The festival is past. The crowds have gone,
The diligent to their accustomed round
Of works and days, works to each day assigned,
The thoughtless and the thriftless multitude
To meet their tasks haphazard as they come,
But all the same old story to repeat
Of cares and sorrows sweetened by some joys.
Three days the sweet Yasodhara remained,
For her long journey taking needful rest.
But when the rosy dawn next tinged the east
And lit the mountain-tops and filled the park
With a great burst of rich and varied song,
The good old king bade the sweet girl farewell,
Imprinting on her brow a loving kiss,
While welling up from tender memories
Big tear-drops trickled down his furrowed cheeks.
And as her train, escorted by the prince
And noble youth, wound slowly down the hill,
The rising sun with glory gilds the city
That like a diadem circled its brow,
While giant shadows stretch across the plain;
And when they reach the plain they halt for rest
Deep in a garden's cooling shade, where flowers
That fill the air with grateful fragrance hang
By ripening fruits, and where all seems at rest
Save two young hearts and tiny tireless birds
That dart from flower to newer to suck their sweets,
And even the brook that babbled down the hill
Now murmurs dreamily as if asleep.
Sweet spot! sweet hour! how quick its moments fly!
How soon the cooling winds and sinking sun
And bustling stir of preparation tells
'Tis time for her to go; and when they part,
The gentle pressure of the hand, one kiss—
A kiss not given yet not resisted—tells
A tale of love that words are poor to tell.
And when she goes how lonely seems her way
Through groves, through fields, through busy haunts of men;
And as he climbs the hill and often stops
To watch her lessening train until at length
Her elephant seems but a moving speck,
Proud Kantaka, pawing and neighing, asks
As plain as men could ever ask in, words:
"What makes my master choose this laggard pace?"
At length she climbs those rocky, rugged hills.
That guarded well the loveliest spot on earth
Until the Moguls centuries after came,
Like swarms of locusts swept before the wind,
Or ravening wolves, to conquer fair Cashmere.[4]
And when she reached the top, before her lay,
As on a map spread out, her native land,
By lofty mountains walled on every side,
From winds, from wars, and from the world shut out;
The same great snow-capped mountains north and east
In silent, glittering, awful grandeur stand,
And west the same bold, rugged, cliff-crowned hills.
That filled her eyes with wonder when a child.
Below the snow a belt of deepest green;
Below this belt of green great rolling hills,
Checkered with orchards, vineyards, pastures, fields,
The vale beneath peaceful as sleeping babe,
The city nestling round the shining lake,
And near the park and palace, her sweet home.
O noble, peaceful, beautiful Cashmere!
Well named the garden of eternal spring!
But yet, with home and all its joys so near.
She often turned and strained her eager eyes
To catch one parting glimpse of that sweet spot
Where more than half of her young heart was left.
At length their horns, whose mocking echoes
Rolled from hill to hill, were answered from below,
While from the park a gay procession comes,
Increasing as it moves, to welcome her,
Light of the palace, the people's idol, home.
The prince's thoughts by day and dreams by night
Meanwhile were filled with sweet Yasodhara,
And this bright vision ever hovering near
Hid from his eyes those grim and ghastly forms,
Night-loving and light-shunning brood of sin,
That ever haunt poor fallen human lives,
And from the darkened corners of the soul
Are quick to sting each pleasure with sharp pain,
To pour some bitter in life's sweetest cup,
And shadow with despair its brightest hopes—
Made him forget how sorrow fills the world,
How strength is used to crush and not to raise,
How creeds are bandages to blind men's eyes,
Lest they should see and walk in duty's path
That leads to peace on earth and joy in heaven,
And even made him for the time forget
His noble mission to restore and save.
He sought her for his bride, but waited long,
For princes cannot wed like common folk—
Friends called, a feast prepared, some bridal gifts,
Some tears at parting and some solemn vows,
Rice scattered, slippers thrown with noisy mirth,
And common folk are joined till death shall part.
Till death shall part! O faithless, cruel thought!
Death ne'er shall part souls joined by holy love,
Who through life's trials, joys and cares
Have to each other clung, faithful till death,
Tender and true in sickness and in health,
Bearing each other's burdens, sharing griefs,
Lightening each care and heightening every joy.
Such life is but a transient honeymoon,
A feeble foretaste of eternal joys.
But princes when they love, though all approve,
Must wait on councils, embassies and forms.
But how the coach of state lumbers and lags
With messages of love whose own light wings
Glide through all bars, outstrip all fleetest things—
No bird so light, no thought so fleet as they.
But while the prince chafed at the long delay,
The sweet Yasodhara began to feel
The bitter pangs of unrequited love.
But her young hands, busy with others' wants,
And her young heart, busy with others' woes,
With acts of kindness filled the lagging hours,
Best of all medicines for aching hearts.
Yet often she would seek a quiet nook
Deep in the park, where giant trees cross arms,
Making high gothic arches, and a shade
That noonday's fiercest rays could scarcely pierce,
And there alone with her sad heart communed:
"Yes! I have kept it for the giver's sake,
But he has quite forgot his love, his gift, and me.
How bright these jewels seemed warmed by his love,
But now how dull, how icy and how dead!"
But soon the soft-eyed antelopes and fawns
And fleet gazelles came near and licked her hands;
And birds of every rich and varied plume
Gathered around and filled the air with song;
And even timid pheasants brought their broods,
For her sweet loving life had here restored
The peace and harmony of paradise;
And as they shared her bounty she was soothed
By their mute confidence and perfect trust.
But though time seems to lag, yet still it moves,
Resistless as the ocean's swelling tide,
Bearing its mighty freight of human lives
With all their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Onward, forever onward, to life's goal.
At length the embassy is sent, and now,
Just as the last faint rays of rosy light
Fade from the topmost Himalayan peaks,
And tired nature sinks to quiet rest,
A horseman dashes through the silent streets
Bearing the waiting prince the welcome word
That one short journey of a single day
Divides him from the sweet Yasodhara;
And light-winged rumor spreads the joyful news,
And ere the dawn had danced from mountain-top
O'er hill and vale and plain to the sweet notes
Of nature's rich and varied orchestra,
And dried the pearly tears that night had wept,
The prince led forth his train to meet his bride,
Wondering that Kantaka, always so free,
So eager and so fleet, should seem to lag.
And in that fragrant garden's cooling shade,
Where they had parted, now again they meet,
And there we leave them reverently alone,
For art can never paint nor words describe
The peace and rest and rapture of that scene.
Meanwhile the city rings with busy stir.
The streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes,
And when the evening shades had veiled the earth,
And heaven's blue vault was set with myriad stars,
The promised signal from the watchtower sounds,
And myriad lamps shine from each house and tree,
And merry children strew their way with flowers,
And all come forth to greet Siddartha's bride,
And welcome her, their second Maya, home.
