THE LIGHT OF ASIA

By Sir Edwin Arnold

This volume is dutifully inscribed to the Sovereign, Grand Master, and Companions of The Most Exalted Order of the Star of India by The Author.

CONTENTS

Book The First

Book The Second

Book The Third

Book The Fourth

Book the Fifth

Book The Sixth

Book The Seventh

Book The Eighth

Book The First

     The Scripture of the Saviour of the World,

     Lord Buddha—Prince Siddartha styled on earth

     In Earth and Heavens and Hells Incomparable,

     All-honoured, Wisest, Best, most Pitiful;

     The Teacher of Nirvana and the Law.

          Then came he to be born again for men.

     Below the highest sphere four Regents sit

     Who rule our world, and under them are zones

     Nearer, but high, where saintliest spirits dead

     Wait thrice ten thousand years, then live again;

     And on Lord Buddha, waiting in that sky,

     Came for our sakes the five sure signs of birth

     So that the Devas knew the signs, and said

     "Buddha will go again to help the World."

     "Yea!" spake He, "now I go to help the World.

     This last of many times; for birth and death

     End hence for me and those who learn my Law.

     I will go down among the Sakyas,

     Under the southward snows of Himalay,

     Where pious people live and a just King."

          That night the wife of King Suddhodana,

     Maya the Queen, asleep beside her Lord,

     Dreamed a strange dream; dreamed that a star

          from heaven—

     Splendid, six-rayed, in colour rosy-pearl,

     Whereof the token was an Elephant

     Six-tusked and whiter than Vahuka's milk—

     Shot through the void and, shining into her,

     Entered her womb upon the right.  Awaked,

     Bliss beyond mortal mother's filled her breast,

     And over half the earth a lovely light

     Forewent the morn.  The strong hills shook; the waves

     Sank lulled; all flowers that blow by day came forth

     As 't were high noon; down to the farthest hells

     Passed the Queen's joy, as when warm sunshine thrills

     Wood-glooms to gold, and into all the deeps

     A tender whisper pierced.  "Oh ye," it said,

     "The dead that are to live, the live who die,

     Uprise, and hear, and hope!  Buddha is come!"

     Whereat in Limbos numberless much peace

     Spread, and the world's heart throbbed, and a wind blew

     With unknown freshness over lands and seas.

     And when the morning dawned, and this was told,

     The grey dream-readers said  "The dream is good!

     The Crab is in conjunction with the Sun;

     The Queen shall bear a boy, a holy child

     Of wondrous wisdom, profiting all flesh,

     Who shall deliver men from ignorance,

     Or rule the world, if he will deign to rule."

          In this wise was the holy Buddha born.

     Queen Maya stood at noon, her days fulfilled,

     Under a Palsa in the Palace-grounds,

     A stately trunk, straight as a temple-shaft,

     With crown of glossy leaves and fragrant blooms;

     And, knowing the time some—for all things knew—

     The conscious tree bent down its boughs to make

     A bower above Queen Maya's majesty,

     And Earth put forth a thousand sudden flowers

     To spread a couch, while, ready for the bath,

     The rock hard by gave out a limpid stream

     Of crystal flow.  So brought she forth her child

     Pangless—he having on his perfect form

     The marks, thirty and two, of blessed birth;

     Of which the great news to the Palace came.

     But when they brought the painted palanquin

     To fetch him home, the bearers of the poles

     Were the four Regents of the Earth, come down

     From Mount Sumeru—they who write men's deeds

     On brazen plates—the Angel of the East,

     Whose hosts are clad in silver robes, and bear

     Targets of pearl: the Angel of the South,

     Whose horsemen, the Kumbhandas, ride blue steeds,

     With sapphire shields: the Angel of the West,

     By Nagas followed, riding steeds blood-red,

     With coral shields: the Angel of the North,

     Environed by his Yakshas, all in gold,

     On yellow horses, bearing shields of gold.

     These, with their pomp invisible, came down

     And took the poles, in caste and outward garb

     Like bearers, yet most mighty gods; and gods

     Walked free with men that day, though men knew not

     For Heaven was filled with gladness for Earth's sake,

     Knowing Lord Buddha thus was come again.

          But King Suddhodana wist not of this;

     The portents troubled, till his dream-readers

     Augured a Prince of earthly dominance,

     A Chakravartin, such as rise to rule

     Once in each thousand years; seven gifts he has

     The Chakra-ratna, disc divine; the gem;

     The horse, the Aswa-ratna, that proud steed

     Which tramps the clouds; a snow-white elephant,

     The Hasti-ratna, born to bear his King;

     The crafty Minister, the General

     Unconquered, and the wife of peerless grace,

     The Istri-ratna, lovelier than the Dawn.

     For which gifts looking with this wondrous boy,

     The King gave order that his town should keep

     High festival; therefore the ways were swept,

     Rose-odours sprinkled in the street, the trees

     Were hung with lamps and flags, while merry crowds

     Gaped on the sword-players and posturers,

     The jugglers, charmers, swingers, rope-walkers,

     The nautch-girls in their spangled skirts and bells

     That chime light laughter round their restless feet;

     The masquers wrapped in skins of bear and deer.

     The tiger-tamers, wrestlers, quail-fighters,

     Beaters of drum and twanglers of the wire,

     Who made the people happy by command.

     Moreover from afar came merchant-men,

     Bringing, on tidings of this birth, rich gifts

     In golden trays; goat-shawls, and nard and jade,

     Turkises, "evening-sky" tint, woven webs—

     So fine twelve folds hide not a modest face—

     Waist-cloths sewn thick with pearls, and sandalwood;

     Homage from tribute cities; so they called

     Their Prince Svarthasiddh, "All-Prospering,"

     Briefer, Siddartha.

                    'Mongst the strangers came

     A grey-haired saint, Asita, one whose ears,

     Long closed to earthly things, caught heavenly sounds,

     And heard at prayer beneath his peepul-tree

     The Devas singing songs at Buddha's birth.

     Wondrous in lore he was by age and fasts;

     Him, drawing nigh, seeming so reverend,

     The King saluted, and Queen Maya made

     To lay her babe before such holy feet;

     But when he saw the Prince the old man cried

     "Ah, Queen, not so!" and thereupon he touched

     Eight times the dust, laid his waste visage there,

     Saying, "O Babe!  I worship!  Thou art He!

     I see the rosy light, the foot-sole marks,

     The soft curled tendril of the Swastika,

     The sacred primal signs thirty and two,

     The eighty lesser tokens.  Thou art Buddh,

     And thou wilt preach the Law and save all flesh

     Who learn the Law, though I shall never hear,

     Dying too soon, who lately longed to die;

     Howbeit I have seen Thee.  Know, O King!

     This is that Blossom on our human tree

     Which opens once in many myriad years—

     But opened, fills the world with Wisdom's scent

     And Love's dropped honey; from thy royal root

     A Heavenly Lotus springs: Ah, happy House!

     Yet not all-happy, for a sword must pierce

     Thy bowels for this boy—whilst thou, sweet Queen!

     Dear to all gods and men for this great birth,

     Henceforth art grown too sacred for more woe,

     And life is woe, therefore in seven days

     Painless thou shalt attain the close of pain."

          Which fell: for on the seventh evening

     Queen Maya smiling slept, and waked no more,

     Passing content to Trayastrinshas-Heaven,

     Where countless Devas worship her and wait

     Attendant on that radiant Motherhead.

     But for the Babe they found a foster-nurse,

     Princess Mahaprajapati—her breast

     Nourished with noble milk the lips of

     Him Whose lips comfort the Worlds.

                         When th' eighth year passed

     The careful King bethought to teach his son

     All that a Prince should learn, for still he shunned

     The too vast presage of those miracles,

     The glories and the sufferings of a Buddh.

     So, in full council of his Ministers,

     "Who is the wisest man, great sirs," he asked,

     "To teach my Prince that which a Prince should know?"

     Whereto gave answer each with instant voice

     "King! Viswamitra is the wisest one,

     The farthest-seen in Scriptures, and the best

     In learning, and the manual arts, and all."

     Thus Viswamitra came and heard commands;

     And, on a day found fortunate, the Prince

     Took up his slate of ox-red sandal-wood,

     All-beautified by gems around the rim,

     And sprinkled smooth with dust of emery,

     These took he, and his writing-stick, and stood

     With eyes bent down before the Sage, who said,

     "Child, write this Scripture, speaking slow the verse

     'Gayatri' named, which only High-born hear:—

         "Om, tatsaviturvarenyam

          Bhargo devasya dhimahi

          Dhiyo yo na prachodayat."

     "Acharya, I write," meekly replied

     The Prince, and quickly on the dust he drew—

     Not in one script, but many characters

     The sacred verse; Nagri and Dakshin, Ni,

     Mangal, Parusha, Yava, Tirthi, Uk,

     Darad, Sikhyani, Mana, Madhyachar,

     The pictured writings and the speech of signs,

     Tokens of cave-men and the sea-peoples,

     Of those who worship snakes beneath the earth,

     And those who flame adore and the sun's orb,

     The Magians and the dwellers on the mounds;

     Of all the nations all strange scripts he traced

     One after other with his writing-stick.

     Reading the master's verse in every tongue;

     And Viswamitra said, "It is enough,

     Let us to numbers.

                                "After me repeat

     Your numeration till we reach the Lakh,

     One, two, three, four, to ten, and then by tens

     To hundreds, thousands."  After him the child

     Named digits, decads, centuries; nor paused,

     The round Lakh reached, but softly murmured on

     "Then comes the koti, nahut, ninnahut,

     Khamba, viskhamba, abab, attata,

     To kumuds, gundhikas, and utpalas,

     By pundarikas unto padumas,

     Which last is how you count the utmost grains

     Of Hastagiri ground to finest dust;

     But beyond that a numeration is,

     The Katha, used to count the stars of night;

     The Koti-Katha, for the ocean drops;

     Ingga, the calculus of circulars;

     Sarvanikchepa, by the which you deal

     With all the sands of Gunga, till we come

     To Antah-Kalpas, where the unit is

     The sands of ten crore Gungas.  If one seeks

     More comprehensive scale, th' arithmic mounts

     By the Asankya, which is the tale

     Of all the drops that in ten thousand years

     Would fall on all the worlds by daily rain;

     Thence unto Maha Kalpas, by the which

     The Gods compute their future and their past."

          "'Tis good," the Sage rejoined, "Most noble Prince,

     If these thou know'st, needs it that I should teach

     The mensuration of the lineal?"

     Humbly the boy replied, "Acharya!"

     "Be pleased to hear me.  Paramanus ten

     A parasukshma make; ten of those build

     The trasarene, and seven trasarenes

     One mote's-length floating in the beam, seven motes

     The whisker-point of mouse, and ten of these

     One likhya; likhyas ten a yuka, ten

     Yukas a heart of barley, which is held

     Seven times a wasp-waist; so unto the grain

     Of mung and mustard and the barley-corn,

     Whereof ten give the finger joint, twelve joints

     The span, wherefrom we reach the cubit, staff,

     Bow-length, lance-length; while twenty lengths of lance

     Mete what is named a 'breath,' which is to say

     Such space as man may stride with lungs once filled,

     Whereof a gow is forty, four times that

     A yojana; and, Master! if it please,

     I shall recite how many sun-motes lie

     From end to end within a yojana."

     Thereat, with instant skill, the little Prince

     Pronounced the total of the atoms true.

     But Viswamitra heard it on his face

     Prostrate before the boy; "For thou," he cried,

     "Art Teacher of thy teachers—thou, not I,

     Art Guru.  Oh, I worship thee, sweet Prince!

     That comest to my school only to show

     Thou knowest all without the books, and know'st

     Fair reverence besides."

                                    Which reverence

     Lord Buddha kept to all his schoolmasters,

     Albeit beyond their learning taught; in speech

     Right gentle, yet so wise; princely of mien,

     Yet softly-mannered; modest, deferent,

     And tender-hearted, though of fearless blood;

     No bolder horseman in the youthful band

     E'er rode in gay chase of the shy gazelles;

     No keener driver of the chariot

     In mimic contest scoured the Palace-courts;

     Yet in mid-play the boy would ofttimes pause,

     Letting the deer pass free; would ofttimes yield

     His half-won race because the labouring 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 shade 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 Himala'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 wilful 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 Siddartha 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.

     Yet all so little knew the boy of pain

     That curiously into his wrist he pressed

     The arrow's barb, and winced to feel it sting,

     And turned with tears to soothe his bird again.

         Then some one came who said, "My Prince hath shot

     A swan, which fell among the roses here,

     He bids me pray you send it.  Will you send?"

     "Nay," quoth Siddartha, "if the bird were dead

     To send it to the slayer might be well,

     But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed

     The god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."

     And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing,

     Living or dead, is his who fetched it down;

     'T was no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 't is mine,

     Give me my prize, fair Cousin."  Then our Lord

     Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek

     And gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine,

     The first of myriad things which shall be mine

     By right of mercy and love's lordliness.

     For now I know, by what within me stirs,

     That I shall teach compassion unto men

     And be a speechless world's interpreter,

     Abating this accursed flood of woe,

     Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes,

     Let him submit this matter to the wise

     And we will wait their word."  So was it done;

     In full divan the business had debate,

     And many thought this thing and many that,

     Till there arose an unknown priest who said,

     "If life be aught, the saviour of a life

     Owns more the living thing than he can own

     Who sought to slay—the slayer spoils and wastes,

     The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"

     Which judgment all found just; but when the King

     Sought out the sage for honour, he was gone;

     And some one saw a hooded snake glide forth,—

     The gods come ofttimes thus!  So our Lord Buddh

     Began his works of mercy.

                                     Yet not more

     Knew he as yet of grief than that one bird's,

     Which, being healed, went joyous to its kind.

     But on another day the King said, "Come,

     Sweet son! and see the pleasaunce of the spring,

     And how the fruitful earth is wooed to yield

     Its riches to the reaper; how my realm—

     Which shall be thine when the pile flames for me—

     Feeds all its mouths and keeps the King's chest filled.

     Fair is the season with new leaves, bright blooms,

     Green grass, and cries of plough-time."  So they rode

     Into a lane of wells and gardens, where,

     All up and down the rich red loam, the steers

     Strained their strong shoulders in the creaking yoke

     Dragging the ploughs; the fat soil rose and rolled

     In smooth dark waves back from the plough; who drove

     Planted both feet upon the leaping share

     To make the furrow deep; among the palms

     The tinkle of the rippling water rang,

     And where it ran the glad earth 'broidered it

     With balsams and the spears of lemon-grass.

     Elsewhere were sowers who went forth to sow;

     And all the jungle laughed with nesting-songs,

     And all the thickets rustled with small life

     Of lizard, bee, beetle, and creeping things

     Pleased at the spring-time.  In the mango-sprays

     The sun-birds flashed; alone at his green forge

     Toiled the loud coppersmith; bee-eaters hawked

     Chasing the purple butterflies; beneath,

     Striped squirrels raced, the mynas perked and picked,

     The nine brown sisters chattered in the thorn,

     The pied fish-tiger hung above the pool,

     The egrets stalked among the buffaloes,

     The kites sailed circles in the golden air;

     About the painted temple peacocks flew,

     The blue doves cooed from every well, far off

     The village drums beat for some marriage-feast;

     All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince

     Saw and rejoiced.  But, looking deep, he saw

     The thorns which grow upon this rose of life

     How the sweat peasant sweated for his wage,

     Toiling for leave to live; and how he urged

     The great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours,

     Goading their velvet flanks: then marked he, too,

     How lizard fed on ant, and snake on him,

     And kite on both; and how the fish-hawk robbed

     The fish-tiger of that which it had seized;

     The shrike chasing the bulbul, which did chase

     The jewelled butterflies; till everywhere

     Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain,

     Life living upon death.  So the fair show

     Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy

     Of mutual murder, from the worm to man,

     Who himself kills his fellow; seeing which—

     The hungry ploughman and his labouring kine,

     Their dewlaps blistered with the bitter yoke,

     The rage to live which makes all living strife—

     The Prince Siddartha sighed.  "In this," he said,

     "That happy earth they brought me forth to see?

     How salt with sweat the peasant's bread!  how hard

     The oxen's service!  in the brake how fierce

     The war of weak and strong!  i' th' air what plots!

     No refuge e'en in water.  Go aside

     A space, and let me muse on what ye show."

     So saying, the good Lord Buddha seated him

     Under a jambu-tree, with ankles crossed—

     As holy statues sit—and first began

     To meditate this deep disease of life,

     What its far source and whence its remedy.

     So vast a pity filled him, such wide love

     For living things, such passion to heal pain,

     That by their stress his princely spirit passed

     To ecstasy, and, purged from mortal taint

     Of sense and self, the boy attained thereat

     Dhyana, first step of "the path."

                                         There flew

     High overhead that hour five holy ones,

     Whose free wings faltered as they passed the tree.

     "What power superior draws us from our flight?"

     They asked, for spirits feel all force divine,

     And know the sacred presence of the pure.

     Then, looking downward, they beheld the Buddh

     Crowned with a rose-hued aureole, intent

     On thoughts to save; while from the grove a voice

     Cried, "Rishis! this is He shall help the world,

     Descend and worship."  So the Bright Ones came

     And sang a song of praise, folding their wings,

     Then journeyed on, taking good news to Gods.

          But certain from the King seeking the Prince

     Found him still musing, though the noon was past,

     And the sun hastened to the western hills

     Yet, while all shadows moved, the jambu-tree's

     Stayed in one quarter, overspreading him,

     Lest the sloped rays should strike that sacred head;

     And he who saw this sight heard a voice say,

     Amid the blossoms of the rose-apple,

     "Let be the King's son!  till the shadow goes

     Forth from his heart my shadow will not shift."

Book The Second

     Now, when our Lord was come to eighteen years,

     The King commanded that there should be built

     Three stately houses, one of hewn square beams

     With cedar lining, warm for winter days;

     One of veined marbles, cool for summer heat;

     And one of burned bricks, with blue tiles bedecked,

     Pleasant at seed-time, when the champaks bud—

     Subha, Suramma, Ramma, were their names.

     Delicious gardens round about them bloomed,

     Streams wandered wild and musky thickets stretched,

     With many a bright pavilion and fair lawn

     In midst of which Siddartha strayed at will,

     Some new delight provided every hour;

     And happy hours he knew, for life was rich,

     With youthful blood at quickest; yet still came

     The shadows of his meditation back,

     As the lake's silver dulls with driving clouds.

          Which the King marking, called his Ministers:

     "Bethink ye, sirs I how the old Rishi spake,"

     He said, "and what my dream-readers foretold.

