That now within me stirs to bid you pause?”
  “Only for love of you and him and all! 
  O hard necessity!  O bitter cup! 
  But would you have me like a coward shun
  The path of duty, though beset with thorns—­
  Thorns that must pierce your tender feet and mine?”
  Piercing the question as the sharpest sword;
  Their love, their joys, tempted to say him nay. 
  But soon she conquered all and calmly said: 
  “My love, my life, where duty plainly calls
  I bid you go, though my poor heart must bleed,
  And though my eyes weep bitter scalding tears.”

  Their hearts too full for words, too full for tears,
  Gently he pressed her hand and they passed home;
  And in the presence of this dark unknown
  A deep and all-pervading tenderness
  Guides every act and tempers every tone—­
  As in the chamber of the sick and loved
  The step is light, the voice is soft and low. 
  But soon their days with varied duties filled,
  Their nights with sweet repose, glide smoothly on,
  Until this shadow seems to lift and fade—­
  As when the sun bursts through the passing storm,
  Gilding the glittering raindrops as they fall,
  And paints the bow of hope on passing clouds. 
  Yet still the old sad thoughts sometimes return,
  The burden of a duty unperformed,
  The earnest yearning for a clearer light. 
  The thought that hour by hour and day by day
  The helpless multitudes grope blindly on,
  Clouded his joys and often banished sleep.

  One day in this sad mood he thought to see
  His people as they are in daily life,
  And not in holiday attire to meet their prince. 
  In merchant’s dress, his charioteer his clerk,
  The prince and Channa passed unknown, and saw
  The crowded streets alive with busy hum,
  Traders cross-legged, with their varied wares,
  The wordy war to cheapen or enhance,
  One rushing on to clear the streets for wains
  With huge stone wheels, by slow strong oxen drawn;
  Palanquin-bearers droning out “Hu, hu, ho, ho,”
  While keeping step and praising him they bear;
  The housewives from the fountain water bring
  In balanced water-jars, their black-eyed babes
  Athwart their hips, their busy tongues meanwhile
  Engaged in gossip of the little things
  That make the daily round of life to them;
  The skillful weaver at his clumsy loom;
  The miller at his millstones grinding meal;
  The armorer, linking his shirts of mail;
  The money-changer at his heartless trade;
  The gaping, eager crowd gathered to watch
  Snake-charmers, that can make their deadly charge
  Dance harmless to the drone of beaded gourds;
  Sword-players, keeping many knives in air;
  Jugglers, and those that dance on ropes swung high: 
  And all this varied work and busy idleness
  As in a panorama passing by.