But earlier steps had brushed their dewy path. From out the shepherd's cottage loving eyes Had recognized the master's stately form, And love-winged steps had borne the joyful news That he, the poor man's advocate and friend, The sweet-voiced messenger of peace and love, The prince become a beggar for their sake, So long expected, now at last returns. From door to door the joyful tidings spread, And old and young from every cottage came. The merchant left his wares without a guard; The housewife left her pitcher at the well; The loom was idle and the anvil still; The money-changer told his coins alone, While all the multitude went forth to meet Their servant-master and their beggar-prince. Some brought the garden's choicest treasures forth, Some gathered lotuses from Phalgu's stream, Some climbed the trees to pluck their varied bloom, While children gathered every wayside flower To strew his way--their lover, savior, guide. King Bimbasara from his watch-tower saw The wild commotion and the moving throng, And sent swift messengers to learn the cause. With winged feet through vacant streets they flew, And through the gates and out an avenue Where aged trees that grew on either side, Their giant branches interlocked above, Made nature's gothic arch and densest shade, While gentle breezes, soft as if they came From devas' hovering wings, rustle the leaves And strew the way with showers of falling bloom, As if they, voiceless, felt the common joy. And there they found the city's multitudes, Not as in tumult, armed with clubs and staves, And every weapon ready to their hands, But stretching far on either side the way, Their flower-filled hands in humble reverence joined, The only sound a murmur, "There he comes!" While every eye was turned in loving gaze Upon a little band in yellow robes Who now drew near from out the sacred grove. The master passed with calm, majestic grace, Stately and tall, one arm and shoulder bare, With head close shorn and bare unsandaled feet, His noble brow, the wonder of his age, Not clothed in terror like Olympic Jove's-- For love, not anger, beamed from out those eyes, Changing from clearest blue to softest black, That seem to show unfathomed depths within, With tears of holy pity glittering now For those poor souls come forth to honor him, All sheep without a shepherd groping on. The messengers with reverence let him pass, Then hastened back to tell the waiting king That he who dwelt so long upon the hill, The prince who stopped the bloody sacrifice, With other holy rishis had returned, Whom all received with reverence and joy. The king with keenest pleasure heard their words. That noble form, that calm, majestic face, Had never faded from his memory. His words of wisdom, words of tender love, Had often stayed his hands when raised to strike, Had often put a bridle on his tongue