     This boy, more dear to me than mine heart's blood,

     Shall be of universal dominance,

     Trampling the neck of all his enemies,

     A King of kings—and this is in my heart;—

     Or he shall tread the sad and lowly path

     Of self-denial and of pious pains,

     Gaining who knows what good, when all is lost

     Worth keeping; and to this his wistful eyes

     Do still incline amid my palaces.

     But ye are sage, and ye will counsel me;

     How may his feet be turned to that proud road

     Where they should walk, and all fair signs come true

     Which gave him Earth to rule, if he would rule?"

          The eldest answered, "Maharaja!  love

     Will cure these thin distempers; weave the spell

     Of woman's wiles about his idle heart.

     What knows this noble boy of beauty yet,

     Eyes that make heaven forgot, and lips of balm?

     Find him soft wives and pretty playfellows;

     The thoughts ye cannot stay with brazen chains

     A girl's hair lightly binds."

                       And all thought good,

     But the King answered, "if we seek him wives,

     Love chooseth ofttimes with another eye;

     And if we bid range Beauty's garden round,

     To pluck what blossom pleases, he will smile

     And sweetly shun the joy he knows not of."

     Then said another, "Roams the barasingh

     Until the fated arrow flies; for him,

     As for less lordly spirits, some one charms,

     Some face will seem a Paradise, some form

     Fairer than pale Dawn when she wakes the world.

     This do, my King!  Command a festival

     Where the realm's maids shall be competitors

     In youth and grace, and sports that Sakyas use.

     Let the Prince give the prizes to the fair,

     And, when the lovely victors pass his seat,

     There shall be those who mark if one or two

     Change the fixed sadness of his tender cheek;

     So we may choose for Love with Love's own eyes,

     And cheat his Highness into happiness."

     This thing seemed good; wherefore upon a day

     The criers bade the young and beautiful

     Pass to the palace, for 't was in command

     To hold a court of pleasure, and the Prince

     Would give the prizes, something rich for all,

     The richest for the fairest judged.  So flocked

     Kapilavastu's maidens to the gate,

     Each with her dark hair newly smoothed and bound,

     Eyelashes lustred with the soorma-stick,

     Fresh-bathed and scented; all in shawls and cloths

     Of gayest; slender hands and feet new-stained

     With crimson, and the tilka-spots stamped bright.

     Fair show it was of all those Indian girls

     Slow-pacing past the throne with large black eyes

     Fixed on the ground, for when they saw the Prince

     More than the awe of Majesty made beat

     Their fluttering hearts, he sate so passionless,

     Gentle, but so beyond them.  Each maid took

     With down-dropped lids her gift, afraid to gaze;

     And if the people hailed some lovelier one

     Beyond her rivals worthy royal smiles,

     She stood like a scared antelope to touch

     The gracious hand, then fled to join her mates

     Trembling at favour, so divine he seemed,

     So high and saint-like and above her world.

     Thus filed they, one bright maid after another,

     The city's flowers, and all this beauteous march

     Was ending and the prizes spent, when last

     Came young Yasodhara, and they that stood

     Nearest Siddartha saw the princely boy

     Start, as the radiant girl approached.  A form

     Of heavenly mould; a gait like Parvati's; the

     Eyes like a hind's in love-time, face so fair

     Words cannot paint its spell; and she alone

     Gazed full-folding her palms across her breasts

     On the boy's gaze, her stately neck unbent.

     "Is there a gift for me?" she asked, and smiled.

     "The gifts are gone," the Prince replied, "yet take

     This for amends, dear sister, of whose grace

     Our happy city boasts;" therewith he loosed

     The emerald necklet from his throat, and clasped

     Its green beads round her dark and silk-soft waist;

     And their eyes mixed, and from the look sprang love.

          Long after—when enlightenment was full—

     Lord Buddha—being prayed why thus his heart

     Took fire at first glance of the Sakya girl,

     Answered, "We were not strangers, as to us

     And all it seemed; in ages long gone by

     A hunter's son, playing with forest girls

     By Yamun's spring, where Nandadevi stands,

     Sate umpire while they raced beneath the firs

     Like hares at eve that run their playful rings;

     One with flower-stars crowned he, one with long plumes

     Plucked from eyed pheasant and the junglecock,

     One with fir-apples; but who ran the last

     Came first for him, and unto her the boy

     Gave a tame fawn and his heart's love beside.

     And in the wood they lived many glad years,

     And in the wood they undivided died.

     Lo! as hid seed shoots after rainless years,

     So good and evil, pains and pleasures, hates

     And loves, and all dead deeds, come forth again

     Bearing bright leaves or dark, sweet fruit or sour.

     Thus I was he and she Yasodhara;

     And while the wheel of birth and death turns round,

     That which hath been must be between us two."

          But they who watched the Prince at prize-giving

     Saw and heard all, and told the careful King

     How sate Sidddrtha heedless till there passed

     Great Suprabuddha's child, Yasodhara;

     And how—at sudden sight of her—he changed,

     And how she gazed on him and he on her,

     And of the jewel-gift, and what beside

     Passed in their speaking glance.

          The fond King smiled:

     "Look! we have found a lure; take counsel now

     To fetch therewith our falcon from the clouds.

     Let messengers be sent to ask the maid

     In marriage for my son."  But it was law

     With Sakyas, when any asked a maid

     Of noble house, fair and desirable,

     He must make good his skill in martial arts

     Against all suitors who should challenge it;

     Nor might this custom break itself for kings.

     Therefore her father spake: "Say to the King,

     The child is sought by princes far and near;

     If thy most gentle son can bend the bow,

     Sway sword, and back a horse better than they,

     Best would he be in all and best to us

     But how shall this be, with his cloistered ways?"

     Then the King's heart was sore, for now the Prince

     Begged sweet Yasodhara for wife—in vain,

     With Devadatta foremost at the bow,

     Ardjuna master of all fiery steeds,

     And Nanda chief in sword-play; but the Prince

     Laughed low and said, "These things, too, I

          have learned;

     Make proclamation that thy son will meet

     All comers at their chosen games.  I think

     I shall not lose my love for such as these."

     So 't was given forth that on the seventh day

     The Prince Siddartha summoned whoso would

     To match with him in feats of manliness,

     The victor's crown to be Yasodhara.

          Therefore, upon the seventh day, there went

     The Sakya lords and town and country round

     Unto the maidan; and the maid went too

     Amid her kinsfolk, carried as a bride,

     With music, and with litters gaily dight,

     And gold-horned oxen, flower-caparisoned.

     Whom Devadatta claimed, of royal line,

     And Nanda and Ardjuna, noble both,

     The flower of all youths there, till the Prince came

     Riding his white horse Kantaka, which neighed,

     Astonished at this great strange world without

     Also Siddartha gazed with wondering eyes

     On all those people born beneath the throne,

     Otherwise housed than kings, otherwise fed,

     And yet so like—perchance—in joys and griefs.

     But when the Prince saw sweet Yasodhara,

     Brightly he smiled, and drew his silken rein,

     Leaped to the earth from Kantaka's broad back,

     And cried, "He is not worthy of this pearl

     Who is not worthiest; let my rivals prove

     If I have dared too much in seeking her."

     Then Nanda challenged for the arrow-test

     And set a brazen drum six gows away,

     Ardjuna six and Devadatta eight;

     But Prince Siddartha bade them set his drum

     Ten gows from off the line, until it seemed

     A cowry-shell for target.  Then they loosed,

     And Nanda pierced his drum, Ardjuna his,

     And Devadatta drove a well-aimed shaft

     Through both sides of his mark, so that the crowd

     Marvelled and cried; and sweet Yasodhara

     Dropped the gold sari o'er her fearful eyes,

     Lest she should see her Prince's arrow fail.

     But he, taking their bow of lacquered cane,

     With sinews bound, and strung with silver wire,

     Which none but stalwart arms could draw a span,

     Thrummed it—low laughing—drew the twisted string

     Till the horns kissed, and the thick belly snapped

     "That is for play, not love," he said; "hath none

     A bow more fit for Sakya lords to use?"

     And one said, "There is Sinhahanu's bow,

     Kept in the temple since we know not when,

     Which none can string, nor draw if it be strung."

     "Fetch me," he cried, "that weapon of a man!"

     They brought the ancient bow, wrought of black steel,

     Laid with gold tendrils on its branching curves

     Like bison-horns; and twice Siddartha tried

     Its strength across his knee, then spake "Shoot now

     With this, my cousins!" but they could not bring

     The stubborn arms a hand's-breadth nigher use;

     Then the Prince, lightly leaning, bent the bow,

     Slipped home the eye upon the notch, and twanged

     Sharply the cord, which, like an eagle's wing

     Thrilling the air, sang forth so clear and loud

     That feeble folk at home that day inquired

     "What is this sound?" and people answered them,

     "It is the sound of Sinhahanu's bow,

     Which the King's son has strung and goes to shoot;"

     Then fitting fair a shaft, he drew and loosed,

     And the keen arrow clove the sky, and drave

     Right through that farthest drum, nor stayed its flight,

     But skimmed the plain beyond, past reach of eye.

          Then Devadatta challenged with the sword,

     And clove a Talas-tree six fingers thick;

     Ardjuna seven; and Nanda cut through nine;

     But two such stems together grew, and both

     Siddartha's blade shred at one flashing stroke,

     Keen, but so smooth that the straight trunks upstood,

     And Nanda cried, "His edge turned!" and the maid

     Trembled anew seeing the trees erect,

     Until the Devas of the air, who watched,

     Blew light breaths from the south, and both green crowns

     Crashed in the sand, clean-felled.

                         Then brought they steeds,

     High-mettled, nobly-bred, and three times scoured

     Around the maidan, but white Kantaka

     Left even the fleetest far behind—so swift,

     That ere the foam fell from his mouth to earth

     Twenty spear-lengths he flew; but Nanda said,

     "We too might win with such as Kantaka;

     Bring an unbroken horse, and let men see

     Who best can back him."  So the syces brought

     A stallion dark as night, led by three chains,

     Fierce-eyed, with nostrils wide and tossing mane,

     Unshod, unsaddled, for no rider yet

     Had crossed him.  Three times each young Sakya

     Sprang to his mighty back, but the hot steed

     Furiously reared, and flung them to the plain

     In dust and shame; only Ardjuna held

     His seat awhile, and, bidding loose the chains,

     Lashed the black flank, and shook the bit, and held

     The proud jaws fast with grasp of master-hand,

     So that in storms of wrath and rage and fear

     The savage stallion circled once the plain

     Half-tamed; but sudden turned with naked teeth,

     Gripped by the foot Ardjuna, tore him down,

     And would have slain him, but the grooms ran in,

     Fettering the maddened beast.  Then all men cried,

     "Let not Siddartha meddle with this Bhut,

     Whose liver is a tempest, and his blood

     Red flame;"  but the Prince said, "Let go the chains,

     Give me his forelock only," which he held

     With quiet grasp, and, speaking some low word,

     Laid his right palm across the stallion's eyes,

     And drew it gently down the angry face,

     And all along the neck and panting flanks,

     Till men astonished saw the night-black horse

     Sink his fierce crest and stand subdued and meek,

     As though he knew our Lord and worshipped him.

     Nor stirred he while Siddartha mounted, then

     Went soberly to touch of knee and rein

     Before all eyes, so that the people said,

     "Strive no more, for Siddartha is the best."

          And all the suitors answered "He is best!"

     And Suprabuddha, father of the maid,

     Said, "It was in our hearts to find thee best,

     Being dearest, yet what magic taught thee more

     Of manhood 'mid thy rose-bowers and thy dreams

     Than war and chase and world's work bring to these?

     But wear, fair Prince, the treasure thou halt won."

     Then at a word the lovely Indian girl

     Rose from her place above the throng, and took

     A crown of mogra-flowers and lightly drew

     The veil of black and gold across her brow,

     Proud pacing past the youths, until she came

     To where Siddartha stood in grace divine,

     New lighted from the night-dark steed, which bent

     Its strong neck meekly underneath his arm.

     Before the Prince lowly she bowed, and bared

     Her face celestial beaming with glad love;

     Then on his neck she hung the fragrant wreath,

     And on his breast she laid her perfect head,

     And stooped to touch his feet with proud glad eyes,

     Saying, "Dear Prince, behold me, who am thine!"

     And all the throng rejoiced, seeing them pass

     Hand fast in hand, and heart beating with heart,

     The veil of black and gold drawn close again.

          Long after—when enlightenment was come—

     They prayed Lord Buddha touching all, and why

     She wore this black and gold, and stepped so proud.

     And the World-honoured answered, "Unto me

     This was unknown, albeit it seemed half known;

     For while the wheel of birth and death turns round,

     Past things and thoughts, and buried lives come back.

     I now remember, myriad rains ago,

     What time I roamed Himala's hanging woods,

     A tiger, with my striped and hungry kind;

     I, who am Buddh, couched in the kusa grass

     Gazing with green blinked eyes upon the herds

     Which pastured near and nearer to their death

     Round my day-lair; or underneath the stars

     I roamed for prey, savage, insatiable,

     Sniffing the paths for track of man and deer.

     Amid the beasts that were my fellows then,

     Met in deep jungle or by reedy jheel,

     A tigress, comeliest of the forest, set

     The males at war; her hide was lit with gold,

     Black-broidered like the veil Yasodhara

     Wore for me; hot the strife waged in that wood

     With tooth and claw, while underneath a neem

     The fair beast watched us bleed, thus fiercely wooed.

     And I remember, at the end she came

     Snarling past this and that torn forest-lord

     Which I had conquered, and with fawning jaws

     Licked my quick-heaving flank, and with me went

     Into the wild with proud steps, amorously.

     The wheel of birth and death turns low and high."

          Therefore the maid was given unto the Prince

     A willing spoil; and when the stars were good—

     Mesha, the Red Ram, being Lord of heaven—

     The marriage feast was kept, as Sakyas use,

     The golden gadi set, the carpet spread,

     The wedding garlands hung, the arm-threads tied,

     The sweet cake broke, the rice and attar thrown,

     The two straws floated on the reddened milk,

     Which, coming close, betokened "love till death;"

     The seven steps taken thrice around the fire,

     The gifts bestowed on holy men, the alms

     And temple offerings made, the mantras sung,

     The garments of the bride and bridegroom tied.

     Then the grey father spake: "Worshipful Prince,

     She that was ours henceforth is only thine;

     Be good to her, who hath her life in thee."

     Wherewith they brought home sweet Yasodhara,

     With songs and trumpets, to the Prince's arms,

     And love was all in all.

                            Yet not to love

     Alone trusted the King; love's prison-house

     Stately and beautiful he bade them build,

     So that in all the earth no marvel was

     Like Vishramvan, the Prince's pleasure-place.

     Midway in those wide palace-grounds there rose

     A verdant hill whose base Rohini bathed,

     Murmuring adown from Himalay's broad feet,

     To bear its tribute into Gunga's waves.

     Southward a growth of tamarind trees and sal,

     Thick set with pale sky-coloured ganthi flowers,

     Shut out the world, save if the city's hum

     Came on the wind no harsher than when bees

     Hum out of sight in thickets.  Northward soared

     The stainless ramps of huge Hamala's wall,

     Ranged in white ranks against the blue-untrod

     Infinite, wonderful—whose uplands vast,

     And lifted universe of crest and crag,

     Shoulder and shelf, green slope and icy horn,

     Riven ravine, and splintered precipice

     Led climbing thought higher and higher, until

     It seemed to stand in heaven and speak with gods.

     Beneath the snows dark forests spread, sharp laced

     With leaping cataracts and veiled with clouds

     Lower grew rose-oaks and the great fir groves

     Where echoed pheasant's call and panther's cry

     Clatter of wild sheep on the stones, and scream

     Of circling eagles: under these the plain

     Gleamed like a praying-carpet at the foot

     Of those divinest altars.  'Fronting this

     The builders set the bright pavilion up,

     'Fair-planted on the terraced hill, with towers

     On either flank and pillared cloisters round.

     Its beams were carved with stories of old time—

     Radha and Krishna and the sylvan girls—

     Sita and Hanuman and Draupadi;

     And on the middle porch God Ganesha,

     With disc and hook—to bring wisdom and wealth—

     Propitious sate, wreathing his sidelong trunk.

     By winding ways of garden and of court

     The inner gate was reached, of marble wrought,

     White with pink veins; the lintel lazuli,

     The threshold alabaster, and the doors

     Sandalwood, cut in pictured panelling;

     Whereby to lofty halls and shadowy bowers

     Passed the delighted foot, on stately stairs,

     Through latticed galleries, 'neath painted roofs

     And clustering columns, where cool fountains—fringed

     With lotus and nelumbo—danced, and fish

     Gleamed through their crystal, scarlet, gold, and blue.

     Great-eyed gazelles in sunny alcoves browsed

     The blown red roses; birds of rainbow wing

     Fluttered among the palms; doves, green and grey,

     Built their safe nests on gilded cornices;

     Over the shining pavements peacocks drew

     The splendours of their trains, sedately watched

     By milk-white herons and the small house-owls.

     The plum-necked parrots swung from fruit to fruit;

     The yellow sunbirds whirred from bloom to bloom,

     The timid lizards on the lattice basked

     Fearless, the squirrels ran to feed from hand,

     For all was peace: the shy black snake, that gives

     Fortune to households, sunned his sleepy coils

     Under the moon-flowers, where the musk-deer played,

     And brown-eyed monkeys chattered to the crows.

     And all this house of love was peopled fair

     With sweet attendance, so that in each part

     With lovely sights were gentle faces found,

     Soft speech and willing service, each one glad

     To gladden, pleased at pleasure, proud to obey;

     Till life glided beguiled, like a smooth stream

     Banked by perpetual flowers, Yasodhara

     Queen of the enchanting Court.

                                But innermost,

     Beyond the richness of those hundred halls,

     A secret chamber lurked, where skill had spent

     All lovely fantasies to lull the mind.

     The entrance of it was a cloistered square—

     Roofed by the sky, and in the midst a tank—

     Of milky marble built, and laid with slabs

     Of milk-white marble; bordered round the tank

     And on the steps, and all along the frieze

     With tender inlaid work of agate-stones.

     Cool as to tread in summer-time on snows

     It was to loiter there; the sunbeams dropped

     Their gold, and, passing into porch and niche,

     Softened to shadows, silvery, pale, and dim,

     As if the very Day paused and grew Eve.

     In love and silence at that bower's gate;

     For there beyond the gate the chamber was,

     Beautiful, sweet; a wonder of the world!

     Soft light from perfumed lamps through windows fell

     Of nakre and stained stars of lucent film

     On golden cloths outspread, and silken beds,

     And heavy splendour of the purdah's fringe,

     Lifted to take only the loveliest in.

