... In mid-play the boy would oft-times pause,

Letting the deer pass free; would oft-times yield

His half-won race because the laboring steeds

Fetched painful breath; or if his princely mates

Saddened to lose, or if some wistful dream

Swept o'er his thoughts. And ever with the years

Waxed this compassionateness of our Lord,

Even as a great tree grows from two soft leaves

To spread its shades afar; but hardly yet

Knew the young child of sorrow, pain, or tears,

Save as strange names for things not felt by kings,

Nor ever to be felt. But it befell

In the royal garden on a day of spring,

A flock of wild Swans passed, voyaging north

To their nest-places on HimÂla's breast.

Calling in love-notes down their snowy line

The bright birds flew, by fond love piloted;

And Devadatta, cousin of the prince,

Pointed his bow, and loosed a willful shaft

Which found the wide wing of the foremost Swan

Broad-spread to glide upon the free blue road,

So that it fell, the bitter arrow fixed,

Bright scarlet blood-gouts staining the pure plumes.

Which seeing, Prince SiddÂrtha took the bird

Tenderly up, rested it in his lap—

Sitting with knees crossed, as Lord Buddha sits—

And, soothing with a touch the wild thing's fright,

Composed its ruffled vans, calmed its quick heart,

Caressed it into peace with light kind palms

As soft as plantain leaves an hour unrolled;

And while the left hand held, the right hand drew

The cruel steel forth from the wound, and laid

Cool leaves and healing honey on the smart.