And at the palace gate the good old king
Receives her with such loving tenderness,
As fondest mother, sick with hope deferred,
Waiting and watching for an absent child,
At length receives him in her open arms.
[1]Sinhahamu was an ancestor, said to be the grandfather, of our prince, whose bow, like that of Ulysses, no one else could bend. See notes 24 and 35 to Book Second of Arnold's "Light of Asia."
[2]Any one who has read that remarkable work, "Ben Bur," and every one who has not should, will recognize my obligations to General Wallace.
[3]One may be satisfied with the antiquity of the dance, practically as we have it, from lines 187-8, Book VI. of the Odyssey:
"Joyful they see applauding princes gaze
When stately in the dance they swim the harmonious maze."
[4]I am aware I place Kapilavasta nearer the Vale of Cashmere than most, but as two such writers as Beal and Rhys Davids differ 30 yojanas, or 180 miles in its location, and as no remains have yet been identified at all corresponding to the grandeur of the ancient city as described by all Buddhist writers, I felt free to indulge my fancy. Perhaps these ruins may yet be found by some chance traveler in some unexplored jungle.
BOOK III.
And now his cup with every blessing filled
Full to the brim, to overflowing full,
What more has life to give or heart to wish?
Stately in form, with every princely grace,
A very master of all manly arts,
His gentle manners making all his friends,
His young blood bounding on in healthful flow,
His broad domains rich in all earth can yield,
Guarded by nature and his people's love,
And now that deepest of all wants supplied,
The want of one to share each inmost thought,
Whose sympathy can soothe each inmost smart,
Whose presence, care and loving touch can make
The palace or the humblest cottage home,
His life seemed rounded, perfect, full, complete.
And they were happy as the days glide on,
And when at night, locked in each other's arms,
They sink to rest, heart beating close to heart,
Their thoughts all innocence and trust and love,
It almost seemed as if remorseless Time
Had backward rolled his tide, and brought again
The golden age, with all its peace and joy,
And our first parents, ere the tempter came,
Were taking sweet repose in paradise.
But as one night they slept, a troubled dream
Disturbed the prince. He dreamed he saw one come,
As young and fair as sweet Yasodhara,
But clad in widow's weeds, and in her arms
A lifeless child, crying: "Most mighty prince!
O bring me back my husband and my child!"
But he could only say "Alas! poor soul!"
And started out of sleep he cried "Alas!"
Which waked the sweet Yasodhara, who asked,
"What ails my love?" "Only a troubled dream,"
The prince replied, but still she felt him tremble,
And kissed and stroked his troubled brow,
And soothed him into quiet sleep again.
And then once more he dreamed—a pleasing dream.
He dreamed he heard strange music, soft and sweet;
He only caught its burden: "Peace, be still!"
And then he thought he saw far off a light,
And there a place where all was peace and rest,
And waking sighed to find it all a dream.
One day this happy couple, side by side,
Rode forth alone, Yasodhara unveiled—
"For why," said she, "should those whose thoughts are pure
Like guilty things hide from their fellow-men?"—
Rode through the crowded streets, their only guard
The people's love, strongest and best of guards;
For many arms would spring to their defense,
While some grim tyrant, at whose stern command
A million swords would from their scabbards leap,
Cringes in terror behind bolts and bars,
Starts at each sound, and fears some hidden mine
May into atoms blow his stately towers,
Or that some hand unseen may strike him down,
And thinks that poison lurks in every cup,
While thousands are in loathsome dungeons thrust
Or pine in exile for a look or word.
And as they pass along from street to street
A sea of happy faces lines their way,
Their joyful greetings answered by the prince.
No face once seen, no name once heard, forgot,
While sweet Yasodhara was wreathed in smiles,
The kind expression of her gentle heart,
When from a little cottage by the way,
The people making room for him to pass,
There came an aged man, so very old
That time had ceased to register his years;
His step was firm, his eye, though faded, mild,
And childhood's sweet expression on his face.
The prince stopped short before him, bending low,
And gently asked: "What would my father have?
Speak freely—what I can, I freely give."
"Most noble prince, I need no charity,
For my kind neighbors give me all unasked,
And my poor cottage where my fathers dwelt,
And where my children and their mother died,
Is kept as clean as when sweet Gunga lived;
And young and old cheer up my lonely hours,
And ask me much of other times and men.
For when your father's father was a child,
I was a man, as young and strong as you,
And my sweet Gunga your companion's age.
But O the mystery of life explain!
Why are we born to tread this little round,
To live, to love, to suffer, sorrow, die?
Why do the young like field-flowers bloom to fade?
Why are the strong like the mown grass cut down?
Why am I left as if by death forgot,
Left here alone, a leafless, fruitless trunk?
Is death the end, or what comes after death?
Often when deepest sleep shuts out the world,
The dead still seem to live, while life fades out;
And when I sit alone and long for light
The veil seems lifted, and I seem to see
A world of life and light and peace and rest,
No sickness, sin or sorrow, pain or death,
No helpless infancy or hopeless age.
But we poor Sudras cannot understand—
Yet from my earliest memory I've heard
That from this hill one day should burst a light,
Not for the Brahmans only, but for all.
And when you were a child I saw a sage
Bow down before you, calling you that light.
O noble, mighty prince! let your light shine,
That men no longer grope in dark despair!"
He spoke, and sank exhausted on the ground.
They gently raised him, but his life was fled.
The prince gave one a well-filled purse and said:
"Let his pile neither lack for sandal-wood
Or any emblem of a life well spent."
And when fit time had passed they bore him thence
And laid him on that couch where all sleep well,
Half hid in flowers by loving children brought,
A smile still lingering on his still, cold lips,
As if they just had tasted Gunga's kiss,
Soon to be kissed by eager whirling flames.
Just then two stately Brahmans proudly passed—
Passed on the other side, gathering their robes
To shun pollution from the common touch,
And passing said: "The prince with Sudras talks
As friend to friend—but wisdom comes with years."
Silent and thoughtful then they homeward turned,
The prince deep musing on the old man's words;
"'The veil is lifted, and I seem to see
A world of life and light and peace and rest.'
O if that veil would only lift for me
The mystery of life would be explained."
As they passed on through unfrequented streets,
Seeking to shun the busy, thoughtless throng,
Those other words like duty's bugle-call
Still ringing in his ears: "Let your light shine,
That men no longer grope in dark despair"—
The old sad thoughts, long checked by passing joys,
Rolling and surging, swept his troubled soul—
As pent-up waters, having burst their dams,
Sweep down the valleys and o'erwhelm the plains.