     Here, whether it was night or day none knew,

     For always streamed that softened light, more bright

     Than sunrise, but as tender as the eve's;

     And always breathed sweet airs, more joy-giving

     Than morning's, but as cool as midnight's breath;

     And night and day lutes sighed, and night and day

     Delicious foods were spread, and dewy fruits,

     Sherbets new chilled with snows of Himalay,

     And sweetmeats made of subtle daintiness,

     With sweet tree-milk in its own ivory cup.

     And night and day served there a chosen band

     Of nautch girls, cup-bearers, and cymballers,

     Delicate, dark-browed ministers of love,

     Who fanned the sleeping eyes of the happy Prince,

     And when he waked, led back his thoughts to bliss

     With music whispering through the blooms, and charm

     Of amorous songs and dreamy dances, linked

     By chime of ankle-bells and wave of arms

     And silver vina-strings; while essences

     Of musk and champak and the blue haze spread

     From burning spices soothed his soul again

     To drowse by sweet Yasodhara; and thus

     Siddartha lived forgetting.

                               Furthermore,

     The King commanded that within those walls

     No mention should be made of death or age,

     Sorrow, or pain, or sickness.  If one drooped

     In the lovely Court—her dark glance dim, her feet

     Faint in the dance—the guiltless criminal

     Passed forth an exile from that Paradise,

     Lest he should see and suffer at her woe.

     Bright-eyed intendants watched to execute

     Sentence on such as spake of the harsh world

     Without, where aches and plagues were, tears

          and fears,

     And wail of mourners, and grim fume of pyres.

     `T was treason if a thread of silver strayed

     In tress of singing-girl or nautch-dancer;

     And every dawn the dying rose was plucked,

     The dead leaves hid, all evil sights removed

     For said the King, "If he shall pass his youth

     Far from such things as move to wistfulness,

     And brooding on the empty eggs of thought,

     The shadow of this fate, too vast for man,

     May fade, belike, and I shall see him grow

     To that great stature of fair sovereignty

     When he shall rule all lands—if he will rule—

     The King of kings and glory of his time."

          Wherefore, around that pleasant prison house

     Where love was gaoler and delights its bars,

     But far removed from sight—the King bade build

     A massive wall, and in the wall a gate

     With brazen folding-doors, which but to roll

     Back on their hinges asked a hundred arms;

     Also the noise of that prodigious gate

     Opening was heard full half a yojana.

     And inside this another gate he made,

     And yet within another—through the three

     Must one pass if he quit that pleasure-house.

     Three mighty gates there were, bolted and barred,

     And over each was set a faithful watch;

     And the King's order said, "Suffer no man

     To pass the gates, though he should be the Prince

     This on your lives—even though it be my son."

Book The Third

     In which calm home of happy life and love

     Ligged our Lord Buddha, knowing not of woe,

     Nor want, nor pain, nor plague, nor age, nor death,

     Save as when sleepers roam dim seas in dreams,

     And land awearied on the shores of day,

     Bringing strange merchandise from that black voyage.

     Thus ofttimes when he lay with gentle head

     Lulled on the dark breasts of Yasodhara,

     Her fond hands fanning slow his sleeping lids,

     He would start up and cry, "My world!  Oh, world!

     I hear!  I know!  I come!"  And she would ask,

     "What ails my Lord?" with large eyes terrorstruck;

     For at such times the pity in his look

     Was awful, and his visage like a god's.

     Then would he smile again to stay her tears,

     And bid the vinas sound; but once they set

     A stringed gourd on the sill, there where the wind

     Could linger o'er its notes and play at will—

     Wild music makes the wind on silver strings—

     And those who lay around heard only that;

     But Prince Siddartha heard the Devas play,

     And to his ears they sang such words as these:—

     We are the voices of the wandering wind,

     Which moan for rest and rest can never find;

     Lo! as the wind is so is mortal life,

     A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.

     Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know,

     Nor where life springs nor whither life doth go;

     We are as ye are, ghosts from the inane,

     What pleasure have we of our changeful pain?

     What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss?

     Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this;

     But life's way is the wind's way, all these things

     Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.

     O Maya's son!  because we roam the earth

     Moan we upon these strings; we make no mirth,

     So many woes we see in many lands,

     So many streaming eyes and wringing hands.

     Yet mock we while we wail, for, could they know,

     This life they cling to is but empty show;

     'Twere all as well to bid a cloud to stand,

     Or hold a running river with the hand.

     But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh!

     The sad world waileth in its misery,

     The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain;

     Rise, Maya's child! wake! slumber not again!

     We are the voices of the wandering wind

     Wander thou, too, O Prince, thy rest to find;

     Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sake

     Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make.

     So sigh we, passing o'er the silver strings,

     To thee who know'st not yet of earthly things;

     So say we; mocking, as we pass away,

     These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play.

          Thereafter it befell he sate at eve

     Amid his beauteous Court, holding the hand

     Of sweet Yasodhara, and some maid told—

     With breaks of music when her rich voice dropped—

     An ancient tale to speed the hour of dusk,

     Of love, and of a magic horse, and lands

     Wonderful, distant, where pale peoples dwelled

     And where the sun at night sank into seas.

     Then spake he, sighing, "Chitra brings me back.

     The wind's song in the strings with that fair tale.

     Give her, Yasodhara, thy pearl for thanks.

     But thou, my pearl! is there so wide a world?

     Is there a land which sees the great sun roll

     Into the waves, and are there hearts like ours,

     Countless, unknown, not happy—it may be—

     Whom we might succour if we knew of them?

     Ofttimes I marvel, as the Lord of day

     Treads from the east his kingly road of gold,

     Who first on the world's edge hath hailed his beam,

     The children of the morning; oftentimes,

     Even in thine arms and on thy breasts, bright wife,

     Sore have I panted, at the sun's decline,

     To pass with him into that crimson west

     And see the peoples of the evening.

     There must be many we should love—how else?

     Now have I in this hour an ache, at last,

     Thy soft lips cannot kiss away: oh, girl!

     O Chitra! you that know of fairyland!

     Where tether they that swift steed of the tale?

     My palace for one day upon his back,

     To ride and ride and see the spread of the earth!

     Nay, if I had yon callow vulture's plumes—

     The carrion heir of wider realms than mine—

     How would I stretch for topmost Himalay,

     Light where the rose-gleam lingers on those snows,

     And strain my gaze with searching what is round!

     Why have I never seen and never sought?

     Tell me what lies beyond our brazen gates."

          Then one replied, "The city first, fair Prince!

     The temples, and the gardens, and the groves,

     And then the fields, and afterwards fresh fields,

     With nullahs, maidans, jungle, koss on koss;

     And next King Bimbasara's realm, and then

     The vast flat world, with crores on crores of folk."

     "Good," said Siddartha, "let the word be sent

     That Channa yoke my chariot—at noon

     Tomorrow I shall ride and see beyond."

          Whereof they told the King: "Our Lord, thy son,

     Wills that his chariot be yoked at noon,

     That he may ride abroad and see mankind."

          "Yea!" spake the careful King, "'tis time he see!

     But let the criers go about and bid

     My city deck itself, so there be met

     No noisome sight; and let none blind or maimed,

     None that is sick or stricken deep in years,

     No leper, and no feeble folk come forth."

     Therefore the stones were swept, and up and down

     The water-carriers sprinkled all the streets

     From spirting skins, the housewives scattered fresh

     Red powder on their thresholds, strung new wreaths,

     And trimmed the tulsi-bush before their doors.

     The paintings on the walls were heightened up

     With liberal brush, the trees set thick with flags,

     The idols gilded; in the four-went ways

     Suryadeva and the great gods shone

     'Mid shrines of leaves; so that the city seemed

     A capital of some enchanted land.

     Also the criers passed, with drum and gong,

     Proclaiming loudly, "Ho! all citizens,

     The King commands that there be seen today

     No evil sight: let no one blind or maimed,

     None that is sick or stricken deep in years,

     No leper, and no feeble folk go forth.

     Let none, too, burn his dead nor bring them out

     Till nightfall.  Thus Suddhodana commands."

          So all was comely and the houses trim

     Throughout Kapilavastu, while the Prince

     Came forth in painted car, which two steers drew,

     Snow-white, with swinging dewlaps and huge humps

     Wrinkled against the carved and lacquered yoke.

     Goodly it was to mark the people's joy

     Greeting their Prince; and glad.  Siddartha waxed

     At sight of all those liege and friendly folk

     Bright-clad and laughing as if life were good.

     "Fair is the world," he said, "it likes me well!

     And light and kind these men that are not kings,

     And sweet my sisters here, who toil and tend;

     What have I done for these to make them thus?

     Why, if I love them, should those children know?

     I pray take up yon pretty Sakya boy

     Who flung us flowers, and let him ride with me.

     How good it is to reign in realms like this!

     How simple pleasure is, if these be pleased

     Because I come abroad!  How many things

     I need not if such little households hold

     Enough to make our city full of smiles!

     Drive, Channa! through the gates, and let me see

     More of this gracious world I have not known."

          So passed they through the gates, a joyous crowd

     Thronging about the wheels, whereof some ran

     Before the oxen, throwing wreaths, some stroked

     Their silken flanks, some brought them rice and cakes,

     All crying, "Jai! jai! for our noble Prince!"

     Thus all the path was kept with gladsome looks

     And filled with fair sights—for the King's word was

     That such should be—when midway in the road,

     Slow tottering from the hovel where he hid,

     Crept forth a wretch in rags, haggard and foul,

     An old, old man, whose shrivelled skin, suntanned,

     Clung like a beast's hide to his fleshless bones.

     Bent was his back with load of many days,

     His eyepits red with rust of ancient tears,

     His dim orbs blear with rheum, his toothless jaws

     Wagging with palsy and the fright to see

     So many and such joy.  One skinny hand

     Clutched a worn staff to prop his quavering limbs,

     And one was pressed upon the ridge of ribs

     Whence came in gasps the heavy painful breath.

     "Alms!" moaned he, "give, good people! for I die

     Tomorrow or the next day!" then the cough

     Choked him, but still he stretched his palm, and stood

     Blinking, and groaning 'mid his spasms, "Alms!"

     Then those around had wrenched his feeble feet

     Aside, and thrust him from the road again,

     Saying, "The Prince! dost see? get to thy lair!"

     But that Siddartha cried, "Let be! let be!

     Channa! what thing is this who seems a man,

     Yet surely only seems, being so bowed,

     So miserable, so horrible, so sad?

     Are men born sometimes thus?  What meaneth he

     Moaning 'tomorrow or next day I die?'

     Finds he no food that so his bones jut forth?

     What woe hath happened to this piteous one?"

     Then answer made the charioteer, "Sweet Prince!

     This is no other than an aged man.

     Some fourscore years ago his back was straight,

     His eye bright, and his body goodly: now

     The thievish years have sucked his sap away,

     Pillaged his strength and filched his will and wit;

     His lamp has lost its oil, the wick burns black;

     What life he keeps is one poor lingering spark

     Which flickers for the finish: such is age;

     Why should your Highness heed?"

     Then spake the Prince

     "But shall this come to others, or to all,

     Or is it rare that one should be as he?"

     "Most noble," answered Channa, "even as he,

     Will all these grow if they shall live so long."

     "But," quoth the Prince, "if I shall live as long

     Shall I be thus; and if Yasodhara

     Live fourscore years, is this old age for her,

     Jalini, little Hasta, Gautami,

     And Gunga, and the others?"  "Yea, great Sir!"

     The charioteer replied.  Then spake the Prince

     "Turn back, and drive me to my house again!

     I have seen that I did not think to see."

          Which pondering, to his beauteous Court returned

     Wistful Siddartha, sad of mien and mood;

     Nor tasted he the white cakes nor the fruits

     Spread for the evening feast, nor once looked up

     While the best palace-dancers strove to charm

     Nor spake—save one sad thing—when wofully

     Yasodhara sank to his feet and wept,

     Sighing, "Hath not my Lord comfort in me?"

     "Ah, Sweet!" he said, "such comfort that my soul

     Aches, thinking it must end, for it will end,

     And we shall both grow old, Yasodhara!

     Loveless, unlovely, weak, and old, and bowed.

     Nay, though we locked up love and life with lips

     So close that night and day our breaths grew one

     Time would thrust in between to filch away

     My passion and thy grace, as black Night steals

     The rose-gleams from you peak, which fade to grey

     And are not seen to fade.  This have I found,

     And all my heart is darkened with its dread,

     And all my heart is fixed to think how Love

     Might save its sweetness from the slayer, Time,

     Who makes men old."  So through that night he sate

     Sleepless, uncomforted.

                         And all that night

     The King Suddhodana dreamed troublous dreams.

     The first fear of his vision was a flag

     Broad, glorious, glistening with a golden sun,

     The mark of Indra; but a strong wind blew,

     Rending its folds divine, and dashing it

     Into the dust; whereat a concourse came

     Of shadowy Ones, who took the spoiled silk up

     And bore it eastward from the city gates.

     The second fear was ten huge elephants,

     With silver tusks and feet that shook the earth,

     Trampling the southern road in mighty march;

     And he who sate upon the foremost beast

     Was the King's son—the others followed him.

     The third fear of the vision was a car,

     Shining with blinding light, which four steeds drew,

     Snorting white smoke and champing fiery foam;

     And in the car the Prince Siddhartha sate.

     The fourth fear was a wheel which turned and turned,

     With nave of burning gold and jewelled spokes,

     And strange things written on the binding tire,

     Which seemed both fire and music as it whirled.

     The fifth fear was a mighty drum, set down

     Midway between the city and the hills,

     On which the Prince beat with an iron mace,

     So that the sound pealed like a thunderstorm,

     Rolling around the sky and far away.

     The sixth fear was a tower, which rose and rose

     High o'er the city till its stately head

     Shone crowned with clouds, and on the top the Prince

     Stood, scattering from both hands, this way and that,

     Gems of most lovely light, as if it rained

     Jacynths and rubies; and the whole world came,

     Striving to seize those treasures as they fell

     Towards the four quarters.  But the seventh fear was

     A noise of wailing, and behold six men

     Who wept and gnashed their teeth, and laid their palms

     Upon their mouths, walking disconsolate.

          These seven fears made the vision of his sleep,

     But none of all his wisest dream-readers

     Could tell their meaning.  Then the King was wroth,

     Saying, "There cometh evil to my house,

     And none of ye have wit to help me know

     What the great gods portend sending me this."

     So in the city men went sorrowful

     Because the King had dreamed seven signs of fear

     Which none could read; but to the gate there came

     An aged man, in robe of deer-skin clad,

     By guise a hermit, known to none; he cried,

     "Bring me before the King, for I can read

     The vision of his sleep"; who, when he heard

     The sevenfold mysteries of the midnight dream,

     Bowed reverent and said: "O Maharaj!

     I hail this favoured House, whence shall arise

     A wider-reaching splendour than the sun's!

     Lo! all these seven fears are seven joys,

     Whereof the first, where thou didst see a flag—

     Broad, glorious, gilt with Indra's badge—cast down

     And carried out, did signify the end

     Of old faiths and beginning of the new,

     For there is change with gods not less than men,

     And as the days pass kalpas pass at length.

     The ten great elephants that shook the earth

     The ten great gifts of wisdom signify,

     In strength whereof the Prince shall quit his state

     And shake the world with passage of the Truth.

     The four flame-breathing horses of the car

     Are those four fearless virtues which shall bring

     Thy son from doubt and gloom to gladsome light;

     The wheel that turned with nave of burning gold

     Was that most precious Wheel of perfect Law

     Which he shall turn in sight of all the world.

     The mighty drum whereon the Prince did beat,

     Till the sound filled all lands, doth signify

     The thunder of the preaching of the Word

     Which he shall preach; the tower that grew to heaven

     The growing of the Gospel of this Buddh

     Sets forth; and those rare jewels scattered thence

     The untold treasures are of that good Law

     To gods and men dear and desirable.

     Such is the interpretation of the tower;

     But for those six men weeping with shut mouths,

     They are the six chief teachers whom thy son

     Shall, with bright truth and speech unanswerable,

     Convince of foolishness.  O King! rejoice;

     The fortune of my Lord the Prince is more

     Than kingdoms, and his hermit-rags will be

     Beyond fine cloths of gold.  This was thy dream!

     And in seven nights and days these things shall fall."

     So spake the holy man, and lowly made

     The eight prostrations, touching thrice the ground;

     Then turned and passed; but when the King bade send

          A rich gift after him, the messengers

     Brought word, "We came to where he entered in

     At Chandra's temple, but within was none

     Save a grey owl which fluttered from the shrine."

     The gods come sometimes thus.

                            But the sad King

     Marvelled, and gave command that new delights

     Be compassed to enthrall Siddartha's heart

     Amid those dancers of his pleasure-house,

     Also he set at all the brazen doors

     A doubled guard.

                    Yet who shall shut out Fate?

          For once again the spirit of the Prince

     Was moved to see this world beyond his gates,

     This life of man, so pleasant if its waves

     Ran not to waste and woful finishing

     In Time's dry sands.  "I pray you let me view

     Our city as it is," such was his prayer

     To King Suddhodana.  "Your Majesty

     In tender heed hath warned the folk before

     To put away ill things and common sights,

     And make their faces glad to gladden me,

     And all the causeways gay; yet have I learned

     This is not daily life, and if I stand

     Nearest, my father, to the realm and thee,

     Fain would I know the people and the streets,

     Their simple usual ways, and workday deeds,

     And lives which those men live who are not kings.

     Give me good leave, dear Lord, to pass unknown

     Beyond my happy gardens; I shall come

     The more contented to their peace again,

     Or wiser, father, if not well content.

     Therefore, I pray thee, let me go at will

     Tomorrow, with my servants, through the streets."

     And the King said, among his Ministers

     "Belike this second flight may mend the first.

     Note how the falcon starts at every sight

     New from his hood, but what a quiet eye

     Cometh of freedom; let my son see all,

     And bid them bring me tidings of his mind."

          Thus on the morrow, when the noon was come,

     The Prince and Channa passed beyond the gates,

     Which opened to the signet of the King,

     Yet knew not they who rolled the great doors back

     It was the King's son in that merchant's robe,

     And in the clerkly dress his charioteer.

