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.