Just then an aged, angry voice cried out:
"O help! they've stolen my jewels and my gold!"
And from a wretched hovel by the way
An old man came, hated and shunned by all,
Whose life was spent in hoarding unused gold,
Grinding the poor, devouring widows' homes;
Ill fed, ill clad, from eagerness to save,
His sunken eyes glittering with rage and greed.
And when the prince enquired what troubled him:
"Trouble enough," he said, "my sons have fled
Because I would not waste in dainty fare
And rich apparel all my life has saved,
And taken all my jewels, all my gold.
Would that they both lay dead before my face!
O precious jewels! O beloved gold!"
The prince, helpless to soothe, hopeless to cure
This rust and canker of the soul, passed on,
His heart with all-embracing pity filled.
"O deepening mystery of life!" he cried,
"Why do such souls in human bodies dwell—
Fitter for ravening wolves or greedy swine!
Just at death's door cursing his flesh and blood
For thievish greed inherited from him.
Is this old age, or swinish greed grown old?
O how unlike that other life just fled!
His youth's companions, wife and children, dead,
Yet filled with love for all, by all beloved,
With his whole heart yearning for others' good,
With his last breath bewailing others' woes."
"My best beloved," said sweet Yasodhara,
Her bright eyes filled with sympathetic tears,
Her whole soul yearning for his inward peace,
"Brood not too much on life's dark mystery—
Behind the darkest clouds the sun still shines."
"But," said the prince, "the many blindly grope
In sorrow, fear and ignorance profound,
While their proud teachers, with their heads erect,
Stalk boldly on, blind leaders of the blind.
Come care, come fasting, woe and pain for me,
And even exile from my own sweet home,
All would I welcome could I give them light."
"But would you leave your home, leave me, leave all,
And even leave our unborn pledge of love,
The living blending of our inmost souls,
That now within me stirs to bid you pause?"
"Only for love of you and him and all!
O hard necessity! O bitter cup!
But would you have me like a coward shun
The path of duty, though beset with thorns—
Thorns that must pierce your tender feet and mine?"
Piercing the question as the sharpest sword;
Their love, their joys, tempted to say him nay.
But soon she conquered all and calmly said:
"My love, my life, where duty plainly calls
I bid you go, though my poor heart must bleed,
And though my eyes weep bitter scalding tears."
Their hearts too full for words, too full for tears,
Gently he pressed her hand and they passed home;
And in the presence of this dark unknown
A deep and all-pervading tenderness
Guides every act and tempers every tone—
As in the chamber of the sick and loved
The step is light, the voice is soft and low.
But soon their days with varied duties filled,
Their nights with sweet repose, glide smoothly on,
Until this shadow seems to lift and fade—
As when the sun bursts through the passing storm,
Gilding the glittering raindrops as they fall,
And paints the bow of hope on passing clouds.
Yet still the old sad thoughts sometimes return,
The burden of a duty unperformed,
The earnest yearning for a clearer light.
The thought that hour by hour and day by day
The helpless multitudes grope blindly on,
Clouded his joys and often banished sleep.
One day in this sad mood he thought to see
His people as they are in daily life,
And not in holiday attire to meet their prince.
In merchant's dress, his charioteer his clerk,
The prince and Channa passed unknown, and saw
The crowded streets alive with busy hum,
Traders cross-legged, with their varied wares,
The wordy war to cheapen or enhance,
One rushing on to clear the streets for wains
With huge stone wheels, by slow strong oxen drawn;
Palanquin-bearers droning out "Hu, hu, ho, ho,"
While keeping step and praising him they bear;
The housewives from the fountain water bring
In balanced water-jars, their black-eyed babes
Athwart their hips, their busy tongues meanwhile
Engaged in gossip of the little things
That make the daily round of life to them;
The skillful weaver at his clumsy loom;
The miller at his millstones grinding meal;
The armorer, linking his shirts of mail;
The money-changer at his heartless trade;
The gaping, eager crowd gathered to watch
Snake-charmers, that can make their deadly charge
Dance harmless to the drone of beaded gourds;
Sword-players, keeping many knives in air;
Jugglers, and those that dance on ropes swung high:
And all this varied work and busy idleness
As in a panorama passing by.
While they were passing through these varied scenes,
The prince, whose ears were tuned to life's sad notes,
Whose eyes were quick to catch its deepest shades,
Found sorrow, pain and want, disease and death,
Were woven in its very warp and woof.
A tiger, springing from a sheltering bush,
Had snatched a merchant's comrade from his side;
A deadly cobra, hidden by the path,
Had stung to death a widow's only son;
A breath of jungle-wind a youth's blood chilled,
Or filled a strong man's bones with piercing pain;
A household widowed by a careless step;
The quick cross-lightning from an angry cloud
Struck down a bridegroom bringing home his bride—
All this and more he heard, and much he saw:
A young man, stricken in life's early prime,
Shuffled along, dragging one palsied limb,
While one limp arm hung useless by his side;
A dwarf sold little knickknacks by the way,
His body scarcely in the human form,
To which long arms and legs seemed loosely hung,
His noble head thrust forward on his breast,
Whose pale, sad face as plainly told as words
That life had neither health nor hope for him;
An old man tottering from a hovel came,
Frail, haggard, palsied, leaning on a staff,
Whose eyes, dull, glazed and meaningless, proclaim
The body lingers when the mind has fled;
One seized with sudden hot distemper of the blood,
Writhing with anguish, by the wayside sunk.
The purple plague-spot on his pallid cheek,
Cold drops of perspiration on his brow,
With wildly rolling eyes and livid lips,
Gasping for breath and feebly asking help—
But ere the prince could aid, death gave relief.
At length they passed the city's outer gate
And down a stream, now spread in shining pools,
Now leaping in cascades, now dashing on,
A line of foam along its rocky bed,
Bordered by giant trees with densest shade.
Here, day by day, the city bring their dead;
Here, day by day, they build the funeral-piles;
Here lamentations daily fill the air;
Here hissing flames each day taste human flesh,
And friendly watchmen guard the smoldering pile
Till friends can cull the relics from the dust.
And here, just finished, rose a noble pile
By stately Brahmans for a Brahman built
Of fragrant woods, and drenched with fragrant oils,
Loading the air with every sweet perfume
That India's forests or her fields can yield;
Above, a couch of sacred cusa-grass,
On which no dreams disturb the sleeper's rest.
And now the sound of music reaches them,
Far off at first, solemn and sad and slow,
Rising and swelling as it nearer comes,
Until a long procession comes in view.
Four Brahmans first, bearing in bowls the fire
No more to burn on one deserted hearth,
Then stately Brahmans on their shoulders bore
A noble brother of their sacred caste,
In manhood's bloom and early prime cut down.