     Forth fared they by the common way afoot,

     Mingling with all the Sakya citizens,

     Seeing the glad and sad things of the town:

     The painted streets alive with hum of noon,

     The traders cross-legged 'mid their spice and grain,

     The buyers with their money in the cloth,

     The war of words to cheapen this or that,

     The shout to clear the road, the huge stone wheels,

     The strong slow oxen and their rustling loads,

     The singing bearers with the palanquins,

     The broad-necked hamals sweating in the sun,

     The housewives bearing water from the well

     With balanced chatties, and athwart their hips

     The black-eyed babes; the fly-swarmed sweetmeat shops,

     The weaver at his loom, the cotton-bow

     Twangling, the millstones grinding meal, the dogs

     Prowling for orts, the skilful armourer

     With tong and hammer linking shirts of mail,

     The blacksmith with a mattock and a spear

     Reddening together in his coals, the school

     Where round their Guru, in a grave half-moon,

     The Sakya children sang the mantra through,

     And learned the greater and the lesser gods;

     The dyers stretching waistcloths in the sun

     Wet from the vats—orange, and rose, and green;

     The soldiers clanking past with swords and shields,

     The camel-drivers rocking on the humps,

     The Brahman proud, the martial Kshatriya,

     The humble toiling Sudra; here a throng

     Gathered to watch some chattering snake-tamer

     Wind round his wrist the living jewellery

     Of asp and nag, or charm the hooded death

     To angry dance with drone of beaded gourd;

     There a long line of drums and horns, which went,

     With steeds gay painted and silk canopies,

     To bring the young bride home; and here a wife

     Stealing with cakes and garlands to the god

     To pray her husband's safe return from trade,

     Or beg a boy next birth; hard by the booths

     Where the sweat potters beat the noisy brass

     For lamps and lotas; thence, by temple walls

     And gateways, to the river and the bridge

     Under the city walls.

                                These had they passed

     When from the roadside moaned a mournful voice,

     "Help, masters! lift me to my feet; oh, help!

     Or I shall die before I reach my house!"

     A stricken wretch it was, whose quivering frame,

     Caught by some deadly plague, lay in the dust

     Writhing, with fiery purple blotches specked;

     The chill sweat beaded on his brow, his mouth

     Was dragged awry with twichings of sore pain,

     The wild eyes swam with inward agony.

     Gasping, he clutched the grass to rise, and rose

     Half-way, then sank, with quaking feeble limbs

     And scream of terror, crying, "Ah, the pain!

     Good people, help!" whereon Siddartha ran,

     Lifted the woful man with tender hands,

     With sweet looks laid the sick head on his knee,

     And while his soft touch comforted the wretch,

     Asked: "Brother, what is ill with thee? what harm

     Hath fallen? wherefore canst thou not arise?

     Why is it, Channa, that he pants and moans,

     And gasps to speak and sighs so pitiful?"

     Then spake the charioteer: "Great Prince! this man

     Is smitten with some pest; his elements

     Are all confounded; in his veins the blood,

     Which ran a wholesome river, leaps and boils

     A fiery flood; his heart, which kept good time,

     Beats like an ill-played drum-skin, quick and slow;

     His sinews slacken like a bow-string slipped;

     The strength is gone from ham, and loin, and neck,

     And all the grace and joy of manhood fled;

     This is a sick man with the fit upon him.

     See how be plucks and plucks to seize his grief,

     And rolls his bloodshot orbs and grinds his teeth,

     And draws his breath as if 'twere choking smoke.

     Lo! now he would be dead, but shall not die

     Until the plague hath had its work in him,

     Killing the nerves which die before the life;

     Then, when his strings have cracked with agony

     And all his bones are empty of the sense

     To ache, the plague will quit and light elsewhere.

     Oh, sir! it is not good to hold him so!

     The harm may pass, and strike thee, even thee."

     But spake the Prince, still comforting the man,

     "And are there others, are there many thus?

     Or might it be to me as now with him?"

     "Great Lord!" answered the charioteer, "this comes

     In many forms to all men; griefs and wounds,

     Sickness and tetters, palsies, leprosies,

     Hot fevers, watery wastings, issues, blains

     Befall all flesh and enter everywhere."

     "Come such ills unobserved?" the Prince inquired.

     And Channa said: "Like the sly snake they come

     That stings unseen; like the striped murderer,

     Who waits to spring from the Karunda bush,

     Hiding beside the jungle path; or like

     The lightning, striking these and sparing those,

     As chance may send."

                        "Then all men live in fear?"

     "So live they, Prince!"

                      "And none can say, `I sleep

     Happy and whole tonight, and so shall wake'?"

     "None say it."

     "And the end of many aches,

     Which come unseen, and will come when they come,

     Is this, a broken body and sad mind,

     And so old age?"

                        "Yea, if men last as long."

     "But if they cannot bear their agonies,

     Or if they will not bear, and seek a term;

     Or if they bear, and be, as this man is,

     Too weak except for groans, and so still live,

     And growing old, grow older, then what end?"

     "They die, Prince."

                      "Die?"

             "Yea, at the last comes death,

     In whatsoever way, whatever hour.

     Some few grow old, most suffer and fall sick,

     But all must die—behold, where comes the Dead!"

     Then did Siddartha raise his eyes, and see

     Fast pacing towards the river brink a band

     Of wailing people, foremost one who swung

     An earthen bowl with lighted coals, behind

     The kinsmen shorn, with mourning marks, ungirt,

     Crying aloud, "O Rama, Rama, hear!

     Call upon Rama, brothers"; next the bier,

     Knit of four poles with bamboos interlaced,

     Whereon lay, stark and stiff, feet foremost, lean,

     Chapfallen, sightless, hollow-flanked, a-grin,

     Sprinkled with red and yellow dust—the Dead,

     Whom at the four-went ways they turned head first,

     And crying "Rama, Rama!" carried on

     To where a pile was reared beside the stream;

     Thereon they laid him, building fuel up—

     Good sleep hath one that slumbers on that bed!

     He shall not wake for cold albeit he lies

     Naked to all the airs—for soon they set

     The red flame to the corners four, which crept,

     And licked, and flickered, finding out his flesh

     And feeding on it with swift hissing tongues,

     And crackle of parched skin, and snap of joint;

     Till the fat smoke thinned and the ashes sank

     Scarlet and grey, with here and there a bone

     White midst the grey—the total of the man.

          Then spake the Prince, "Is this the end which comes

     To all who live?"

                    "This is the end that comes

     To all," quoth Channa; "he upon the pyre—

     Whose remnants are so petty that the crows

     Caw hungrily, then quit the fruitless feast—

     Ate, drank, laughed, loved, and lived, and liked

          life well.

     Then came—who knows?—some gust of junglewind,

     A stumble on the path, a taint in the tank,

     A snake's nip, half a span of angry steel,

     A chill, a fishbone, or a falling tile,

     And life was over and the man is dead.

     No appetites, no pleasures, and no pains

     Hath such; the kiss upon his lips is nought,

     The fire-scorch nought; he smelleth not his flesh

     A-roast, nor yet the sandal and the spice

     They burn; the taste is emptied from his mouth,

     The hearing of his ears is clogged, the sight

     Is blinded in his eyes; those whom he loved

     Wail desolate, for even that must go,

     The body, which was lamp unto the life,

     Or worms will have a horrid feast of it.

     Here is the common destiny of flesh.

     The high and low, the good and bad, must die,

     And then, 't is taught, begin anew and live

     Somewhere, somehow,—who knows?—and so again

     The pangs, the parting, and the lighted pile—

     Such is man's round."

                       But lo! Siddartha turned

     Eyes gleaming with divine tears to the sky,

     Eyes lit with heavenly pity to the earth;

     From sky to earth he looked, from earth to sky,

     As if his spirit sought in lonely flight

     Some far-off vision, linking this and that,

     Lost, past, but searchable, but seen, but known.

     Then cried he, while his lifted countenance

     Glowed with the burning passion of a love

     Unspeakable, the ardour of a hope

     Boundless, insatiate: "Oh! suffering world,

     Oh! known and unknown of my common flesh,

     Caught in this common net of death and woe,

     And life which binds to both!  I see, I feel

     The vastness of the agony of earth,

     The vainness of its joys, the mockery

     Of all its best, the anguish of its worst;

     Since pleasures end in pain, and youth in age,

     And love in loss, and life in hateful death,

     And death in unknown lives, which will but yoke

     Men to their wheel again to whirl the round

     Of false delights and woes that are not false.

     Me too this lure hath cheated, so it seemed

     Lovely to live, and life a sunlit stream

     For ever flowing in a changeless peace;

     Whereas the foolish ripple of the flood

     Dances so lightly down by bloom and lawn

     Only to pour its crystal quicklier

     Into the foul salt sea.  The veil is rent

     Which blinded me!  I am as all these men

     Who cry upon their gods and are not heard

     Or are not heeded—yet there must be aid!

     For them and me and all there must be help!

     Perchance the gods have need of help themselves

     Being so feeble that when sad lips cry

     They cannot save!  I would not let one cry

     Whom I could save!  How can it be that Brahm

     Would make a world and keep it miserable,

     Since, if all-powerful, he leaves it so,

     He is not good, and if not powerful,

     He is not God?—Channa! lead home again!

     It is enough I mine eyes have seen enough!"

           Which when the King heard, at the gates he set

     A triple guard, and bade no man should pass

     By day or night, issuing or entering in,

     Until the days were numbered of that dream.

Book The Fourth

     But when the days were numbered, then befell

     The parting of our Lord—which was to be—

     Whereby came wailing in the Golden Home,

     Woe to the King and sorrow o'er the land,

     But for all flesh deliverance, and that Law

     Which whoso hears, the same shall make him free.

          Softly the Indian night sinks on the plains

     At full moon in the month of Chaitra Shud,

     When mangoes redden and the asoka buds

     Sweeten the breeze, and Rama's birthday comes,

     And all the fields are glad and all the towns.

     Softly that night fell over Vishramvan,

     Fragrant with blooms and jewelled thick with stars,

     And cool with mountain airs sighing adown

     From snow-flats on Himala high-outspread;

     For the moon swung above the eastern peaks,

     Climbing the spangled vault, and lighting clear

     Robini's ripples and the hills and plains,

     And all the sleeping land, and near at hand

     Silvering those roof-tops of the pleasure-house,

     Where nothing stirred nor sign of watching was,

     Save at the outer gates, whose warders cried

     Mudra, the watchword, and the countersign

     Angana, and the watch-drums beat a round;

     Whereat the earth lay still, except for call

     Of prowling jackals, and the ceaseless trill

     Of crickets on the garden grounds.

                                       Within—

     Where the moon glittered through the laceworked stone,

     Lighting the walls of pearl-shell and the floors

     Paved with veined marble—softly fell her beams

     On such rare company of Indian girls,

     It seemed some chamber sweet in Paradise

     Where Devis rested.  All the chosen ones

     Of Prince Siddartha's pleasure-home were there,

     The brightest and most faithful of the Court,

     Each form so lovely in the peace of sleep,

     That you had said "This is the pearl of all!"

     Save that beside her or beyond her lay

     Fairer and fairer, till the pleasured gaze

     Roamed o'er that feast of beauty as it roams

     From gem to gem in some great goldsmith-work,

     Caught by each colour till the next is seen.

     With careless grace they lay, their soft brown limbs

     Part hidden, part revealed; their glossy hair

     Bound back with gold or flowers, or flowing loose

     In black waves down the shapely nape and neck.

     Lulled into pleasant dreams by happy toils,

     They slept, no wearier than jewelled birds

     Which sing and love all day, then under wing

     Fold head till morn bids sing and love again.

     Lamps of chased silver swinging from the roof

     In silver chains, and fed with perfumed oils,

     Made with the moonbeams tender lights and shades,

     Whereby were seen the perfect lines of grace,

     The bosom's placid heave, the soft stained palms

     Drooping or clasped, the faces fair and dark,

     The great arched brows, the parted lips, the teeth

     Like pearls a merchant picks to make a string,

     The satin-lidded eyes, with lashes dropped

     Sweeping the delicate cheeks, the rounded wrists

     The smooth small feet with bells and bangles decked,

     Tinkling low music where some sleeper moved,

     Breaking her smiling dream of some new dance

     Praised by the Prince, some magic ring to find,

     Some fairy love-gift.  Here one lay full-length,

     Her vina by her cheek, and in its strings

     The little fingers still all interlaced

     As when the last notes of her light song played

     Those radiant eyes to sleep and sealed her own.

     Another slumbered folding in her arms

     A desert-antelope, its slender head

     Buried with back-sloped horns between her breasts

     Soft nestling; it was eating—when both drowsed—

     Red roses, and her loosening hand still held

     A rose half-mumbled, while a rose-leaf curled

     Between the deer's lips.  Here two friends had dozed

     Together, wearing mogra-buds, which bound

     Their sister-sweetness in a starry chain,

     Linking them limb to limb and heart to heart,

     One pillowed on the blossoms, one on her.

     Another, ere she slept, was stringing stones

     To make a necklet—agate, onyx, sard,

     Coral, and moonstone—round her wrist it gleamed

     A coil of splendid colour, while she held,

     Unthreaded yet, the bead to close it up

     Green turkis, carved with golden gods and scripts.

     Lulled by the cadence of the garden stream,

     Thus lay they on the clustered carpets, each

     A girlish rose with shut leaves, waiting dawn

     To open and make daylight beautiful.

     This was the antechamber of the Prince;

     But at the purdah's fringe the sweetest slept—

     Gunga and Gotami—chief ministers

     In that still house of love.

                             The purdah hung,

     Crimson and blue, with broidered threads of gold,

     Across a portal carved in sandal-wood,

     Whence by three steps the way was to the bower

     Of inmost splendour, and the marriage-couch

     Set on a dais soft with silver cloths,

     Where the foot fell as though it trod on piles

     Of neem-blooms.  All the walls, were plates of pearl,

     Cut shapely from the shells of Lanka's wave;

     And o'er the alabaster roof there ran

     Rich inlayings of lotus and of bird,

     Wrought in skilled work of lazulite and jade,

     Jacynth and jasper; woven round the dome,

     And down the sides, and all about the frames

     Wherein were set the fretted lattices,

     Through which there breathed, with moonlight and

          cool airs,

     Scents from the shell-flowers and the jasmine sprays;

     Not bringing thither grace or tenderness

     Sweeter than shed from those fair presences

     Within the place—the beauteous Sakya Prince,

     And hers, the stately, bright Yasodhara.

          Half risen from her soft nest at his side,

     The chuddah fallen to her waist, her brow

     Laid in both palms, the lovely Princess leaned

     With heaving bosom and fast falling tears.

     Thrice with her lips she touched Siddartha's hand,

     And at the third kiss moaned: "Awake, my Lord!

     Give me the comfort of thy speech!"  Then he—

     "What is with thee, O my life?" but still

     She moaned anew before the words would come;

     Then spake: "'Alas, my Prince!  I sank to sleep

     Most happy, for the babe I bear of thee

     Quickened this eve, and at my heart there beat

     That double pulse of life and joy and love

     Whose happy music lulled me, but—aho!—

     In slumber I beheld three sights of dread,

     With thought whereof my heart is throbbing yet.

     I saw a white bull with wide branching horns,

     A lord of pastures, pacing through the streets,

     Bearing upon his front a gem which shone

     As if some star had dropped to glitter there,

     Or like the kantha-stone the great Snake keeps

     To make bright daylight underneath the earth.

     Slow through the streets toward the gates he paced,

     And none could stay him, though there came a voice

     From Indra's temple, 'If ye stay him not,

     The glory of the city goeth forth.

     Yet none could stay him.  Then I wept aloud,

     And locked my arms about his neck, and strove,

     And bade them bar the gates; but that ox-king

     Bellowed, and, lightly tossing free his crest,

     Broke from my clasp, and bursting through the bars,

     Trampled the warders down and passed away.

     The next strange dream was this: Four Presences

     Splendid with shining eyes, so beautiful

     They seemed the Regents of the Earth who dwell

     On Mount Sumeru, lighting from the sky

     With retinue of countless heavenly ones,

     Swift swept unto our city, where I saw

     The golden flag of Indra on the gate

     Flutter and fall; and lo! there rose instead

     A glorious banner, all the folds whereof

     Rippled with flashing fire of rubies sewn

     Thick on the silver threads, the rays wherefrom

     Set forth new words and weighty sentences

     Whose message made all living creatures glad;

     And from the east the wind of sunrise blew

     With tender waft, opening those jewelled scrolls

     So that all flesh might read; and wondrous blooms

     Plucked in what clime I know not-fell in showers,

     Coloured as none are coloured in our groves."

          Then spake the Prince: "All this, my Lotus-flower!

     Was good to see."

               "Ay, Lord," the Princess said,

     "Save that it ended with a voice of fear

     Crying, `The time is nigh! the time is nigh!'

     Thereat the third dream came; for when I sought

     Thy side, sweet Lord! ah, on our bed there lay

     An unpressed pillow and an empty robe—

     Nothing of thee but those!—-nothing of thee,

     Who art my life and light, my king, my world!

     And sleeping still I rose, and sleeping saw

     Thy belt of pearls, tied here below my breasts,

     Change to a stinging snake; my ankle-rings

     Fall off, my golden bangles part and fall;

     The jasmines in my hair wither to dust;

     While this our bridal-couch sank to the ground,

     And something rent the crimson purdah down;

     Then far away I heard the white bull low,

     And far away the embroidered banner flap,

     And once again that cry, 'The time is come!'

     But with that cry—which shakes my spirit still—

     I woke!  O Prince! what may such visions mean

     Except I die, or—worse than any death—

     Thou shouldst forsake me or be taken?"

                               Sweet

     As the last smile of sunset was the look

     Siddartha bent upon his weeping wife.

     "Comfort thee, dear!" he said, "if comfort lives

     In changeless love; for though thy dreams may be

     Shadows of things to come, and though the gods

     Are shaken in their seats, and though the world

     Stands nigh, perchance, to know some way of help,

     Yet, whatsoever fall to thee and me,

     Be sure I loved and love Yasodhara.

     Thou knowest how I muse these many moons,

     Seeking to save the sad earth I have seen;

     And when the time comes, that which will be will.

     But if my soul yearns sore for souls unknown,

     And if I grieve for griefs which are not mine,

     Judge how my high-winged thoughts must hover here

     O'er all these lives that share and sweeten mine

     So dear! and thine the dearest, gentlest, best,

     And nearest.  Ah, thou mother of my babe!

     Whose body mixed with mine for this fair hope,

     When most my spirit wanders, ranging round

     The lands and seas—as full of ruth for men

     As the far-flying dove is full of ruth

     For her twin nestlings—ever it has come

     Home with glad wing and passionate plumes to thee,

     Who art the sweetness of my kind best seen,

     The utmost of their good, the tenderest

     Of all their tenderness, mine most of all.

     Therefore, whatever after this betide,

     Bethink thee of that lordly bull which lowed,

     That jewelled banner in thy dreams which waved

     Its folds departing, and of this be sure,

     Always I loved and always love thee well,

     And what I sought for all sought most for thee.

