Wreathing in smiles the wrinkled brow of care,
  Nectar to joyful, balm to troubled hearts,
  Joyful once more is King Suddhodana;
  A placid joy beams from that mother’s face;
  Joy lit the palace, flew from street to street,
  And from the city over hill and plain;

  Joy filled the prince’s agitated soul—­
  He felt a power, from whence he could not tell,
  Drawing away, he knew not where it led. 
  He knew the dreaded separation near,
  Yet half its pain and bitterness was passed. 
  He need not leave his loved ones comfortless—­
  His loving people still would have their prince,
  The king in young Rahula have his son,
  And sweet Yasodhara, his very life,
  Would have that nearest, dearest comforter
  To soothe her cares and drive away her tears.[1]

  But now strange dreams disturb the good old king—­
  Dreams starting him in terror from his sleep,
  Yet seeming prophecies of coming good. 
  He dreamed he saw the flag his fathers loved
  In tatters torn and trailing in the dust,
  But in its place another glorious flag,
  Whose silken folds seemed woven thick with gems
  That as it waved glittered with dazzling light. 
  He dreamed he saw proud embassies from far
  Bringing the crowns and scepters of the earth,
  Bowing in reverence before the prince,
  Humbly entreating him to be their king—­
  From whom he fled in haste as if in fear. 
  Then dreamed he saw his son in tattered robes
  Begging from Sudras for his daily bread. 
  Again, he dreamed he saw the ancient tower
  Where he in worship had so often knelt,
  Rising and shining clothed with living light,
  And on its top the prince, beaming with love,
  Scattering with lavish hand the richest gems
  On eager crowds that caught them as they fell. 
  But soon it vanished, and he saw a hill,
  Rugged and bleak, cliff crowned and bald and bare,
  And there he saw the prince, kneeling alone,
  Wasted with cruel fastings till his bones
  Clave to his skin, and in his sunken eyes
  With fitful flicker gleamed the lamp of life
  Until they closed, and on the ground he sank,
  As if in death or in a deadly swoon;
  And then the hill sank to a spreading plain,
  Stretching beyond the keenest vision’s ken,
  Covered with multitudes as numberless
  As ocean’s sands or autumn’s forest leaves;
  And mounted on a giant elephant,
  White as the snows on Himalaya’s peaks,
  The prince rode through their midst in royal state,
  And as he moved along he heard a shout,
  Rising and swelling, like the mighty voice
  Of many waters breaking on the shore: 
  “All hail! great Chakravartin, king of kings! 
  Hail! king of righteousness!  Hail! prince of peace!”