Then Brahman youth, bearing a little child
Half hid in flowers, and as in seeming sleep.
Then other Brahmans in a litter bore
One young and fair, in early womanhood,
Her youthful beauty joined with matron grace,
In bridal dress adorned with costly gems—
The very face the prince had dreaming seen,
The very child she carried in her arms.
Then many more, uncovered, four by four,
The aged first, then those in manhood's prime,
And then the young with many acolytes
Chanting in unison their sacred hymns,
Accompanied by many instruments,
Both wind and string, in solemn symphony;
And at respectful distance other castes,
Afraid to touch a Brahman's sacred robes
Or even mingle with his grief their tears.
And when they reached the fragrant funeral-pile,
Weeping they placed their dead on their last couch,
The child within its father's nerveless arms;
And when all funeral rites had been performed,
The widow circled thrice the funeral-pile,
Distributing her gifts with lavish hand,
Bidding her friends a long and last farewell—
Then stopped, and raised her tearless eyes and said:
"Farewell, a long farewell, to life and friends!
Farewell! O earth and air and sacred sun!
Nanda, my lord, Udra, my child, I come!"
Then pale but calm, with fixed ecstatic gaze
And steady steps she mounts the funeral-pile,
Crying, "They beckon me! I come! I come!"
Then sunk as if the silver cord were loosed
As still as death upon her silent dead.
Instant the flames from the four corners leaped,
Mingling in one devouring, eager blaze.
No groan, no cry, only the crackling flames,
The wailing notes of many instruments,
And solemn chant by many voices raised,
"Perfect is she who follows thus her lord."
O dark and cruel creeds, O perfect love,
Fitter for heaven than this sad world of ours!
More than enough the prince had seen and heard.
Bowed by the grievous burdens others bore,
Feeling for others' sorrows as his own,
Tears of divinest pity filled his eyes
And deep and all-embracing love his heart.
Home he returned, no more to find its rest.
But soon a light shines in that troubled house—
A son is born to sweet Yasodhara.
Their eyes saw not, neither do ours, that sun
Whose light is wisdom and whose heat is love,
Sending through nature waves of living light,
Giving its life to everything that lives,
Which through the innocence of little ones
As through wide-open windows sends his rays
To light the darkest, warm the coldest heart.
Sweet infancy! life's solace and its rest,
Driving away the loneliness of age,
Wreathing in smiles the wrinkled brow of care,
Nectar to joyful, balm to troubled hearts,
Joyful once more is King Suddhodana;
A placid joy beams from that mother's face;
Joy lit the palace, flew from street to street,
And from the city over hill and plain;
Joy filled the prince's agitated soul—
He felt a power, from whence he could not tell,
Drawing away, he knew not where it led.
He knew the dreaded separation near,
Yet half its pain and bitterness was passed.
He need not leave his loved ones comfortless—
His loving people still would have their prince,
The king in young Rahula have his son,
And sweet Yasodhara, his very life,
Would have that nearest, dearest comforter
To soothe her cares and drive away her tears.[1]
But now strange dreams disturb the good old king—
Dreams starting him in terror from his sleep,
Yet seeming prophecies of coming good.
He dreamed he saw the flag his fathers loved
In tatters torn and trailing in the dust,
But in its place another glorious flag,
Whose silken folds seemed woven thick with gems
That as it waved glittered with dazzling light.
He dreamed he saw proud embassies from far
Bringing the crowns and scepters of the earth,
Bowing in reverence before the prince,
Humbly entreating him to be their king—
From whom he fled in haste as if in fear.
Then dreamed he saw his son in tattered robes
Begging from Sudras for his daily bread.
Again, he dreamed he saw the ancient tower
Where he in worship had so often knelt,
Rising and shining clothed with living light,
And on its top the prince, beaming with love,
Scattering with lavish hand the richest gems
On eager crowds that caught them as they fell.
But soon it vanished, and he saw a hill,
Rugged and bleak, cliff crowned and bald and bare,
And there he saw the prince, kneeling alone,
Wasted with cruel fastings till his bones
Clave to his skin, and in his sunken eyes
With fitful flicker gleamed the lamp of life
Until they closed, and on the ground he sank,
As if in death or in a deadly swoon;
And then the hill sank to a spreading plain,
Stretching beyond the keenest vision's ken,
Covered with multitudes as numberless
As ocean's sands or autumn's forest leaves;
And mounted on a giant elephant,
White as the snows on Himalaya's peaks,
The prince rode through their midst in royal state,
And as he moved along he heard a shout,
Rising and swelling, like the mighty voice
Of many waters breaking on the shore:
"All hail! great Chakravartin, king of kings!
Hail! king of righteousness! Hail! prince of peace!"
Strange dreams! Where is their birthplace—where their home?
Lighter than foam upon the crested wave,
Fleeter than shadows of the passing cloud,
They are of such fantastic substance made
That quick as thought they change their fickle forms—
Now grander than the waking vision views,
Now stranger than the wildest fancy feigns,
And now so grim and terrible they start
The hardened conscience from its guilty sleep.
In troops they come, trooping they fly away,
Waved into being by the magic wand
Of some deep purpose of the inmost soul,
Some hidden joy or sorrow, guilt or fear—
Or better, as the wise of old believed,
Called into being by some heavenly guest
To soothe, to warn, instruct or terrify.
Strange dreams by night and troubled thoughts by day
Disturb the prince and banish quiet sleep.
He dreamed that darkness, visible and dense,
Shrouded the heavens and brooded o'er the earth,
Whose rayless, formless, vacant nothingness
Curdled his blood and made his eyeballs ache;
When suddenly from out this empty void
A cloud, shining with golden light, was borne
By gentle winds, loaded with sweet perfumes,
Sweeter than spring-time on this earth can yield.
The cloud passed just above him, and he saw
Myriads of cherub faces looking down,
Sweet as Rahula, freed from earthly stain;
Such faces mortal brush could never paint—
Enraptured Raphael ne'er such faces saw.
But still the outer darkness hovered near,
And ever and anon a bony hand
Darts out to snatch some cherub face away.
Then dreamed he saw a broad and pleasant land,
With cities, gardens, groves and fruitful fields,
Where bee-fed flowers half hide the ripening fruits.
And spicy breezes stir the trembling leaves,
And many birds make sweetest melody,
But bordered by a valley black as night,
That ever vomits from its sunless depths
Great whirling clouds of suffocating smoke,
Blacker than hide the burning Aetna's head,
Blacker than over Lake Avernus hung;
No bird could fly above its fatal fumes;
Eagles, on tireless pinions upward borne,
In widening circles rising toward the sun,
Venturing too near its exhalations, fall,
As sinks the plummet in the silent sea;
And lions, springing on their antlered prey,
Drop still and lifeless on its deadly brink;
Only the jackal's dismal howl is heard
To break its stillness and eternal sleep.