     But thou, take comfort; and, if sorrow falls,

     Take comfort still in deeming there may be

     A way of peace on earth by woes of ours;

     And have with this embrace what faithful love

     Can think of thanks or frame for benison—

     Too little, seeing love's strong self is weak—

     Yet kiss me on the mouth, and drink these words

     From heart to heart therewith, that thou mayst know—

     What others will not—that I loved thee most

     Because I loved so well all living souls.

     Now, Princess! rest, for I will rise and watch."

          Then in her tears she slept, but sleeping sighed—

     As if that vision passed again—"The time!

     The time is come!"  Whereat Siddartha turned,

     And, lo! the moon shone by the Crab! the stars

     In that same silver order long foretold

     Stood ranged to say: "This is the night!—choose thou

     The way of greatness or the way of good

     To reign a King of kings, or wander lone,

     Crownless and homeless, that the world be helped."

     Moreover, with the whispers of the gloom

     Came to his ears again that warning song,

     As when the Devas spoke upon the wind:

     And surely gods were round about the place

     Watching our Lord, who watched the shining stars.

          "I will depart," he spake; "the hour is come!

     Thy tender lips, dear sleeper, summon me

     To that which saves the earth but sunders us;

     And in the silence of yon sky I read

     My fated message flashing.  Unto this

     Came I, and unto this all nights and days

     Have led me; for I will not have that crown

     Which may be mine: I lay aside those realms

     Which wait the gleaming of my naked sword

     My chariot shall not roll with bloody wheels

     From victory to victory, till earth

     Wears the red record of my name.  I choose

     To tread its paths with patient, stainless feet,

     Making its dust my bed, its loneliest wastes

     My dwelling, and its meanest things my mates:

     Clad in no prouder garb than outcasts wear,

     Fed with no meats save what the charitable

     Give of their will, sheltered by no more pomp

     Than the dim cave lends or the jungle-bush,

     This will I do because the woful cry

     Of life and all flesh living cometh up

     Into my ears, and all my soul is full

     Of pity for the sickness of this world;

     Which I will heal, if healing may be found

     By uttermost renouncing and strong strife.

     For which of all the great and lesser gods

     Have power or pity?  Who hath seen them—who?

     What have they wrought to help their worshippers?

     How hath it steaded man to pray, and pay

     Tithes of the corn and oil, to chant the charms,

     To slay the shrieking sacrifice, to rear

     The stately fane, to feed the priests, and call

     On Vishnu, Shiva, Surya, who save

     None—not the worthiest—from the griefs that teach

     Those litanies of flattery and fear

     Ascending day by day, like wasted smoke?

     Hath any of my brothers 'scaped thereby

     The aches of life, the stings of love and loss,

     The fiery fever and the ague-shake,

     The slow, dull sinking into withered age,

     The horrible dark death—and what beyond

     Waits—till the whirling wheel comes up again,

     And new lives bring new sorrows to be borne,

     New generations for the new desires

     Which have their end in the old mockeries?

     Hath any of my tender sisters found

     Fruit of the fast or harvest of the hymn,

     Or bought one pang the less at bearing-time

     For white curds offered and trim tulsi-leaves?

     Nay; it may be some of the gods are good

     And evil some, but all in action weak;

     Both pitiful and pitiless, and both

     As men are—bound upon this wheel of change,

     Knowing the former and the after lives.

     For so our scriptures truly seem to teach,

     That—once, and wheresoe'er, and whence begun—

     Life runs its rounds of living, climbing up

     From mote, and gnat, and worm, reptile, and fish,

     Bird and shagged beast, man, demon, Deva, God,

     To clod and mote again; so are we kin

     To all that is; and thus, if one might save

     Man from his curse, the whole wide world should share

     The lightened horror of this ignorance

     Whose shadow is chill fear, and cruelty

     Its bitter pastime.  Yea, if one might save!

     And means must be!  There must be refuge!"

                "Men

     Perished in winter-winds till one smote fire

     From flint-stones coldly hiding what they held,

     The red spark treasured from the kindling sun.

     They gorged on flesh like wolves, till one sowed corn,

     Which grew a weed, yet makes the life of man;

     They mowed and babbled till some tongue struck speech,

     And patient fingers framed the lettered sound.

     What good gift have my brothers but it came

     From search and strife and loving sacrifice?

     If one, then, being great and fortunate,

     Rich, dowered with health and ease, from birth designed

     To rule—if he would rule—a King of kings;

     If one, not tired with life's long day, but glad

     I' the freshness of its morning, one not cloyed

     With love's delicious feasts, but hungry still;

     If one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage,

     But joyous in the glory and the grace

     That mix with evils here, and free to choose

     Earth's loveliest at his will: one even as I,

     Who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefs

     Which are not mine, except as I am man;—

     If such a one, having so much to give,

     Gave all, laying it down for love of men.

     And thenceforth spent himself to search for truth,

     Wringing the secret of deliverance forth,

     Whether it lurk in hells or hide in heavens,

     Or hover, unrevealed, nigh unto all:

     Surely at last, far off, sometime, somewhere,

     The veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes,

     The road would open for his painful feet,

     That should be won for which he lost the world,

     And Death might find him conqueror of death.

     This will I do, who have a realm to lose,

     Because I love my realm, because my heart

     Beats with each throb of all the hearts that ache,

     Known and unknown, these that are mine and those

     Which shall be mine, a thousand million more

     Saved by this sacrifice I offer now.

     Oh, summoning stars!  Oh, mournful earth

     For thee and thine I lay aside my youth,

     My throne, my joys, my golden days, my nights,

     My happy palace—and thine arms, sweet Queen!

     Harder to put aside than all the rest!

     Yet thee, too, I shall save, saving this earth;

     And that which stirs within thy tender womb,

     My child, the hidden blossom of our loves,

     Whom if I wait to bless my mind will fail.

     Wife! child! father! and people! ye must share

     A little while the anguish of this hour

     That light may break and all flesh learn the Law.

     Now am I fixed, and now I will depart,

     Never to come again till what I seek

     Be found—if fervent search and strife avail."

          So with his brow he touched her feet, and bent

     The farewell of fond eyes, unutterable,

     Upon her sleeping face, still wet with tears;

     And thrice around the bed in reverence,

     As though it were an altar, softly stepped

     With clasped hands laid upon his beating heart,

     "For never," spake he, "lie I there again!"

     And thrice he made to go, but thrice came back,

     So strong her beauty was, so large his love

     Then, o'er his head drawing his cloth, he turned

     And raised the purdah's edge.

                     There drooped, close-hushed,

     In such sealed sleep as water-lilies know,

     The lovely garden of his Indian girls;

     Those twin dark-petalled lotus-buds of all—

     Gunga and Gotami—on either side,

     And those, their silk-leaved sisterhood, beyond.

     "Pleasant ye are to me, sweet friends!" he said,

     "And dear to leave; yet if I leave ye not

     What else will come to all of us save eld

     Without assuage and death without avail?

     Lo! as ye lie asleep so must ye lie

     A-dead; and when the rose dies where are gone

     Its scent and splendour? when the lamp is drained

     Whither is fled the flame? Press heavy, Night!

     Upon their down-dropped lids and seal their lips,

     That no tear stay me and no faithful voice.

     For all the brighter that these made my life,

     The bitterer it is that they and I,

     And all, should live as trees do—so much spring,

     Such and such rains and frosts, such wintertimes,

     And then dead leaves, with maybe spring again,

     Or axe-stroke at the root.  This will not I,

     Whose life here was a god's!—this would not I,

     Though all my days were godlike, while men moan

     Under their darkness.  Therefore farewell, friends!

     While life is good to give, I give, and go

     To seek deliverance and that unknown Light!"

           Then, lightly treading where those sleepers lay,

     Into the night Siddartha passed: its eyes,

     The watchful stars, looked love on him: its breath,

     The wandering wind, kissed his robe's fluttered fringe;

     The garden-blossoms, folded for the dawn,

     Opened their velvet hearts to waft him scents

     From pink and purple censers: o'er the land,

     From Himalay unto the Indian Sea,

     A tremor spread, as if earth's soul beneath

     Stirred with an unknown hope; and holy books—

     Which tell the story of our Lord—say, too,

     That rich celestial musics thrilled the air

     From hosts on hosts of shining ones, who thronged

     Eastward and westward, making bright the night

     Northward and southward, making glad the ground.

     Also those four dread Regents of the Earth,

     Descending at the doorway, two by two,—

     With their bright legions of Invisibles

     In arms of sapphire, silver, gold, and pearl—

     Watched with joined hands the Indian Prince, who stood,

     His tearful eyes raised to the stars, and lips

     Close-set with purpose of prodigious love.

          Then strode he forth into the gloom and cried,

     "Channa, awake! and bring out Kantaka!"

          "What would my Lord?" the charioteer replied—

     Slow-rising from his place beside the gate

     "To ride at night when all the ways are dark?"

          "Speak low," Siddartha said, "and bring my horse,

     For now the hour is come when I should quit

     This golden prison where my heart lives caged

     To find the truth; which henceforth I will seek,

     For all men's sake, until the truth be found."

          "Alas! dear Prince," answered the charioteer,

     "Spake then for nought those wise and holy men

     Who cast the stars and bade us wait the time

     When King Suddhodana's great son should rule

     Realms upon realms, and be a Lord of lords?

     Wilt thou ride hence and let the rich world slip

     Out of thy grasp, to hold a beggar's bowl?

     Wilt thou go forth into the friendless waste

     That hast this Paradise of pleasures here?"

          The Prince made answer: "Unto this I came,

     And not for thrones: the kingdom that I crave

     Is more than many realms, and all things pass

     To change and death.  Bring me forth Kantaka!"

          "Most honored," spake again the charioteer,

          "Bethink thee of their woe whose bliss thou art—

     How shalt thou help them, first undoing them?"

          Siddartha answered: "Friend, that love is false

     Which clings to love for selfish sweets of love;

     But I, who love these more than joys of mine—

     Yea, more than joy of theirs—depart to save

     Them and all flesh, if utmost love avail.

     Go, bring me Kantaka!"

                                   Then Channa said,

     "Master, I go!" and forthwith, mournfully,

     Unto the stall he passed, and from the rack

     Took down the silver bit and bridle-chains,

     Breast-cord and curb, and knitted fast the straps,

     And linked the hooks, and led out Kantaka

     Whom tethering to the ring, he combed and dressed,

     Stroking the snowy coat to silken gloss;

     Next on the steed he laid the numdah square,

     Fitted the saddle-cloth across, and set

     The saddle fair, drew tight the jewelled girths,

     Buckled the breech-bands and the martingale,

     And made fall both the stirrups of worked gold.

     Then over all he cast a golden net,

     With tassels of seed-pearl and silken strings,

     And led the great horse to the palace door,

     Where stood the Prince; but when he saw his Lord,

     Right glad he waxed and joyously he neighed,

     Spreading his scarlet nostrils; and the books

     Write, "Surely all had heard Kantaka's neigh,

     And that strong trampling of his iron heels,

     Save that the Devas laid their unseen wings

     Over their ears and kept the sleepers deaf."

          Fondly Siddartha drew the proud head down,

     Patted the shining neck, and said, "Be still,

     White Kantaka! be still, and bear me now

     The farthest journey ever rider rode;

     For this night take I horse to find the truth,

     And where my quest will end yet know I not,

     Save that it shall not end until I find.

     Therefore tonight, good steed, be fierce and bold!

     Let nothing stay thee, though a thousand blades

     Deny the road! let neither wall nor moat

     Forbid our flight! Look! if I touch thy flank

     And cry, `On, Kantaka! I let whirlwinds lag

     Behind thy course!  Be fire and air, my horse!

     To stead thy Lord, so shalt thou share with him

     The greatness of this deed which helps the world;

     For therefore ride I, not for men alone,

     But for all things which, speechless, share our pain

     And have no hope, nor wit to ask for hope.

     Now, therefore, bear thy master valorously!"

          Then to the saddle lightly leaping, he

     Touched the arched crest, and Kantaka sprang forth

     With armed hoofs sparkling on the stones and ring

     Of champing bit; but none did hear that sound,

     For that the Suddha Devas, gathering near,

     Plucked the red mohra-flowers and strewed them thick

     Under his tread, while hands invisible

     Muffled the ringing bit and bridle chains.

     Moreover, it is written when they came

     Upon the pavement near the inner gates,

     The Yakshas of the air laid magic cloths

     Under the stallion's feet, so that he went

     Softly and still.

                  But when they reached the gate

     Of tripled brass—which hardly fivescore men

     Served to unbar and open—lo! the doors

     Rolled back all silently, though one might hear

     In daytime two koss off the thunderous roar

     Of those grim hinges and unwieldy plates.

          Also the middle and the outer gates

     Unfolded each their monstrous portals thus

     In silence as Siddartha and his steed

     Drew near; while underneath their shadow lay.

     Silent as dead men, all those chosen guards—

     The lance and sword let fall, the shields unbraced,

     Captains and soldiers—for there came a wind,

     Drowsier than blows o'er Malwa's fields of sleep

     Before the Prince's path, which, being breathed,

     Lulled every sense aswoon: and so he passed

     Free from the palace.

                        When the morning star

     Stood half a spear's length from the eastern rim,

     And o'er the earth the breath of morning sighed

     Rippling Anoma's wave, the border-stream,

     Then drew he rein, and leaped to earth and kissed

     White Kantaka betwixt the ears, and spake

     Full sweet to Channa: "This which thou hast done

     Shall bring thee good and bring all creatures good.

     Be sure I love thee always for thy love.

     Lead back my horse and take my crest-pearl here,

     My princely robes, which henceforth stead me not,

     My jewelled sword-belt and my sword, and these

     The long locks by its bright edge severed thus

     From off my brows.  Give the King all, and say

     Siddartha prays forget him till he come

     Ten times a prince, with royal wisdom won

     From lonely searchings and the strife for light;

     Where, if I conquer, lo! all earth is mine—

     Mine by chief service!—tell him—mine by love!

     Since there is hope for man only in man,

     And none hath sought for this as I will seek,

     Who cast away my world to save my world."

Book the Fifth

     Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose,

     Guarding King Bimbasara's sylvan town;

     Baibhara, green with lemon-grass and palms;

     Bipulla, at whose foot thin Sarsuti

     Steals with warm ripple; shadowy Tapovan,

     Whose steaming pools mirror black rocks, which ooze

     Sovereign earth-butter from their rugged roofs;

     South-east the vulture-peak Sailagiri;

     And eastward Ratnagiri, hill of gems.

     A winding track, paven with footworn slabs,

     Leads thee by safflower fields and bamboo tufts

     Under dark mangoes and the jujube-trees,

     Past milk-white veins of rock and jasper crags,

     Low cliff and flats of jungle-flowers, to where

     The shoulder of that mountain, sloping west,

     O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.

     Lo! thou who comest thither, bare thy feet

     And bow thy head! for all this spacious earth

     Hath not a spot more dear and hallowed.

     Here Lord Buddha sate the scorching summers through,

     The driving rains, the chilly dawns and eves;

     Wearing for all men's sakes the yellow robe,

     Eating in beggar's guise the scanty meal

     Chance-gathered from the charitable; at night

     Crouched on the grass, homeless, alone; while yelped

     The sleepless jackals round his cave, or coughs

     Of famished tiger from the thicket broke.

     By day and night here dwelt the World-honoured,

     Subduing that fair body born for bliss

     With fast and frequent watch and search intense

     Of silent meditation, so prolonged

     That ofttimes while he mused—as motionless

     As the fixed rock his seat—the squirrel leaped

     Upon his knee, the timid quail led forth

     Her brood between his feet, and blue doves pecked

     The rice-grains from the bowl beside his hand.

          Thus would he muse from noontide—when the land

     Shimmered with heat, and walls and temples danced

     In the reeking air—till sunset, noting not

     The blazing globe roll down, nor evening glide,

     Purple and swift, across the softened fields;

     Nor the still coming of the stars, nor throb

     Of drum-skins in the busy town, nor screech

     Of owl and night jar; wholly wrapt from self

     In keen unraveling of the threads of thought

     And steadfast pacing of life's labyrinths.

     Thus would he sit till midnight hushed the world,

     Save where the beasts of darkness in the brake

     Crept and cried out, as fear and hatred cry,

     As lust and avarice and anger creep

     In the black jungles of man's ignorance.

     Then slept he for what space the fleet moon asks

     To swim a tenth part of her cloudy sea;

     But rose ere the false-dawn, and stood again

     Wistful on some dark platform of his hill,

     Watching the sleeping earth with ardent eyes

     And thoughts embracing all its living things,

     While o'er the waving fields that murmur moved

     Which is the kiss of Morn waking the lands,

     And in the east that miracle of Day

     Gathered and grew: at first a dusk so dim

     Night seems still unaware of whispered dawn,

     But soon—before the jungle-cock crows twice—

     A white verge clear, a widening, brightening white,

     High as the herald-star, which fades in floods

     Of silver, warming into pale gold, caught

     By topmost clouds, and flaming on their rims

     To fervent golden glow, flushed from the brink

     With saffron, scarlet, crimson, amethyst;

     Whereat the sky burns splendid to the blue,

     And, robed in raiment of glad light, the

     Song Of Life and Glory cometh!

                              Then our Lord,

     After the manner of a Rishi, hailed

     The rising orb, and went—ablutions made—

     Down by the winding path unto the town;

     And in the fashion of a Rishi passed

     From street to street, with begging-bowl in hand,

     Gathering the little pittance of his needs.

     Soon was it filled, for all the townsmen cried,

     "Take of our store, great sir!" and "Take of ours!"

     Marking his godlike face and eyes enwrapt;

     And mothers, when they saw our Lord go by,

     Would bid their children fall to kiss his feet,

     And lift his robe's hem to their brows, or run

     To fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes.

     And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow,

     Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in care

     For those he knew not, save as fellow lives,

     The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maid

     Would dwell in sudden love and worship deep

     On that majestic form, as if she saw

     Her dreams of tenderest thought made true, and grace

     Fairer than mortal fire her breast.  But he

     Passed onward with the bowl and yellow robe,

     By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts,

     Wending his way back to the solitudes

     To sit upon his hill with holy men,

     And hear and ask of wisdom and its roads.

          Midway on Ratnagiri's groves of calm,

     Beyond the city, but below the caves,

     Lodged such as hold the body foe to soul,

     And flesh a beast which men must chain and tame

     With bitter pains, till sense of pain is killed,

     And tortured nerves vex torturer no more—

     Yogis and Brahmacharis, Bhikshus, all—

     A gaunt and mournful band, dwelling apart.

     Some day and night had stood with lifted arms,

     Till—drained of blood and withered by disease

     Their slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbs

     Jutted from sapless shoulders like dead forks

          from forest trunks.

