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