles of the great religious system originating with him.  It is lavishly embellished with Indian allusions, and expresses incidentally the very spirit of the East.  In numerous cantos, proceeding from episode to episode of its mystical hero’s career, its effect is that of a loftily ethical, picturesque, and fascinating biography, in highly polished verse.  The metre selected is a graceful and dignified one, especially associated with ‘Paradise Lost’ and other of the foremost classics of English verse.  Sir Edwin says of the poem in his preface, “I have sought, by the medium of an imaginary Buddhist votary, to depict the life and character and indicate the philosophy of that noble hero and reformer, Prince Gautama of India, the founder of Buddhism;” and the poet has admirably, if most flatteringly, succeeded.  The poem has been printed in innumerable cheap editions as well as those de luxe; and while it has been criticized as too complaisant a study of even primitive Buddhism, it is beyond doubt a lyrical tract of eminent utility as well as seductive charm.

          THE YOUTH OF BUDDHA

          From ‘The Light of Asia’

     This reverence
     Lord Buddha kept to all his schoolmasters,
     Albeit beyond their learning taught; in speech
     Right gentle, yet so wise; princely of mien,
     Yet softly mannered; modest, deferent,
     And tender-hearted, though of fearless blood: 
     No bolder horseman in the youthful band
     E’er rode in gay chase of the shy gazelles;
     No keener driver of the chariot
     In mimic contest scoured the palace courts: 
     Yet in mid-play the boy would oft-times pause,
     Letting the deer pass free; would oft-times yield
     His half-won race because the laboring steeds
     Fetched painful breath; or if his princely mates
     Saddened to lose, or if some wistful dream
     Swept o’er his thoughts.  And ever with the years
     Waxed this compassionateness of our Lord,
     Even as a great tree grows from two soft leaves
     To spread its shade afar; but hardly yet
     Knew the young child of sorrow, pain, or tears,
     Save as strange names for things not felt by kings,
     Nor ever to be felt.  But it befell
     In the royal garden on a day of spring,
     A flock of wild swans passed, voyaging north
     To their nest-places on Himala’s breast. 
     Calling in love-notes down their snowy line
     The bright birds flew, by fond love piloted;
     And Devadatta, cousin of the Prince,
     Pointed his bow, and loosed a willful shaft