     Others had clenched their hands

     So long and with so fierce a fortitude,

     The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm.

     Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flints

     Gashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred these

          with fire,

     Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits,

     Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foul

     In rags of dead men wrapped about their loins.

     Certain there were inhabited the spots

     Where death pyres smouldered, cowering defiled

     With corpses for their company, and kites

     Screaming around them o'er the funeral-spoils;

     Certain who cried five hundred times a day

     The names of Shiva, wound with darting snakes

     About their sun-tanned necks and hollow flanks,

     One palsied foot drawn up against the ham.

     So gathered they, a grievous company;

     Crowns blistered by the blazing heat, eyes bleared,

     Sinews and muscles shrivelled, visages

     Haggard and wan as slain men's, five days dead;

     Here crouched one in the dust who noon by noon

     Meted a thousand grains of millet out,

     Ate it with famished patience, seed by seed,

     And so starved on; there one who bruised his pulse

     With bitter leaves lest palate should be pleased;

     And next, a miserable saint self-maimed,

     Eyeless and tongueless, sexless, crippled, deaf;

     The body by the mind being thus stripped

     For glory of much suffering, and the bliss

     Which they shall win—say holy books—whose woe

     Shames gods that send us woe, and makes men gods

     Stronger to suffer than hell is to harm.

          Whom sadly eyeing spake our Lord to one,

     Chief of the woe-begones: "Much-suffering sir

     These many moons I dwell upon the hill—

     Who am a seeker of the Truth—and see

     My brothers here, and thee, so piteously

     Self-anguished; wherefore add ye ills to life

     Which is so evil?"

                     Answer made the sage

     "'T is written if a man shall mortify

     His flesh, till pain be grown the life he lives

     And death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purge

     Sin's dross away, and the soul, purified,

     Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, winged

     For glorious spheres and splendour past all thought."

          "Yon cloud which floats in heaven," the Prince replied,

     "Wreathed like gold cloth around your Indra's throne,

     Rose thither from the tempest-driven sea;

     But it must fall again in tearful drops,

     Trickling through rough and painful water-ways

     By cleft and nullah and the muddy flood,

     To Gunga and the sea, wherefrom it sprang.

     Know'st thou, my brother, if it be not thus,

     After their many pains, with saints in bliss?

     Since that which rises falls, and that which buys

     Is spent; and if ye buy heaven with your blood

     In hell's hard market, when the bargain's through

     The toil begins again!"

                                "It may begin,"

     The hermit moaned.  "Alas! we know not this,

     Nor surely anything; yet after night

     Day comes, and after turmoil peace, and we

     Hate this accursed flesh which clogs the soul

     That fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,

     We stake brief agonies in game with Gods

     To gain the larger joys."

                               "Yet if they last

     A myriad years," he said, "they fade at length,

     Those joys; or if not, is there then some life

     Below, above, beyond, so unlike life it will not change?

     Speak! do your Gods endure

     For ever, brothers?"

                           "Nay," the Yogis said,

     "Only great Brahm endures: the Gods but live."

          Then spake Lord Buddha: "Will ye, being wise,

     As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones,

     Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans,

     For gains which may be dreams, and must have end?

     Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh,

     So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serve

     To bear the spirit on, searching for home,

     But founder on the track before nightfall,

     Like willing steed o'er-spurred?  Will ye, sad sirs,

     Dismantle and dismember this fair house,

     Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts;

     Whose windows give us light—the little light

     Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn

     Will break, and whither winds the better road?"

          Then cried they, "We have chosen this for road

     And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close—

     Though all its stones were fire—in trust of death.

     Speak, if thou know'st a way more excellent;

     If not, peace go with thee!"

                     Onward he passed,

     Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men

     Fear so to die they are afraid to fear,

     Lust so to live they dare not love their life,

     But plague it with fierce penances, belike

     To please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;

     Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells;

     Belike in holy madness, hoping soul

     May break the better through their wasted flesh.

     "Oh, flowerets of the field!" Siddartha said,

     "Who turn your tender faces to the sun—

     Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath

     Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned

     Silver and gold and purple—none of ye

     Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil

     Your happy beauty.  O, ye palms, which rise

     Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind

     Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas,

     What secret know ye that ye grow content,

     From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,

     Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?

     Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees—

     Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves—

     None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem

     To strain to better by foregoing needs!

     But man, who slays ye—being lord—is wise,

     And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth

     In self-tormentings!"

                       While the Master spake

     Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,

     White goats and black sheep winding slow their way,

     With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,

     And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed

     Or wild figs hung.  But always as they strayed

     The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept

     The silly crowd still moving to the plain.

     A ewe with couplets in the flock there was.

     Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind

     Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped,

     And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,

     Fearful to lose this little one or that;

     Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly

     He took the limping lamb upon his neck,

     Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace!

     Whither thou goest I will bear thy care;

     'T were all as good to ease one beast of grief

     As sit and watch the sorrows of the world

     In yonder caverns with the priests who pray."

          "But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends,

     Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon,

     Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep?"

          And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent

     To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,

     And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King

     Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."

          Then said the Master, "I will also go."

     So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb

     Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun,

     The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet.

          Whom, when they came unto the river-side,

     A woman—dove-eyed, young, with tearful face

     And lifted hands—saluted, bending low

     "Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterday

     Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,

     Where I live lone and reared my child; but he

     Straying amid the blossoms found a snake,

     Which twined about his wrist, while he did laugh

     And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth

     Of that cold playmate.  But, alas! ere long

     He turned so pale and still, I could not think

     Why he should cease to play, and let my breast

     Fall from his lips.  And one said, 'He is sick

     Of poison'; and another, 'He will die.'

     But I, who could not lose my precious boy,

     Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light

     Back to his eyes; it was so very small

     That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think

     It could not hate him, gracious as he was,

     Nor hurt him in his sport.  And some one said,

     'There is a holy man upon the hill

     Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe

     Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure

     For that which ails thy son.'  Whereon I came

     Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's,

     And wept and drew the face cloth from my babe,

     Praying thee tell what simples might be good.

     And thou, great sir, did'st spurn me not, but gaze

     With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;

     Then draw the face cloth back, saying to me,

     'Yea, little sister, there is that might heal

     Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing;

     For they who seek physicians bring to them

     What is ordained.  Therefore, I pray thee, find

     Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark

     Thou take it not from any hand or house

     Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died;

     It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.'

     Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!"

                        The Master smiled

     Exceeding tenderly.  "Yea, I spake thus,

     Dear Kisagotami!  But didst thou find The seed?"

            "I went, Lord, clasping to my breast

     The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut—

     Here in the jungle and towards the town—

     'I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace,

     A tola-black'; and each who had it gave,

     For all the poor are piteous to the poor;

     But when I asked, 'In my friend's household here

     Hath any peradventure ever died

     Husband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said:

     'O sister! what is this you ask? the dead

     Are very many, and the living few!'

     So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back,

     And prayed of others; but the others said,

     Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave.'

     'Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!'

     'Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died

     Between the rain-time and the harvesting!'

     Ah, sir!  I could not find a single house

     Where there was mustard-seed and none had died!

     Therefore I left my child—who would not suck

     Nor smile—beneath the wild vines by the stream,

     To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray

     Where I might find this seed and find no death,

     If now, indeed, my baby be not dead,

     As I do fear, and as they said to me."

          "My sister! thou hast found," the Master said,

     "Searching for what none finds—that bitter balm

     I had to give thee.  He thou lovest slept

     Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today

     Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe

     The grief which all hearts share grows less for one.

     Lo!  I would pour my blood if it could stay

     Thy tears and win the secret of that curse

     Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives

     O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice

     As these dumb beasts are driven—men their lords.

     I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!"

          So entered they the city side by side,

     The herdsmen and the Prince, what time the sun

     Gilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threw

     Long shadows down the street and through the gate

     Where the King's men kept watch.  But when they saw

     Our Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back,

     The market-people drew their wains aside,

     In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayed

     The war of tongues to gaze on that mild face;

     The smith, with lifted hammer in his hand,

     Forgot to strike; the weaver left his web,

     The scribe his scroll, the money-changer lost

     His count of cowries; from the unwatched rice

     Shiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milk

     Ran o'er the lota while the milkers watched

     The passage of our Lord moving so meek,

     With yet so beautiful a majesty.

     But most the women gathering in the doors

     Asked: "Who is this that brings the sacrifice,

     So graceful and peace-giving as he goes?

     What is his caste? whence hath he eyes so sweet?

     Can he be Sakra or the Devaraj?"

     And others said, "It is the holy man

     Who dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill."

     But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,

     Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which have

     No shepherd; wandering in the night with none

     To guide them; bleating blindly towards the knife

     Of Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin."

          Then some one told the King, "There cometh here

     A holy hermit, bringing down the flock

     Which thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice."

          The King stood in his hall of offering.

     On either hand, the white-robed Brahmans ranged

     Muttered their mantras, feeding still the fire

     Which roared upon the midmost altar.  There

     From scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame,

     Hissing and curling as they licked the gifts

     Of ghee and spices and the soma juice,

     The joy of Iudra.  Round about the pile

     A slow, thick, scarlet streamlet smoked and ran,

     Sucked by the sand, but ever rolling down,

     The blood of bleating victims.  One such lay,

     A spotted goat, long-horned, its head bound back

     With munja grass; at its stretched throat the knife

     Pressed by a priest, who murmured: "This, dread gods,

     Of many yajnas cometh as the crown

     From Bimbasara: take ye joy to see

     The spirted blood, and pleasure in the scent

     Of rich flesh roasting 'mid the fragrant flames;

     Let the King's sins be laid upon this goat,

     And let the fire consume them burning it,

     For now I strike."

                           But Buddha softly said,

     "Let him not strike, great King!" and therewith loosed

     The victim's bonds, none staying him, so great

     His presence was.  Then, craving leave, he spake

     Of life, which all can take but none can give,

     Life, which all creatures love and strive to keep,

     Wonderful, dear and pleasant unto each,

     Even to the meanest; yea, a boon to all

     Where pity is, for pity makes the world

     Soft to the weak and noble for the strong.

     Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lent

     Sad pleading words, showing how man, who prays

     For mercy to the gods, is merciless,

     Being as god to those; albeit all life

     Is linked and kin, and what we slay have given

     Meek tribute of the milk and wool, and set

     Fast trust upon the hands which murder them.

     Also he spake of what the holy books

     Do surely teach, how that at death some sink

     To bird and beast, and these rise up to man

     In wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame.

     So were the sacrifice new sin, if so

     The fated passage of a soul be stayed.

     Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit clean

     By blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood;

     Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor lay

     Upon the brow of innocent bound beasts

     One hair's weight of that answer all must give

     For all things done amiss or wrongfully,

     Alone, each for himself, reckoning with that

     The fixed arithmic of the universe,

     Which meteth good for good and ill for ill,

     Measure for measure, unto deeds, words, thoughts;

     Watchful, aware, implacable, unmoved;

     Making all futures fruits of all the pasts.

     Thus spake he, breathing words so piteous

     With such high lordliness of ruth and right,

     The priests drew back their garments o'er the hands

     Crimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near,

     Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddh;

     While still our Lord went on, teaching how fair

     This earth were if all living things be linked

     In friendliness, and common use of foods

     Bloodless and pure; the golden grain, bright fruits,

     Sweet herbs which grow for all, the waters wan,

     Sufficient drinks and meats.  Which when these heard,

     The might of gentleness so conquered them,

     The priests themselves scattered their altar-flames

     And flung away the steel of sacrifice;

     And through the land next day passed a decree

     Proclaimed by criers, and in this wise graved

     On rock and column: "Thus the King's will is:

     There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice,

     And slaying for the meat, but henceforth none

     Shall spill the blood of life nor taste of flesh,

     Seeing that knowledge grows, and life is one,

     And mercy cometh to the merciful."

     So ran the edict, and from those days forth

     Sweet peace hath spread between all living kind,

     Man and the beasts which serve him, and the birds,

     On all those banks of Gunga where our Lord

     Taught with his saintly pity and soft speech.

          For aye so piteous was the Master's heart

     To all that breathe this breath of fleeting life,

     Yoked in one fellowship of joys and pains,

     That it is written in the holy books

     How, in an ancient age—when Buddha wore

     A Brahman's form, dwelling upon the rock

     Named Munda, by the village of Dalidd—

     Drought withered all the land: the young rice died

     Ere it could hide a quail; in forest glades

     A fierce sun sucked the pools; grasses and herbs

     Sickened, and all the woodland creatures fled

     Scattering for sustenance.  At such a time,

     Between the hot walls of a nullah, stretched

     On naked stones, our Lord spied, as he passed,

     A starving tigress.  Hunger in her orbs

     Glared with green flame; her dry tongue lolled a span

     Beyond the gasping jaws and shrivelled jowl;

     Her painted hide hung wrinkled on her ribs,

     As when between the rafters sinks a thatch

     Rotten with rains; and at the poor lean dugs

     Two cubs, whining with famine, tugged and sucked,

     Mumbling those milkless teats which rendered nought,

     While she, their gaunt dam, licked full motherly

     The clamorous twins, yielding her flank to them

     With moaning throat, and love stronger than want,

     Softening the first of that wild cry wherewith

     She laid her famished muzzle to the sand

     And roared a savage thunder-peal of woe.

     Seeing which bitter strait, and heeding nought

     Save the immense compassion of a Buddh,

     Our Lord bethought, "There is no other way

     To help this murdress of the woods but one.

     By sunset these will die, having no meat:

     There is no living heart will pity her,

     Bloody with ravin, lean for lack of blood.

     Lo! if I feed her, who shall lose but I,

     And how can love lose doing of its kind

     Even to the uttermost?"  So saying, Buddh

     Silently laid aside sandals and staff,

     His sacred thread, turban, and cloth, and came

     Forth from behind the milk-bush on the sand,

     Saying, "Ho! mother, here is meat for thee!"

     Whereat the perishing beast yelped hoarse and shrill,

     Sprang from her cubs, and, hurling to the earth

     That willing victim, had her feast of him

     With all the crooked daggers of her claws

     Rending his flesh, and all her yellow fangs

     Bathed in his blood: the great cat's burning breath

     Mixed with the last sigh of such fearless love.

          Thus large the Master's heart was long ago,

     Not only now, when with his gracious ruth

     He bade cease cruel worship of the gods.

     And much King Bimbasara prayed our Lord—

     Learning his royal birth and holy search—

     To tarry in that city, saying oft

     "Thy princely state may not abide such fasts;

     Thy hands were made for sceptres, not for alms.

     Sojourn with me, who have no son to rule,

     And teach my kingdom wisdom, till I die,

     Lodged in my palace with a beauteous bride."

     But ever spake Siddartha, of set mind

     "These things I had, most noble King, and left,

     Seeking the Truth; which still I seek, and shall;

     Not to be stayed though Sakra's palace ope'd

     Its doors of pearl and Devis wooed me in.

     I go to build the Kingdom of the Law, journeying to

     Gaya and the forest shades,

     Where, as I think, the light will come to me;

     For nowise here among the Rishis comes

     That light, nor from the Shasters, nor from fasts

     Borne till the body faints, starved by the soul.

     Yet there is light to reach and truth to win;

     And surely, O true Friend, if I attain

     I will return and quit thy love."

                                 Thereat

     Thrice round the Prince King Bimbasara paced,

     Reverently bending to the Master's feet,

     And bade him speed.  So passed our Lord away

     Towards Uravilva, not yet comforted,

     And wan of face, and weak with six years' quest.

     But they upon the hill and in the grove—

     Alara, Udra, and the ascetics five—

     Had stayed him, saying all was written clear

     In holy Shasters, and that none might win

     Higher than Sruti and than Smriti—nay,

     Not the chief saints!—for how should mortal man

     Be wiser than the Jnana-Kand, which tells

     How Brahm is bodiless and actionless,

     Passionless, calm, unqualified, unchanged,

     Pure life, pure thought, pure joy?  Or how should man

     Its better than the Karmma-Kand, which shows

     How he may strip passion and action off,

     Break from the bond of self, and so, unsphered,

     Be God, and melt into the vast divine,

     Flying from false to true, from wars of sense

     To peace eternal, where the silence lives?

          But the prince heard them, not yet comforted.

Book The Sixth

     Thou who wouldst see where dawned the light at last,

     North-westwards from the "Thousand Gardens" go

     By Gunga's valley till thy steps be set

     On the green hills where those twin streamlets spring

     Nilajan and Mohana; follow them,

     Winding beneath broad-leaved mahua-trees,

     'Mid thickets of the sansar and the bir,

     Till on the plain the shining sisters meet

     In Phalgu's bed, flowing by rocky banks

     To Gaya and the red Barabar hills.

     Hard by that river spreads a thorny waste,

     Uruwelaya named in ancient days,

     With sandhills broken; on its verge a wood

     Waves sea-green plumes and tassels 'thwart the sky,

     With undergrowth wherethrough a still flood steals,

     Dappled with lotus-blossoms, blue and white,

     And peopled with quick fish and tortoises.

     Near it the village of Senani reared

     Its roofs of grass, nestled amid the palms,

     Peaceful with simple folk and pastoral toils.

          There in the sylvan solitudes once more

     Lord Buddha lived, musing the woes of men,

     The ways of fate, the doctrines of the books,

     The lessons of the creatures of the brake,

     The secrets of the silence whence all come,

     The secrets of the gloom whereto all go,

     The life which lies between, like that arch flung

     From cloud to cloud across the sky, which hath

     Mists for its masonry and vapoury piers,

     Melting to void again which was so fair

     With sapphire hues, garnet, and chrysoprase.

     Moon after moon our Lord sate in the wood,

     So meditating these that he forgot

     Ofttimes the hour of food, rising from thoughts

     Prolonged beyond the sunrise and the noon

     To see his bowl unfilled, and eat perforce

     Of wild fruit fallen from the boughs o'erhead,

     Shaken to earth by chattering ape or plucked

     By purple parokeet.  Therefore his grace

     Faded; his body, worn by stress of soul,

     Lost day by day the marks, thirty and two,

     Which testify the Buddha.  Scarce that leaf,

     Fluttering so dry and withered to his feet

     From off the sal-branch, bore less likeliness

     Of spring's soft greenery than he of him

     Who was the princely flower of all his land.

          And once at such a time the o'erwrought Prince

     Fell to the earth in deadly swoon, all spent,

     Even as one slain, who hath no longer breath

     Nor any stir of blood; so wan he was,

     So motionless.  But there came by that way

     A shepherd-boy, who saw Siddartha lie

     With lids fast-closed, and lines of nameless pain

     Fixed on his lips—the fiery noonday sun

     Beating upon his head—who, plucking boughs

     From wild rose-apple trees, knitted them thick

     Into a bower to shade the sacred face.

