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 higher presence, who can doubt He made her first of that great sisterhood, Since through the ages known in every land, Who gently raise the dying soldier's head, Where cruel war is mangling human limbs; Who smooth the pillow, bathe the burning brow Of sick and helpless strangers taken in; Whose tender care has made the orphans' home, For those poor waifs who know no mother's love. Then toward the palace they together went To their Rahula and the aged king, While streets were lined and doors and windows filled With eager gazers at the prince returned In coarsest robes, with closely shaven head, Returned a Buddha who went forth a prince.