He was borne forward to the very verge
Of this dark valley, by some power unseen.
A wind that pierced his marrow parts the clouds,
And far within, below he saw a sight
That stood his hair on end, beaded his brow
With icy drops, and made his blood run cold;
He saw a lofty throne, blacker than jet,
But shining with a strange and baleful light
That made him shade his blinded, dazzled eyes,
And seated on that throne a ghastly form
That seemed a giant human skeleton,
But yet in motion terrible and quick
As lightning, killing ere the thunders roll;
His fleshless skull had on a seeming crown,
While from his sunken sockets glared his eyes
Like coals of fire or eyes of basilisk,
And from his bony hand each instant flew
Unerring darts that flew to pierce and kill,
Piercing the infant in its mother's arms,
The mother when she feels her first-born's breath,
Piercing the father in his happy home,
Piercing the lover tasting love's first kiss,
Piercing the vanquished when his banners fall,
Piercing the victor 'mid triumphant shouts,
Piercing the mighty monarch on his throne;
While from a towering cypress growing near
Every disease to which frail flesh is heir
Like ravening vultures watch each arrow's flight,
And quick as thought glide off on raven's wings
To bring the wounded, writhing victim in—
As well-trained hunters mark their master's aim,
Then fly to bring the wounded quarry home.
Meanwhile a stifling stench rose from below—
As from a battle-field where nations met
And fiery ranks of living valor fought,
Now food for vultures, moldering cold and low—
And bleaching bones were scattered everywhere.
Startled he wakes and rises from his couch.
The lamps shine down with soft and mellow light.
The fair Yasodhara still lay in sleep,
But not in quiet sleep. Her bosom heaved
As if a sigh were seeking to escape;
Her brows were knit as if in pain or fear,
And tears were stealing from her close-shut lids.
But sweet Rahula slept, and sleeping smiled
As if he too those cherub faces saw.
In haste alone he noiselessly stole forth
To wander in the park, and cool his brow
And calm his burdened, agitated soul.
The night had reached that hour preceding dawn
When nature seems in solemn silence hushed,
Awed by the glories of the coming day.
The moon hung low above the western plains;
Unnumbered stars with double brightness shine,
And half-transparent mists the landscape veil,
Through which the mountains in dim grandeur rise.
Silent, alone he crossed the maidan wide
Where first he saw the sweet Yasodhara,
Where joyful multitudes so often met,
Now still as that dark valley of his dream.
He passed the lake, mirror of heaven's high vault,
Whose ruffled waters ripple on the shore,
Stirred by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks;
And heedless of his way passed on and up,
Through giant cedars and the lofty pines,
Over a leafy carpet, velvet soft,
While solemn voices from their branches sound,
Strangely in unison with his sad soul;
And on and up until he reached a spot
Above the trees, above the mist-wrapped world,
Where opening chasms yawned on every side.
Perforce he stopped; and, roused from revery,
Gazed on the dark and silent world below.
The moon had sunk from sight, the stars grew dim,
And densest darkness veiled the sleeping world,
When suddenly bright beams of rosy light
Shot up the east; the highest mountain-top
Glittered as if both land and sea had joined
Their richest jewels and most costly gems
To make its crown; from mountain-peak to peak
The brightness spread, and darkness slunk away,
Until between two giant mountain-tops
Glittered a wedge of gold; the hills were tinged,
And soon the sun flooded the world with light
As when the darkness heard that first command:
"Let there be light!" and light from chaos shone.
Raptured he gazed upon the glorious scene.
"And can it be," he said, "with floods of light
Filling the blue and boundless vault above,
Bathing in brightness mountain, hill and plain,
Sending its rays to ocean's hidden depths,
With light for bird and beast and creeping thing,
Light for all eyes, oceans of light to spare,
That man alone from outer darkness comes,
Gropes blindly on his brief and restless round,
And then in starless darkness disappears?
There must be light, fountains of living light,
For which my thirsty spirit pining pants
As pants the hunted hart for water-brooks—
Another sun, lighting a better world,
Where weary souls may find a welcome rest.
Gladly I'd climb yon giddy mountain-heights,
Or gladly take the morning's wings and fly
To earth's remotest bounds, if light were there,
Welcome to me the hermit's lonely cell,
And welcome dangers, labors, fastings, pains—
All would be welcome could I bring the light
To myriads now in hopeless darkness sunk.
Farewell to kingdom, comforts, home and friends!
All will I leave to seek this glorious light."
The die is cast, the victory is gained.
Though love of people, parent, wife and child,
Half selfish, half divine, may bid him pause,
A higher love, unselfish, all divine,
For them and every soul, bade him go forth
To seek for light, and seek till light be found.
Home he returned, now strong to say farewell.
Meanwhile the sweet Yasodhara still slept,
And dreamed she saw Siddartha's empty couch.
She dreamed she saw him flying far away,
And when she called to him he answered not,
But only stopped his ears and faster flew
Until he seemed a speck, and then was gone.
And then she heard a mighty voice cry out:
"The time has come—his glory shall appear!"
Waked by that voice, she found his empty couch,
Siddartha gone, and with him every joy;
But not all joy, for there Rahula lay,
With great wide-open eyes and cherub smile,
Watching the lights that flickered on the wall.
Caught in her arms she pressed him to her heart
To still its tumult and to ease its pain.
But now that step she knew so well is heard.
Siddartha comes, filled with unselfish love
Until his face beamed with celestial light
That like a holy halo crowned his head.
Gently he spoke: "My dearest and my best,
The time has come—the time when we must part.
Let not your heart be troubled—it is best."
This said, a tender kiss spoke to her heart,
In love's own language, of unchanging love.
When sweet Rahula stretched his little arms,
And cooing asked his share of tenderness,
Siddartha from her bosom took their boy,
And though sore troubled, both together smiled,
And with him playing, that sweet jargon spoke,
Which, though no lexicon contains its words,
Seems like the speech of angels, poorly learned,
For every sound and syllable and word
Was filled brimful of pure and perfect love.
At length grown calm, they tenderly communed
Of all their past, of all their hopes and fears;
And when the time of separation came,
His holy resolution gave her strength
To give the last embrace and say farewell.
And forth he rode,[2] mounted on Kantaka,
A prince, a loving father, husband, son,
To exile driven by all-embracing love.
What wonder, as the ancient writings say,
That nature to her inmost depths was stirred,
And as he passed the birds burst forth in song,
Fearless of hawk or kite that hovered near?
What wonder that the beasts of field and wood,
And all the jungle's savage denizens,
Gathered in groups and gamboled fearlessly,
Leopards with kids and wolves with skipping lambs?