     Also he poured upon the Master's lips

     Drops of warm milk, pressed from his she-goat's bag,

     Lest, being of low caste, he do wrong to one

     So high and holy seeming.  But the books

     Tell how the jambu-branches, planted thus,

     Shot with quick life in wealth of leaf and flower

     And glowing fruitage interlaced and close,

     So that the bower grew like a tent of silk

     Pitched for a king at hunting, decked with studs

     Of silver-work and bosses of red gold.

     And the boy worshipped, deeming him some God;

     But our Lord, gaining breath, arose and asked

     Milk in the shepherd's lots.  "Ah, my Lord,

     I cannot give thee," quoth the lad; "thou seest

     I am a Sudra, and my touch defiles!"

     Then the World-honoured spake: "Pity and need

     Make all flesh kin.  There is no caste in blood,

     Which runneth of one hue, nor caste in tears,

     Which trickle salt with all; neither comes man

     To birth with tilka-mark stamped on the brow,

     Nor sacred thread on neck.  Who doth right deeds

     Is twice-born, and who doeth ill deeds vile.

     Give me to drink, my brother; when I come

     Unto my quest it shall be good for thee."

     Thereat the peasant's heart was glad, and gave.

          And on another day there passed that road

     A band of tinselled, girls, the nautch-dancers

     Of Indra's temple in the town, with those

     Who made their music—one that beat a drum

     Set round with peacock-feathers, one that blew

     The piping bansuli, and one that twitched

     A three-string sitar.  Lightly tripped they down

     From ledge to ledge and through the chequered paths

     To some gay festival, the silver bells

     Chiming soft peals about the small brown feet,

     Armlets and wrist-rings tattling answer shrill;

     While he that bore the sitar thrummed and twanged

     His threads of brass, and she beside him sang—

     "Fair goes the dancing when the sitar's tuned;

     Tune us the sitar neither low nor high,

     And we will dance away the hearts of men.

     "The string o'erstretched breaks, and the music flies,

     The string o'erslack is dumb, and music dies;

     Tune us the sitar neither low nor high."

     "So sang the nautch-girl to the pipe and wires,

     Fluttering like some vain, painted butterfly

     From glade to glade along the forest path,

     Nor dreamed her light words echoed on the ear

     Of him, that holy man, who sate so rapt

     Under the fig-tree by the path.  But Buddh

     Lifted his great brow as the wantons passed,

     And spake: 'The foolish ofttimes teach the wise;

     I strain too much this string of life, belike,

     Meaning to make such music as shall save.

     Mine eyes are dim now that they see the truth,

     My strength is waned now that my need is most;

     Would that I had such help as man must have,

     For I shall die, whose life was all men's hope.'"

          Now, by that river dwelt a landholder

     Pious and rich, master of many herds,

     A goodly chief, the friend of all the poor;

     And from his house the village drew its name—

     "Senani."  Pleasant and in peace he lived,

     Having for wife Sujata, loveliest

     Of all the dark-eyed daughters of the plain;

     Gentle and true, simple and kind was she,

     Noble of mien, with gracious speech to all

     And gladsome looks—a pearl of womanhood—

     Passing calm years of household happiness

     Beside her lord in that still Indian home,

     Save that no male child blessed their wedded love.

     Wherefore with many prayers she had besought

     Lukshmi, and many nights at full-moon gone

     Round the great Lingam, nine times nine, with gifts

     Of rice and jasmine wreaths and sandal oil,

     Praying a boy; also Sujata vowed—

     If this should be—an offering of food

     Unto the Wood-God, plenteous, delicate,

     Set in a bowl of gold under his tree,

     Such as the lips of Devs may taste and take.

     And this had been: for there was born to her

     A beauteous boy, now three months old, who lay

     Between Sujata's breasts, while she did pace

     With grateful footsteps to the Wood-God's shrine,

     One arm clasping her crimson sari close

     To wrap the babe, that jewel of her joys,

     The other lifted high in comely curve

     To steady on her head the bowl and dish

     Which held the dainty victuals for the God.

          But Radha, sent before to sweep the ground

     And tie the scarlet threads around the tree,

     Came eager, crying, "Ah, dear Mistress! look!

     There is the Wood-God sitting in his place,

     Revealed, with folded hands upon his knees.

     See how the light shines round about his brow!

     How mild and great he seems, with heavenly eyes!

     Good fortune is it thus to meet the gods."

          So,—thinking him divine,—Sujata drew

     Tremblingly nigh, and kissed the earth and said,

     With sweet face bent: "Would that the Holy One

     Inhabiting his grove, Giver of good,

     Merciful unto me his handmaiden,

     Vouchsafing now his presence, might accept

     These our poor gifts of snowy curds, fresh made,

     With milk as white as new-carved ivory!"

          Therewith into the golden bowl she poured

     The curds and milk, and on the hands of Buddh

     Dropped attar from a crystal flask-distilled

     Out of the hearts of roses; and he ate,

     Speaking no word, while the glad mother stood

     In reverence apart.  But of that meal

     So wondrous was the virtue that our Lord

     Felt strength and life return as though the nights

     Of watching and the days of fast had passed

     In dream, as though the spirit with the flesh

     Shared that fine meat and plumed its wings anew,

     Like some delighted bird at sudden streams

     Weary with flight o'er endless wastes of sand,

     Which laves the desert dust from neck and crest—

     And more Sujata worshipped, seeing our Lord

     Grow fairer and his countenance more bright:

     "Art thou indeed the God?" she lowly asked,

     "And hath my gift found favour?"

          But Buddh said, "What is it thou dost bring me?"

                           "Holy one!"

     Answered Sujata, "from our droves I took

     Milk of a hundred mothers newly-calved,

     And with that milk I fed fifty white cows,

     And with their milk twenty-and-five, and then

     With theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirs

     The six noblest and best of all our herds,

     That yield I boiled with sandal and fine spice

     In silver lotas, adding rice, well grown

     From chosen seed, set in new-broken ground,

     So picked that every grain was like a pearl.

     This did I of true heart, because I vowed,

     Under thy tree, if I should bear a boy

     I would make offering for my joy, and now

     I have my son and all my life is bliss!"

          Softly our Lord drew down the crimson fold,

     And, laying on the little head those hands

     Which help the world, he said: "Long be thy bliss!

     And lightly fall on him the load of life!

     For thou hast holpen me who am no God,

     But one thy Brother; heretofore a Prince

     And now a wanderer, seeking night and day

     These six hard years that light which somewhere shines

     To lighten all men's darkness, if they knew!

     And I shall find the light; yea, now it dawned

     Glorious and helpful, when my weak flesh failed

     Which this pure food, fair Sister, hath restored,

     Drawn manifold through lives to quicken life

     As life itself passes by many births

     To happier heights and purging off of sins.

     Yet dost thou truly find it sweet enough

     Only to live?  Can life and love suffice?"

          Answered Sujata: "Worshipful! my heart

     Is little, and a little rain will fill

     The lily's cup which hardly moists the field.

     It is enough for me to feel life's sun

     Shine in my lord's grace and my baby's smile,

     Making the loving summer of our home.

     Pleasant my days pass filled with household cares

     From sunrise when I wake to praise the gods,

     And give forth grain, and trim the tulsi-plant,

     And set my handmaids to their tasks, till noon

     When my lord lays his head upon my lap

     Lulled by soft songs and wavings of the fan;

     And so to supper-time at quiet eve,

     When by his side I stand and serve the cakes.

     Then the stars light their silver lamps for sleep,

     After the temple and the talk with friends.

     How should I not be happy, blest so much,

     And bearing him this boy whose tiny hand

     Shall lead his soul to Swerga, if it need?

     For holy books teach when a man shall plant

     Trees for the travelers' shade, and dig a well

     For the folks' comfort, and beget a son,

     It shall be good for such after their death;

     And what the books say, that I humbly take,

     Being not wiser than those great of old

     Who spake with gods, and knew the hymns and charms,

     And all the ways of virtue and of peace.

     Also I think that good must come of good

     And ill of evil—surely—unto all—

     In every place and time—seeing sweet fruit

     Groweth from wholesome roots, and bitter things

     From poison-stocks; yea, seeing, too, how spite

     Breeds hate, and kindness friends, and patience peace

     Even while we live; and when 't is willed we die

     Shall there not be as good a `Then' as `Now'?

     Haply much better! since one grain of rice

     Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,

     And all the starry champak's white and gold

     Lurks in those little, naked, grey spring-buds.

     Ah, Sir! I know there might be woes to bear

     Would lay fond Patience with her face in dust;

     If this my babe pass first I think my heart

     Would break—almost I hope my heart would break!

     That I might clasp him dead and wait my lord

     In whatsoever world holds faithful wives—

     Duteous, attending till his hour should come.

     But if Death called Senani, I should mount

     The pile and lay that dear head in my lap,

     My daily way, rejoicing when the torch

     Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.

     For it is written if an Indian wife

     Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul

     For every hair upon her head a crore

     Of years in Swerga.  Therefore fear I not.

     And therefore, Holy Sir! my life is glad,

     Nowise forgetting yet those other lives

     Painful and poor, wicked and miserable,

     Whereon the gods grant pity! but for me,

     What good I see humbly I seek to do,

     And live obedient to the law, in trust

     That what will come, and must come, shall come well."

          Then spake our Lord: "Thou teachest them who teach,

     Wiser than wisdom in thy simple lore.

     Be thou content to know not, knowing thus

     Thy way of right and duty: grow, thou flower

     With thy sweet kind in peaceful shade—the light

     Of Truth's high noon is not for tender leaves

     Which must spread broad in other suns and lift

     In later lives a crowned head to the sky.

     Thou who hast worshipped me, I worship thee!

     Excellent heart! learned unknowingly,

     As the dove is which flieth home by love.

     In thee is seen why there is hope for man

     And where we hold the wheel of life at will.

     Peace go with thee, and comfort all thy days!

     As thou accomplishest, may I achieve!

     He whom thou thoughtest God bids thee wish this."

          "May'st thou achieve," she said, with earnest eyes

     Bent on her babe, who reached its tender hands

     To Buddh—knowing, belike, as children know,

     More than we deem, and reverencing our Lord;

     But he arose—made strong with that pure meat—

     And bent his footsteps where a great Tree grew,

     The Bodhi-tree (thenceforward in all years

     Never to fade, and ever to be kept

     In homage of the world), beneath whose leaves

     It was ordained that Truth should come to Buddh

     Which now the Master knew; wherefore he went

     With measured pace, steadfast, majestical,

     Unto the Tree of Wisdom.  Oh, ye Worlds!

     Rejoice! our Lord wended unto the Tree!

          Whom—as he passed into its ample shade,

     Cloistered with columned dropping stems, and roofed

     With vaults of glistening green—the conscious earth

     Worshipped with waving grass and sudden flush

     Of flowers about his feet.  The forest-boughs

     Bent down to shade him; from the river sighed

     Cool wafts of wind laden with lotus-scents

     Breathed by the water-gods.  Large wondering eyes

     Of woodland creatures—panther, boar, and deer—

     At peace that eve, gazed on his face benign

     From cave and thicket.  From its cold cleft wound

     The mottled deadly snake, dancing its hood

     In honour of our Lord; bright butterflies

     Fluttered their vans, azure and green and gold,

     To be his fan-bearers; the fierce kite dropped

     Its prey and screamed; the striped palm-squirrel raced

     From stem to stem to see; the weaver-bird

     Chirped from her swinging nest; the lizard ran;

     The koil sang her hymn; the doves flocked round;

     Even the creeping things were 'ware and glad.

     Voices of earth and air joined in one song,

     Which unto ears that hear said: "Lord and Friend!

     Lover and Saviour!  Thou who hast subdued

     Angers and prides, desires and fears and doubts,

     Thou that for each and all hast given thyself,

     Pass to the Tree!  The sad world blesseth thee

     Who art the Buddh that shall assuage her woes.

     Pass, Hailed and Honoured! strive thy last for us,

     King and high Conqueror! thine hour is come;

     This is the Night the ages waited for!"

          Then fell the night even as our Master sate

     Under that Tree.  But he who is the Prince

     Of Darkness, Mara—knowing this was Buddh

     Who should deliver men, and now the hour

     When he should find the Truth and save the worlds—

     Gave unto all his evil powers command.

     Wherefore there trooped from every deepest pit

     The fiends who war with Wisdom and the Light,

     Arati, Trishna, Raga, and their crew

     Of passions, horrors, ignorances, lusts.

     The brood of gloom and dread; all hating Buddh,

     Seeking to shake his mind; nor knoweth one,

     Not even the wisest, how those fiends of Hell

     Battled that night to keep the Truth from Buddh:

     Sometimes with terrors of the tempest, blasts

     Of demon-armies clouding all the wind,

     With thunder, and with blinding lightning flung

     In jagged javelins of purple wrath

     From splitting skies; sometimes with wiles and words

     Fair-sounding, 'mid hushed leaves and softened airs

     From shapes of witching beauty; wanton songs,

     Whispers of love; sometimes with royal allures

     Of proffered rule; sometimes with mocking doubts,

     Making truth vain.  But whether these befell

     Without and visible, or whether Buddh

     Strove with fell spirits in his inmost heart,

     Judge ye:—I write what ancient books have writ.

          The ten chief Sins came—Mara's mighty ones,

     Angels of evil—Attavada first,

     The Sin of Self, who in the Universe

     As in a mirror sees her fond face shown,

     And crying "I" would have the world say "I,"

     And all things perish so if she endure.

     "If thou be'st Buddh," she said, "let others grope

     Lightless; it is enough that thou art Thou

     Changelessly; rise and take the bliss of gods

     Who change not, heed not, strive not."

     But Buddh spake,

     "The right in thee is base, the wrong a curse;

     Cheat such as love themselves."  Then came wan Doubt,

     He that denies—the mocking Sin—and this

     Hissed in the Master's ear: "All things are shows,

     And vain the knowledge of their vanity;

     Thou dost but chase the shadow of thyself;

     Rise and go hence, there is no better way

     Than patient scorn, nor any help for man,

     Nor any staying of his whirling wheel."

     But quoth our Lord, "Thou hast no part with me,

     False Visikitcha, subtlest of man's foes."

     And third came she who gives dark creeds their power,

     Silabbat-paramasa, sorceress,

     Draped fair in many lands as lowly Faith,

     But ever juggling souls with rites and prayers;

     The keeper of those keys which lock up Hells

     And open Heavens.  "Wilt thou dare," she said,

     "Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods,

     Unpeople all the temples, shaking down

     That law which feeds the priests and props the realms?"

     But Buddha answered, "What thou bidd'st me keep

     Is form which passes, but the free Truth stands;

     Get thee unto thy darkness."  Next there drew

     Gallantly nigh a braver Tempter, he,

     Kama, the King of passions, who hath sway

     Over the gods themselves, lord of all loves,

     Ruler of Pleasure's realm.  Laughing he came

     Unto the Tree, bearing his bow of gold

     Wreathed with red blooms, and arrows of desire

     Pointed with five-tongued delicate flame which stings

     The heart it smites sharper than poisoned barb.

     And round him came into that lonely place

     Bands of bright shapes with heavenly eyes and lips

     Singing in lovely words the praise of Love

     To music of invisible sweet chords,

     So witching, that it seemed the night stood still

     To hear them, and the listening stars and moon,

     Paused in their orbits while these hymned to Buddh

     Of lost delights, and how a mortal man

     Findeth nought dearer in the three wide worlds

     Than are the yielded loving fragrant breasts

     Of Beauty and the rosy breast-blossoms,

     Love's rubies; nay, and toucheth nought more high

     Than is that dulcet harmony of form

     Seen in the lines and charms of loveliness

     Unspeakable, yet speaking, soul to soul,

     Owned by the bounding blood, worshipped by will

     Which leaps to seize it, knowing this is best,

     This the true heaven where mortals are like gods,

     Makers and Masters, this the gift of gifts

     Ever renewed and worth a thousand woes.

     For who hath grieved when soft arms shut him safe,

     And all life melted to a happy sigh,

     And all the world was given in one warm kiss?

     So sang, they with soft float of beckoning hands,

     Eyes lighted with love-flames, alluring smiles;

     In dainty dance their supple sides and limbs

     Revealing and concealing like burst buds

     Which tell their colour, but hide yet their hearts.

     Never so matchless grace delighted eye

     As troop by troop these midnight-dancers swept

     Nearer the Tree, each daintier than the last,

     Murmuring, "O great Siddartha!  I am thine,

     Taste of my mouth and see if youth is sweet!"

     Also, when nothing moved our Master's mind,

     Lo! Kama waved his magic bow, and lo!

     The band of dancers opened, and a shape

     Fairest and stateliest of the throng came forth

     Wearing the guise of sweet Yasodhara.

     Tender the passion of those dark eyes seemed

     Brimming with tears; yearning those outspread arms

     Opened towards him; musical that moan

     Wherewith the beauteous shadow named his name,

     Sighing: "My Prince!  I die for lack of thee!

     What heaven hast thou found like that we knew

     By bright Rohini in the Pleasure-house,

     Where all these weary years I weep for thee?

     Return, Siddartha! ah, return!  But touch

     My lips again, but let me to thy breast

     Once, and these fruitless dreams will end!  Ah, look!

     Am I not she thou lovedst?"  But Buddh said:

     "For that sweet sake of her thou playest thus

     Fair and false Shadow, is thy playing vain;

     I curse thee not who wear'st a form so dear,

     Yet as thou art, so are all earthly shows.

     Melt to thy void again!"  Thereat a cry

     Thrilled through the grove, and all that comely rout

     Faded with flickering wafts of flame, and trail

     Of vaporous ropes.

                  Next under darkening skies

     And noise of rising storm came fiercer Sins

     The rearmost of the Ten, Patigha—Hate—

     With serpents coiled about her waist, which suck

     Poisonous milk from both her hanging dugs,

     And with her curses mix their angry hiss.

     Little wrought she upon that Holy One

     Who with his calm eyes dumbed her bitter lips

     And made her black snakes writhe to hide their fangs.

     Then followed Ruparaga—Lust of days—

     That sensual Sin which out of greed for life

     Forgets to live; and next him Lust of Fame,

     Nobler Aruparaga, she whose spell

     Beguiles the wise, mother of daring deeds,

     Battles and toils.  And haughty Mano came,

     The Fiend of Pride; and smooth Self-Righteousness.

     Uddhachcha; and—with many a hideous band

     Of vile and formless things, which crept and flapped

     Toad-like and bat-like—Ignorance, the Dam

     Of Fear and Wrong, Avidya, hideous hag,

     Whose footsteps left the midnight darker, while

     The rooted mountains shook, the wild winds howled,

     The broken clouds shed from their caverns streams

     Of levin-lighted rain; stars shot from heaven,

     The solid earth shuddered as if one laid

     Flame to her gaping wounds; the torn black air

     Was full of whistling wings, of screams and yells,

     Of evil faces peering, of vast fronts

     Terrible and majestic, Lords of Hell

     Who from a thousand Limbos led their troops

     To tempt the Master.

