ayside flower,
And crowns the autumn with its golden fruits,
So that same love which swept through Buddha's soul
And drove him from his home to seek and save,
Warmed into brighter glow each lesser love
Of home and people, father, wife and child,[4]
And often through those long and troubled years
He felt a burning longing to return.
And now, when summer rains had ceased to fall,
And his disciples were again, sent forth,
Both love and duty with united voice
Bade him revisit his beloved home,
And Saraputra and Kasyapa joined
The master wending on his homeward way,
While light-winged rumor bore Yasodhara
This joyful news: "The holy rishi comes."

Without the southern gate a garden lay,
Lumbini called, by playing fountains cooled,
With shaded walks winding by banks of flowers,
Whose mingled odors load each passing breeze.
Thither Yasodhara was wont to go,
For there her lord and dearest love was born,
And there they passed full many happy days.
The southern road skirted this garden's wall,
While on the other side were suburb huts
Where toiling poor folk and the base-born dwell.
And near this wall a bright pavilion rose,
Whence she could see each passer by the way.
One morning, after days of patient watch,
She saw approach along this dusty road
Three seeming pilgrims, clothed in yellow robes,
Presenting at each humble door their bowls
For such poor food as these poor folk could give.
As they drew near, a growing multitude,
From every cottage swelled, followed their steps,
Gazing with awe upon the leader's face,
While each to his companion wondering said:
"Who ever saw a rishi such as this,
Who calls us brothers, whom the Brahmans scorn?"
But sweet Yasodhara, with love's quick sight,
Knew him she waited for, and forth she rushed,
Crying: "Siddartha, O my love! my lord!"
And prostrate in the dust she clasped his feet.
He gently raised and pressed her to his heart
In one most tender, loving, long embrace.
By that embrace her every heartache cured,
She calmly said: "Give me a humble part
In your great work, for though my hands are weak
My heart is strong, and my weak hands can bear
The cooling cup to fever's burning lips;
My mother's heart has more than room enough
For many outcasts, many helpless waifs."
And there in presence of that base-born throng,
Who gazed with tears and wonder on the scene,
And in a