For he who rode alone, bowed down and sad,
Taught millions, crores[3] of millions, yet unborn
To treat with kindness every living thing.
What wonder that the deepest hells were stirred?
What wonder that the heavens were filled with joy?
For he, bowed down with sorrow, going forth,
Shall come with joy and teach all men the way
From earth's sad turmoil to Nirvana's rest.
[1]In the "Light of Asia" the prince is made to leave his young wife before the birth of their son, saying: "Whom, if I wait to bless, my heart will fail,"—a piece of cowardice hardly consistent with my conception of that brave and self-denying character.
[2]In the "Light of Asia," the prince, after leaving his young wife, is made to pass through a somewhat extensive harem en deshabille, which is described with voluptuous minuteness. Although there are some things in later Buddhistic literature that seem to justify it, I can but regard the introduction of an institution so entirely alien to every age, form and degree of Aryan civilization and so inconsistent with the tender conjugal love which was the strongest tie to his beloved home, as a serious blot on that beautiful poem and as inconsistent with its whole theory, for no prophet ever came from a harem.
[3]A crore is ten millions.
BOOK IV.
Far from his kingdom, far from home and friends,
The prince has gone, his flowing locks close shorn,
His rings and soft apparel laid aside,
All signs of rank and royalty cast off.
Clothed in a yellow robe, simple and coarse,
Through unknown streets from door to door he passed,
Holding an alms-bowl forth for willing gifts.
But when, won by his stateliness and grace,
They brought their choicest stores, he gently said:
"Not so, my friends, keep such for those who need—
The sick and old; give me but common food."
And when sufficient for the day was given,
He took a way leading without the walls,
And through rich gardens, through the fruitful fields,
Under dark mangoes and the jujube trees,
Eastward toward Sailagiri, hill of gems;
And through an ancient grove, skirting its base,
Where, soothed by every soft and tranquil sound,
Full many saints were wearing out their days
In meditation, earnest, deep, intent,
Seeking to solve the mystery of life,
Seeking, by leaving all its joys and cares,
Seeking, by doubling all its woes and pains,
To gain an entrance to eternal rest;
And winding up its rugged sides, to where
A shoulder of the mountain, sloping west,
O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.
This mountain cave was now his dwelling-place,
A stone his pillow, and the earth his bed,
His earthen alms-bowl holding all his stores
Except the crystal waters, murmuring near.
A lonely path, rugged, and rough, and steep;
A lonely cave, its stillness only stirred
By eagle's scream, or raven's solemn croak,
Or by the distant city's softened sounds,
Save when a sudden tempest breaks above,
And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills—
A path since worn by countless pilgrims' feet,
Coming from far to view this hallowed spot,
And bow in worship on his hard, cold bed,
And press his pillow with their loving lips.
For here, for six long years, the world-renowned,
The tender lover of all living things,
Fasted and watched and wrestled for the light,
Less for himself than for a weeping world.
And here arrived, he ate his simple meal,
And then in silent meditation sat
The livelong day, heedless of noon's fierce heat
That sent to covert birds and panting beasts,
And from the parched and glowing plain sent up,
As from a furnace, gusts of scorching air,
Through which the city's walls, the rocks and trees.
All seemed to tremble, quiver, glow and shake,
As if a palsy shook the trembling world;
Heedless of loosened rocks that crashed so near,
And dashed and thundered to the depths below,
And of the shepherds, who with wondering awe
Came near to gaze upon his noble form
And gentle, loving but majestic face,
And thought some god had deigned to visit men.
And thus he sat, still as the rock his seat,
Seeking to pierce the void from whence man came,
To look beyond the veil that shuts him in,
To find a clue to life's dark labyrinth,
Seeking to know why man is cast adrift
Upon the bosom of a troubled sea,
His boat so frail, his helm and compass lost,
To sink at last in dull oblivion's depths;
When nature seems so perfect and complete,
Grand as a whole, and perfect all its parts,
Which from the greatest to the least proclaims
That Wisdom, Watchfulness, and Power and Love
Which built the mountains, spread the earth abroad,
And fixed the bounds that ocean cannot pass;
Which taught the seasons their accustomed rounds,
Lest seed-time and the happy harvests fail;
Which guides the stars in their celestial course,
And guides the pigeon's swift unerring flight
O'er mountain, sea and plain and desert waste,
Straight as an arrow to her distant home;
Teaching the ant for winter to prepare;
Clothing the lily in its princely pride;
Watching the tiny sparrow when it falls;
Nothing too great for His almighty arm;
Nothing too small for His all-seeing eye;
Nothing too mean for His paternal care.
And thus he mused, seeking to find a light
To guide men on their dark and weary way,
And through the valley and the shades of death,
Until the glories of the setting sun
Called him to vespers and his evening meal.
Then roused from revery, ablutions made,
Eight times he bowed, just as the setting sun,
A fiery red, sunk slowly out of sight
Beyond the western plains, gilded and tinged,
Misty and vast, beneath a brilliant sky,
Shaded from brightest gold to softest rose.
Then, after supper, back and forth he paced
Upon the narrow rock before his cave,
Seeking to ease his numbed and stiffened limbs;
While evening's sombre shadows slowly crept
From plain to hill and highest mountain-top,
And solemn silence settled on the world,
Save for the night-jar's cry and owl's complaint;
While many lights from out the city gleam,
And thickening stars spangle the azure vault,
Until the moon, with soft and silvery light,
Half veils and half reveals the sleeping world.
And then he slept—for weary souls must sleep,
As well as bodies worn with daily toil;
And as he lay stretched on his hard, cold bed,
His youthful blood again bounds freely on,
Repairing wastes the weary day had made.
And then he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of home,
Of young Rahula, reaching out his arms,
Of sweet Yasodhara with loving words
Cheering him on, as love alone can cheer.
Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light
For which his earnest soul so long had yearned—
But over hills and mountains far away.
And then he seemed with labored steps to climb
Down giddy cliffs, far harder than ascent,
While yawning chasms threatened to devour,
And beetling cliffs precluded all retreat;
But still the way seemed opening step by step,
Until he reached the valley's lowest depths,
Where twilight reigned, and grim and ghastly forms,
With flaming swords, obstruct his onward way,
But his all-conquering love still urged him on,
When with wild shrieks they vanished in thin air;
And then he climbed, clinging to jutting cliffs,
And stunted trees that from each crevice grew,
Till weary, breathless, he regained the heights,
To see that light nearer, but still so far.
And thus he slept, and thus sometimes he dreamed,
But rose before the dawn had tinged the east,
Before the jungle-cock had made his call,
When thoughts are clearest, and the world is still,
Refreshed and strengthened for his daily search
Into the seeds of sorrow, germs of pain,
After a light to scatter doubts and fears.
