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 make Men targets for their art, and armor-joints The marks through which to pierce and kill; Then wrestlers, boxers, those who hurl the quoit, And runners fleet, both lithe and light of limb; And then twelve mighty spearmen, who could pierce The fleeing boar or deer or fleet gazelle; Then chariots, three horses yoked to each, The charioteers in Persian tunics clad, Arms bare, legs bare--all were athletes in power, In form and race each an Apollo seemed; Yoked to the first were three Nisaean steeds,[14] Each snowy white, proud stepping, rangy, tall, Chests broad, legs clean and strong, necks arched and high, With foreheads broad, and eyes large, full and mild, A race that oft Olympic prizes won, And whose descendants far from Iran's plains Bore armored knights in battle's deadly shock On many bloody European fields; Then three of ancient Babylonian stock,[15] Blood bay and glossy as rich Tyrian silk--