The king to all his kingdom couriers sent,
  And to the neighbor states, inviting all
  To a great festival and royal games
  The next full moon, day of Siddartha’s birth,
  And offering varied prizes, rich and rare,
  To all in feats of strength and speed and skill,
  And prizes doubly rich and doubly rare
  To all such maidens fair as should compete
  In youth and beauty, whencesoe’er they came,
  The prince to be the judge and give the prize.

  Now all was joy and bustle in the streets,
  And joy and stir in palace and in park,
  The prince himself joining the joyful throng,
  Forgetting now the sorrows of the world. 
  Devising and directing new delights
  Until the park became a fairy scene.

  Behind the palace lay a maidan wide
  For exercise in arms and manly sports,
  Its sides bordered by gently rising hills,
  Where at their ease the city’s myriads sat
  Under the shade of high-pruned spreading trees,
  Fanned by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks;
  While north, and next the lake, a stately dome
  Stood out, on slender, graceful columns raised,
  With seats, rank above rank, in order placed,
  The throne above, and near the throne were bowers
  Of slender lattice-work, with trailing vines,
  Thick set with flowers of every varied tint,
  Breathing perfumes, where beauty’s champions
  Might sit, unseen of all yet seeing all.

  At length Siddartha’s natal day arrives
  With joy to rich and poor, to old and young—–­
  Not joy that wealth can buy or power command,
  But real joy, that springs from real love,
  Love to the good old king and noble prince.

  When dawning day tinges with rosy light
  The snow-capped peaks of Himalaya’s chain,
  The people are astir.  In social groups,
  The old and young, companions, neighbors, friends,
  Baskets well filled, they choose each vantage-ground,
  Until each hill a sea of faces shows,
  A sea of sparkling joy and rippling mirth.

  At trumpet-sound all eyes are eager turned
  Up toward the palace gates, now open wide,
  From whence a gay procession issues forth,
  A chorus of musicians coming first,
  And next the prince mounted on Kantaka;
  Then all the high-born, youth in rich attire,
  Mounted on prancing steeds with trappings gay;
  And then the good old king, in royal state,
  On his huge elephant, white as the snow,
  Surrounded by his aged counselors,
  Some on their chargers, some in litters borne,
  Their long white beards floating in every breeze;
  And next, competitors for every prize: 
  Twelve archers, who could pierce the lofty swans
  Sailing from feeding-grounds by distant seas
  To summer nests by Thibet’s marshy lakes,
  Or hit the whirring pheasant as it flies—­
  For in this peaceful reign they did not