But when the coming day silvered the east,
And warmed that silver into softest gold,
And faintest rose-tints tinged the passing clouds,
He, as the Vedas taught, each morning bathed
In the clear stream that murmured near his cave,
Then bowed in reverence to the rising sun,
As from behind the glittering mountain-peaks
It burst in glory on the waking world.
Then bowl and staff in hand, he took his way
Along his mountain-path and through the grove,
And through the gardens, through the fruitful fields,
Down to the city, for his daily alms;
While children his expected coming watch,
And running cry: "The gracious Rishi comes."
All gladly gave, and soon his bowl was filled,
For he repaid their gifts with gracious thanks,
And his unbounded love, clearer than words,
Spoke to their hearts as he passed gently on.
Even stolid plowmen after him would look,
Wondering that one so stately and so grand
Should even for them have kind and gracious words,
Sometimes while passing through the sacred grove,
He paused beneath an aged banyan-tree,
Whose spreading branches drooping down took root
To grow again in other giant trunks,
An ever-widening, ever-deepening shade,
Where five, like him in manhood's early prime,
Each bound to life by all its tender ties,
High born and rich, had left their happy homes,
Their only food chance-gathered day by day,
Their only roof this spreading banyan-tree;
And there long time they earnestly communed,
Seeking to aid each other in the search
For higher life and for a clearer light.
And here, under a sacred peepul's shade,
Two Brahmans, famed for sanctity, had dwelt
For many years, all cares of life cast off,
Who by long fastings sought to make the veil
Of flesh translucent to the inner eye;
Eyes fixed intently on the nose's tip,
To lose all consciousness of outward things;
By breath suppressed to still the outer pulse,
So that the soul might wake to conscious life,
And on unfolded wings unchecked might rise.
And in the purest auras freely soar,
Above cross-currents that engender clouds
Where thunders roll, and quick cross-lightnings play,
To view the world of causes and of life,
And bathe in light that knows no night, no change.
With eager questionings he sought to learn,
While they with gentle answers gladly taught
All that their self-denying search had learned.
And thus he passed his days and months and years,
In constant, patient, earnest search for light,
With longer fastings and more earnest search,
While day by day his body frailer grew,
Until his soul, loosed from its earthly bonds,
Sometimes escaped its narrow prison-house,
And like the lark to heaven's gate it soared,
To view the glories of the coming dawn.
But as he rose, the sad and sorrowing world,
For which his soul with tender love had yearned,
Seemed deeper in the nether darkness sunk,
Beyond his reach, beyond his power to save,
When sadly to his prison-house he turned,
Wishing no light that did not shine for all.
Six years had passed, six long and weary years,
Since first he left the world to seek for light.
Knowledge he found, knowledge that soared aloft
To giddy heights, and sounded hidden depths,
Secrets of knowledge that the Brahmans taught
The favored few, but far beyond the reach
Of those who toil and weep and cry for help;
A light that gilds the highest mountain-tops,
But leaves the fields and valleys dark and cold;
But not that living light for which he yearned,
To light life's humble walks and common ways,
And send its warmth to every heart and home,
As spring-time sends a warm and genial glow
To every hill and valley, grove and field,
Clothing in softest verdure common grass,
As well as sandal-trees and lofty palms.
One night, when hope seemed yielding to despair,
Sleepless he lay upon the earth—his bed—
When suddenly a white and dazzling light
Shone through the cave, and all was dark again.
Startled he rose, then prostrate in the dust,
His inmost soul breathed forth an earnest prayer[1]
That he who made the light would make it shine
Clearer and clearer to that perfect day,
When innocence, and peace, and righteousness
Might fill the earth, and ignorance and fear,
And cruelty and crime, might fly away,
As birds of night and savage prowling beasts
Fly from the glories of the rising sun.
Long time he lay, wrestling in earnest prayer,
When from the eastern wall, one clothed in light,
Beaming with love, and halo-crowned, appeared,
And gently said: "Siddartha, rise! go forth!
Waste not your days in fasts, your nights in tears!
Give what you have; do what you find to do;
With gentle admonitions check the strong;
With loving counsels aid and guide the weak,
And light will come, the day will surely dawn."
This said, the light grew dim, the form was gone,
But hope revived, his heart was strong again.
Joyful he rose, and when the rising sun
Had filled the earth's dark places full of light,
With all his worldly wealth, his staff and bowl,
Obedient to that voice he left his cave;
When from a shepherd's cottage near his way,
Whence he had often heard the busy hum
Of industry, and childhood's merry laugh,
There came the angry, stern command of one
Clothed in a little brief authority,
Mingled with earnest pleadings, and the wail
Of women's voices, and above them all
The plaintive treble of a little child.
Thither he turned, and when he reached the spot,
The cause of all this sorrow was revealed:
One from the king had seized their little all,
Their goats and sheep, and e'en the child's pet lamb.
But when they saw him they had often watched
With reverent awe, as if come down from heaven,
Prostrate they fell, and kissed his garment's hem,
While he so insolent, now stood abashed,
And, self accused, he thus excused himself:
"The Brahmans make this day a sacrifice,
And they demand unblemished goats and lambs.
I but obey the king's express command
To bring them to the temple ere high noon."
But Buddha stooped and raised the little child,
Who nestled in his arms in perfect trust,
And gently said: "Rise up, my friends, weep not!
The king must be obeyed—but kings have hearts.
I go along to be your advocate.
The king may spare what zealous priest would kill,
Thinking the gods above delight in blood."
But when the officers would drive the flock
With staves and slings and loud and angry cries,
They only scattered them among the rocks,
And Buddha bade the shepherd call his own,
As love can lead where force in vain would drive.
He called; they knew his voice and followed him,
Dumb innocents, down to the slaughter led,
While Buddha kissed the child, and followed them,
With those so late made insolent by power,
Now dumb as if led out to punishment.
Meanwhile the temple-gates wide open stood,
And when the king, in royal purple robed,
And decked with gems, attended by his court,
To clash of cymbals, sound of shell and drum,
Through streets swept clean and sprinkled with perfumes,
Adorned with flags, and filled with shouting crowds,
Drew near the sacred shrine, a greater came,
Through unswept ways, where dwelt the toiling poor,
Huddled in wretched huts, breathing foul air,
Living in fetid filth and poverty—
No childhood's joys, youth prematurely old,
Manhood a painful struggle but to live,
And age a weary shifting of the scene;
While all the people drew aside to gaze
Upon his gentle but majestic face,
Beaming with tender, all-embracing love.
And when the king and royal train dismount,
'Mid prostrate people and the stately priests,
On fragrant flowers that carpeted his way,
And mount the lofty steps to reach the shrine,
Siddartha came, upon the other side,
'Mid stalls for victims, sheds for sacred wood,
And rude attendants on the pompous rites,
Who seized a goat, the patriarch of the flock,
And bound him firm with sacred munja grass,
And bore aloft, while Buddha followed where
A priest before the blazing altar stood
With glittering knife, and others fed the fires,
While clouds of incense from the altar rose,
Sweeter than Araby the blest can yield,
And white-robed Brahmans chant their sacred hymns.
And there before that ancient shrine they met,
The king, the priests, the hermit from the hill,
When one, an aged Brahman, raised his hands,
And praying, lifted up his voice and cried:
"O hear! great Indra, from thy lofty throne
On Meru's holy mountain, high in heaven.
Let every good the king has ever done
With this sweet incense mingled rise to thee;
And every secret, every open sin
Be laid upon this goat, to sink from sight,
Drunk by the earth with his hot spouting blood,
Or on this altar with his flesh be burned."
And all the Brahman choir responsive cried:
"Long live the king! now let the victim die!"
But Buddha said: "Let him not strike, O king!
For how can God, being good, delight in blood?
And how can blood wash out the stains of sin,
And change the fixed eternal law of life
That good from good, evil from evil flows?"
This said, he stooped and loosed the panting goat,
None staying him, so great his presence was.
And then with loving tenderness he taught
How sin works out its own sure punishment;
How like corroding rust and eating moth
It wastes the very substance of the soul;
Like poisoned blood it surely, drop by drop,
Pollutes the very fountain of the life;
Like deadly drug it changes into stone
The living fibres of a loving heart;
Like fell disease, it breeds within the veins
The living agents of a living death;
And as in gardens overgrown with weeds,
Nothing but patient labor, day by day,
Uprooting cherished evils one by one,
Watering its soil with penitential tears,
Can fit the soul to grow that precious seed,
Which taking root, spreads out a grateful shade
Where gentle thoughts like singing birds may lodge,
Where pure desires like fragrant flowers may bloom,
And loving acts like ripened fruits may hang.
Then, chiding not, with earnest words he urged
Humanity to man, kindness to beasts,
Pure words, kind acts, in all our daily walks.
As better than the blood of lambs and goats.
Better than incense or the chanted hymn,
To cleanse the heart and please the powers above,
And fill the world with harmony and peace,
Till pricked in heart, the priest let fall his knife;
The Brahmans listening, ceased to chant their hymns;
The king drank in his words with eager ears;
And from that day no altar dripped with blood,
But flowers instead breathed forth their sweet perfumes.
And when that troubled day drew near its close,
Joy filled once more that shepherd's humble home,
From door to door his simple story flew,
And when the king entered his palace gates,
New thoughts were surging in his wakened soul.
But though the beasts have lairs, the birds have nests,
Buddha had not whereon to lay his head,
Not even a mountain-cave to call his home;
And forth he fared, heedless about his way—
For every way was now alike to him.
Heedless of food, his alms-bowl hung unused.
While all the people stood aside with awe,
And to their children pointed out the man
Who plead the shepherd's cause before the king.
At length he passed the city's western gate,
And crossed the little plain circling its walls.
Circled itself by five bold hills that rise,
A rugged, rampart and an outer wall.
Two outer gates this mountain rampart had,
The one a narrow valley opening west
Toward Gaya, through the red Barabar hills.
Through which the rapid Phalgu swiftly glides,
Down from the Vindhya mountains far away,
Then gently winds around this fruitful plain,
Its surface green with floating lotus leaves.
And bright with lotus blossoms, blue and white,
O'erhung with drooping trees and trailing vines,
Till through the eastern gate it hastens on,
To lose itself in Gunga's sacred stream.
Toward Gaya now Siddartha bent his steps,
Distant the journey of a single day
As men marked distance in those ancient times,
No longer heeded in this headlong age,
When we count moments by the miles we pass;
And one may see the sun sink out of sight.
Behind great banks of gray and wintry clouds,
While feathery snowflakes fill the frosty air,
And after quiet sleep may wake next day
To see it bathe green fields with floods of light,
And dry the sparkling dew from opening flowers,
And hear the joyful burst of vernal song,
And breathe the balmy air of opening spring.
And as he went, weary and faint and sad,
The valley opening showed a pleasant grove,
Where many trees mingled their grateful shade,
And many blossoms blended sweet perfumes;
And there, under a drooping vakul-tree,
A bower of roses and sweet jasmine vines,
Within a couch, without a banquet spread,
While near a fountain with its falling spray
Ruffled the surface of a shining pool,
Whose liquid cadence mingled with the songs
Of many birds concealed among the trees.
And there three seeming sister graces were,[2]
Fair as young Venus rising from the sea,
The one in seeming childlike innocence
Bathed in the pool, while her low liquid laugh
Rung sweet and clear; and one her vina tuned,
And as she played, the other lightly danced,
Clapping her hands, tinkling her silver bells,
Whose gauzy silken garments seemed to show
Rather than hide her slender, graceful limbs.
And she who played the vina sweetly sang;
"Come to our bower and take your rest—
Life is a weary road at best.
Eat, for your board is richly spread;
Drink, for your wine is sparkling red;
Rest, for the weary day is past;
Sleep, for the shadows gather fast.
Tune not your vina-strings too high,
Strained they will break and the music die.
Come to our bower and take your rest—
Life is a weary road at best."
But Buddha, full of pity, passing said:
"Alas, poor soul! flitting a little while
Like painted butterflies before the lamp
That soon will burn your wings; like silly doves,
Calling the cruel kite to seize and kill;
Displaying lights to be the robber's guide;
Enticing men to wrong, who soon despise.
Ah! poor, perverted, cold and cruel world!
Delights of love become the lures of lust,
The joys of heaven changed into fires of hell."
[1]I am aware there are many who think that Buddha did not believe in prayer, which Arnold puts into his own mouth in these words, which sound like the clanking of chains in a prison-vault:
"Pray not! the darkness will not brighten! Ask
Nought from Silence, for it cannot speak!"
Buddha did teach that mere prayers without any effort to overcome our evils is of no more use than for a merchant to pray the farther bank of a swollen stream to come to him without seeking any means to cross, which merely differs in words from the declaration of St. James that faith without works is dead; but if he ever taught that the earnest yearning of a soul for help, which is the essence of prayer, is no aid in the struggle for a higher life, then my whole reading has been at fault, and the whole Buddhist worship has been a departure from the teachings of its founder.
[2]Mara dispatched three pleasure-girls from the north quarter to come and tempt him. Their names were Tanha, Rati and Ranga. Fa Hian (Beal), p. 120.