                      But Buddh heeded not,

     Sitting serene, with perfect virtue walled

     As is a stronghold by its gates and ramps;

     Also the Sacred Tree—the Bodhi-tree—

     Amid that tumult stirred not, but each leaf

     Glistened as still as when on moonlit eves

     No zephyr spills the glittering gems of dew;

     For all this clamour raged outside the shade

     Spread by those cloistered stems.

                             In the third watch,

     The earth being still, the hellish legions fled,

     A soft air breathing from the sinking moon,

     Our Lord attained samma-sambuddh; he saw

     By light which shines beyond our mortal ken

     The line of all his lives in all the worlds,

     Far back and farther back and farthest yet,

     Five hundred lives and fifty.  Even as one,

     At rest upon a mountain-summit, marks

     His path wind up by precipice and crag

     Past thick-set woods shrunk to a patch; through bogs

     Glittering false-green; down hollows where he toiled

     Breathless; on dizzy ridges where his feet

     Had well-nigh slipped; beyond the sunny lawns,

     The cataract and the cavern and the pool,

     Backward to those dim flats wherefrom he sprang

     To reach the blue—thus Buddha did behold

     Life's upward steps long-linked, from levels low

     Where breath is base, to higher slopes and higher

     Whereon the ten great Virtues wait to lead

     The climber skyward.  Also, Buddha saw

     How new life reaps what the old life did sow;

     How where its march breaks off its march begins;

     Holding the gain and answering for the loss;

     And how in each life good begets more good,

     Evil fresh evil; Death but casting up

     Debit or credit, whereupon th' account

     In merits or demerits stamps itself

     By sure arithmic—where no tittle drops—

     Certain and just, on some new-springing life;

     Wherein are packed and scored past thoughts and deeds,

     Strivings and triumphs, memories and marks

     Of lives foregone:

                     And in the middle watch,

     Our Lord attained Abhidjna—insight vast

     Ranging beyond this sphere to spheres unnamed,

     System on system, countless worlds and suns

     Moving in splendid measures, band by band

     Linked in division, one yet separate,

     The silver islands of a sapphire sea

     Shoreless, unfathomed, undiminished, stirred

     With waves which roll in restless tides of change.

     He saw those Lords of Light who hold their worlds

     By bonds invisible, how they themselves

     Circle obedient round mightier orbs

     Which serve profounder splendours, star to star

     Flashing the ceaseless radiance of life

     From centres ever shifting unto cirques

     Knowing no uttermost.  These he beheld

     With unsealed vision, and of all those worlds,

     Cycle on epicycle, all their tale

     Of Kalpas, Mahakalpas—terms of time

     Which no man grasps, yea, though he knew to count

     The drops in Gunga from her springs to the sea,

     Measureless unto speech—whereby these wax

     And wane; whereby each of this heavenly host

     Fulfils its shining life and darkling dies.

     Sakwal by Sakwal, depths and heights be passed

     Transported through the blue infinitudes,

     Marking—behind all modes, above all spheres,

     Beyond the burning impulse of each orb—

     That fixed decree at silent work which wills

     Evolve the dark to light, the dead to life,

     To fulness void, to form the yet unformed,

     Good unto better, better unto best,

     By wordless edict; having none to bid,

     None to forbid; for this is past all gods

     Immutable, unspeakable, supreme,

     A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again,

     Ruling all things accordant to the rule

     Of virtue, which is beauty, truth, and use.

     So that all things do well which serve the Power,

     And ill which hinder; nay, the worm does well

     Obedient to its kind; the hawk does well

     Which carries bleeding quarries to its young;

     The dewdrop and the star shine sisterly,

     Globing together in the common work;

     And man, who lives to die, dies to live well

     So if he guide his ways by blamelessness

     And earnest will to hinder not but help

     All things both great and small which suffer life.

     These did our Lord see in the middle watch.

          But when the fourth watch came the secret came

     Of Sorrow, which with evil mars the law,

     As damp and dross hold back the goldsmith's fire.

     Then was the Dukha-satya opened him

     First of the "Noble Truths"; how Sorrow is

     Shadow to life, moving where life doth move;

     Not to be laid aside until one lays

     Living aside, with all its changing states,

     Birth, growth, decay, love, hatred, pleasure, pain,

     Being and doing.  How that none strips off

     These sad delights and pleasant griefs who lacks

     Knowledge to know them snares; but he who knows

     Avidya—Delusion—sets those snares,

     Loves life no longer but ensues escape.

     The eyes of such a one are wide; he sees

     Delusion breeds Sankhara, Tendency

     Perverse: Tendency Energy—Vidnnan—

     Whereby comes Namarupa, local form

     And name and bodiment, bringing the man

     With senses naked to the sensible,

     A helpless mirror of all shows which pass

     Across his heart; and so Vendana grows—

     "Sense-life "—false in its gladness, fell in sadness,

     But sad or glad, the Mother of Desire,

     Trishna, that thirst which makes the living drink

     Deeper and deeper of the false salt waves

     Whereon they float—pleasures, ambitions, wealth,

     Praise, fame, or domination, conquest, love;

     Rich meats and robes, and fair abodes, and pride

     Of ancient lines, and lust of days, and strife

     To live, and sins that flow from strife, some sweet,

     Some bitter.  Thus Life's thirst quenches itself

     With draughts which double thirst; but who is wise

     Tears from his soul this Trishna, feeds his sense

     No longer on false shows, fills his firm mind

     To seek not, strive not, wrong not; bearing meek

     All ills which flow from foregone wrongfulness,

     And so constraining passions that they die

     Famished; till all the sum of ended life—

     The Karma—all that total of a soul

     Which is the things it did, the thoughts it had,

     The "Self" it wove—with woof of viewless time,

     Crossed on the warp invisible of acts—

     The outcome of him on the Universe,

     Grows pure and sinless; either never more

     Needing to find a body and a place,

     Or so informing what fresh frame it takes

     In new existence that the new toils prove

     Lighter and lighter not to be at all,

     Thus "finishing the Path"; free from Earth's cheats;

     Released from all the skandhas of the flesh;

     Broken from ties—from Upandanas—saved

     From whirling on the wheel; aroused and sane

     As is a man wakened from hateful dreams;

     Until—greater than Kings, than Gods more glad!—

     The aching craze to live ends, and life glides—

     Lifeless—to nameless quiet, nameless joy,

     Blessed NIRVANA—sinless, stirless rest

     That change which never changes!

                                    Lo! the Dawn

     Sprang with Buddh's Victory! lo! in the East

     Flamed the first fires of beauteous day, poured forth

     Through fleeting folds of Night's black drapery.

     High in the widening blue the herald-star

     Faded to paler silver as there shot

     Brighter and brighter bars of rosy gleam

     Across the grey.  Far off the shadowy hills

     Saw the great Sun, before the world was 'ware,

     And donned their crowns of crimson; flower by flower

     Felt the warm breath of Morn and 'gan unfold

     Their tender lids.  Over the spangled grass

     Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely Light,

     Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems,

     Decking the earth with radiance, 'broidering

     The sinking storm-clouds with a golden fringe;

     Gilding the feathers of the palms, which waved

     Glad salutation; darting beams of gold

     Into the glades; touching with magic wand

     The stream to rippled ruby; in the brake

     Finding the mild eyes of the antelopes

     And saying, "It is day"; in nested sleep

     Touching the small heads under many a wing

     And whispering, "Children, praise the light of day!"

     Whereat there piped anthems of all the birds!

     The koil's fluted song, the bulbul's hymn,

     The "morning, morning" of the painted thrush,

     The twitter of the sunbirds starting forth

     To find the honey ere the bees be out,

     The grey crow's caw, the parrot's scream, the strokes

     Of the green hammersmith, the myna's chirp,

     The never finished love-talk of the doves

     Yea! and so holy was the influence

     Of that high Dawn which came with victory

     That, far and near, in homes of men there spread

     An unknown peace.  The slayer hid his knife;

     The robber laid his plunder back; the shroff

     Counted full tale of coins; all evil hearts

     Grew gentle, kind hearts gentler, as the balm

     Of that divinest Daybreak lightened Earth.

     Kings at fierce war called truce; the sick men leaped

     Laughing from beds of pain; the dying smiled

     As though they knew that happy Morn was sprung

     From fountains farther than the utmost East;

     And o'er the heart of sad Yasodhara,

     Sitting forlorn at Prince Siddartha's bed,

     Came sudden bliss, as if love should not fail

     Nor such vast sorrow miss to end in joy.

     So glad the World was—though it wist not why—

     That over desolate wastes went swooning songs

     Of mirth, the voice of bodiless Prets and Bhuts

     Foreseeing Buddh; and Devas in the air Cried,

     "It is finished, finished!" and the priests

     Stood with the wondering people in the streets

     Watching those golden splendours flood the sky

     And saying, "There hath happed some mighty thing."

     Also in Ran and jungle grew that day

     Friendship amongst the creatures: spotted deer

     Browsed fearless where the tigress fed her cubs,

     And cheetahs lapped the pool beside the bucks;

     Under the eagle's rock the brown hares scoured

     While his fierce beak but preened an idle wing;

     The snake sunned all his jewels in the beam

     With deadly fangs in sheath; the shrike let pass

     The nestling finch; the emerald halcyons

     Sate dreaming while the fishes played beneath,

     Nor hawked the merops, though the butterflies—

     Crimson and blue and amber-flitted thick

     Around his perch; the Spirit of our Lord

     Lay potent upon man and bird and beast,

     Even while he mused under that Bodhi-tree,

     Glorified with the Conquest gained for all

     And lightened by a Light greater than Day's.

          Then he arose—radiant, rejoicing, strong—

     Beneath the Tree, and lifting high his voice

     Spake this, in hearing of all Times and Worlds:

          Anekajatisangsarang

          Sandhawissang  anibhisang

          Gahakarakangawesanto

          Dukkhajatipunappunang.

          Gahakarakadithosi;

          Punagehang  nakahasi;

          Sabhatephasukhabhagga,

          Gahakutangwisang  Khitang;

          Wisangkharagatang  chittang,

          Janhanangknayamajhaga.

          Many a House of Life

     Held me—Seeking Ever Him Wrought

     These Prisons of the Senses, Sorrow-Fraught;

          Sore was My Ceaseless Strife!

          But Now,

     Thou Builder of this Tabernacle—Thou!

     I Know Thee!  Never Shalt Thou Build Again

          These Walls of Pain,

     Nor Raise the Roof-Tree of Deceits, Nor Lay

          Fresh Rafters on the Clay:

     Broken Thy House is, and the Ridge-Pole Split!

          Delusion Fashioned it!

     Safe Pass I Thence—Deliverance to Obtain.

Book The Seventh

     Sorrowful dwelt the King Suddhodana

     All those long years among the Sakya Lords

     Lacking the speech and presence of his Son;

     Sorrowful sate the sweet Yasodhara

     All those long years, knowing no joy of life,

     Widowed of him her living Liege and Prince.

     And ever, on the news of some recluse

     Seen far away by pasturing camel-men

     Or traders threading devious paths for gain,

     Messengers from the King had gone and come

     Bringing account of many a holy sage

     Lonely and lost to home; but nought of him

     The crown of white Kapilavastu's line,

     The glory of her monarch and his hope,

     The heart's content of sweet Yasodhara,

     Far-wandered now, forgetful, changed, or dead.

          But on a day in the Wasanta-time,

     When silver sprays swing on the mango-trees

     And all the earth is clad with garb of spring,

     The Princess sate by that bright garden-stream

     Whose gliding glass, bordered with lotus-cups,

     Mirrored so often in the bliss gone by

     Their clinging hands and meeting lips.  Her lids

     Were wan with tears, her tender cheeks had thinned;

     Her lips' delicious curves were drawn with grief

     The lustrous glory of her hair was hid—

     Close-bound as widows use; no ornament

     She wore, nor any jewel clasped the cloth—

     Coarse, and of mourning-white—crossed on her breast.

     Slow moved and painfully those small fine feet

     Which had the roe's gait and the rose-leaf's fall

     In old years at the loving voice of him.

     Her eyes, those lamps of love,—which were as if

     Sunlight should shine from out the deepest dark,

     Illumining Night's peace with Daytime's glow—

     Unlighted now, and roving aimlessly,

     Scarce marked the clustering signs of coming Spring

     So the silk lashes drooped over their orbs.

     In one hand was a girdle thick with pearls,

     Siddartha's—treasured since that night he fled.

     (Ah, bitter Night! mother of weeping days!

     When was fond Love so pitiless to love

     Save that this scorned to limit love by life?)

     The other led her little son, a boy

     Divinely fair, the pledge Siddartha left—

     Named Rahula—now seven years old, who tripped

     Gladsome beside his mother, light of heart

     To see the spring-blooms burgeon o'er the world.

          So while they lingered by the lotus-pools

     And, lightly laughing, Rahula flung rice

     To feed the blue and purple fish, and she

     With sad eyes watched the swiftly-flying cranes,

     Sighing, "O creatures of the wandering wing,

     If ye shall light where my dear Lord is hid,

     Say that Yasodhara lives nigh to death

     For one word of his mouth, one touch of him."—

     So, as they played and sighed, mother and child,

     Came some among the damsels of the Court

     Saying: "Great Princess! there have entered in

     At the south gate merchants of Hastinpur

     Tripusha called and Bhalluk, men of worth,

     Long traveled from the loud sea's edge, who bring

     Marvellous lovely webs pictured with gold,

     Waved blades of gilded steel, wrought bowls in brass,

     Cut ivories, spice, simples, and unknown birds

     Treasures of far-off peoples; but they bring

     That which doth beggar these, for He is seen!

     Thy Lord,—our Lord,—the hope of all the land

     Siddartha!  they have seen him face to face

     Yea, and have worshipped him with knees and brows,

     And offered offerings; for he is become

     All which was shown, a teacher of the wise,

     World-honoured, holy, wonderful; a Buddh

     Who doth deliver men and save all flesh

     By sweetest speech and pity vast as Heaven

     And, lo! he journeyeth hither, these do say."

          Then—while the glad blood bounded in her veins

     As Gunga leaps when first the mountain snows

     Melt at her springs—uprose Yasodhara

     And clapped her palms, and laughed, with brimming tears

     Beading her lashes.  "Oh! call quick," she cried,

     "These merchants to my purdah, for mine ears

     Thirst like parched throats to drink their blessed news.

     Go bring them in,—but if their tale be true,

     Say I will fill their girdles with much gold,

     With gems that kings shall envy; come ye too,

     My girls, for ye shall have guerdon of this

     If there be gifts to speak my grateful heart."

          So went those merchants to the Pleasure House,

     Full softly pacing through its golden ways

     With naked feet, amid the peering maids,

     Much wondering at the glories of the Court.

     Whom, when they came without the purdah's folds,

     A voice, tender and eager, filled and charmed

     With trembling music, saying: "Ye are come

     From far, fair Sirs! and ye have seen my Lord—

     Yea, worshipped—for he is become a Buddh,

     World-honoured, holy, and delivers men,

     And journeyeth hither.  Speak! for, if this be,

     Friends are ye of my House, welcome and dear."

          Then answer made Tripusha: "We have seen

     That sacred Master, Princess! we have bowed

     Before his feet; for who was lost a Prince

     Is found a greater than the King of kings.

     Under the Bodhi-tree by Phalgu's bank

     That which shall save the world hath late been wrought

     By him—the Friend of all, the Prince of all—

     Thine most, High Lady! from whose tears men win

     The comfort of this Word the Master speaks.

     Lo! he is well, as one beyond all ills,

     Uplifted as a god from earthly woes,

     Shining with risen Truth, golden and clear.

     Moreover as he entereth town by town,

     Preaching those noble ways which lead to peace,

     The hearts of men follow his path as leaves

     Troop to wind or sheep draw after one

     Who knows the pastures.  We ourselves have heard

     By Gaya in the green Tchirnika grove

     Those wondrous lips and done them reverence.

     He cometh hither ere the first rains fall."

          Thus spake he, and Yasodhara, for joy,

     Scarce mastered breath to answer: "Be it well

     Now and at all times with ye, worthy friends,

     Who bring good tidings; but of this great thing

     Wist ye how it befell?"

                         Then Bhalluk told

     Such as the people of the valleys knew

     Of that dread night of conflict, when the air

     Darkened with fiendish shadows, and the earth

     Quaked, and the waters swelled with Mara's wrath.

     Also how gloriously that morning broke

     Radiant with rising hopes for man, and how

     The Lord was found rejoicing 'neath his Tree.

     But many days the burden of release—

     To be escaped beyond all storms of doubt,

     Safe on Truth's shore—lay, spake he, on that heart

     A golden load; for how shall men—Buddh mused—

     Who love their sins and cleave to cheats of sense,

     And drink of error from a thousand springs—

     Having no mind to see, nor strength to break

     The fleshly snare which binds them—how should such

     Receive the Twelve Nidanas and the Law

     Redeeming all, yet strange to profit by,

     As the caged bird oft shuns its open door?

     So had we missed the helpful victory

     If, in this earth without a refuge, Buddh

     Winning the way had deemed it all too hard

     For mortal feet, and passed, none following him.

     Yet pondered the compassion of our Lord,

     But in that hour there rang a voice as sharp

     As cry of travail, so as if the earth

     Moaned in birth-throe "Nasyami aham bhu

     Nasyati loka! Surely I Am Lost,

     I And My Creatures:" then a pause, and next

     A pleading sigh borne on the western wind,

     "Sruyatam dharma, Bhagwat!"  Oh, Supreme

     Let Thy Great Law Be Uttered!  Whereupon

     The Master cast his vision forth on flesh,

     Saw who should hear and who must wait to hear,

     As the keen Sun gilding the lotus-lakes

     Seeth which buds will open to his beams

     And which are not yet risen from their roots;

     Then spake, divinely smiling, "Yea, I preach!

     Whoso will listen let him learn the Law."

          Afterwards passed he, said they, by the hills

     Unto Benares, where he taught the Five,

     Showing how birth and death should be destroyed,

     And how man hath no fate except past deeds,

     No Hell but what he makes, no Heaven too high

     For those to reach whose passions sleep subdued.

     This was the fifteenth day of Vaishya

     Mid-afternoon and that night was full moon.

          But, of the Rishis, first Kaundinya

     Owned the Four Truths and entered on the Paths;

     And after him Bhadraka, Asvajit, Bassav, Mahanama;

          also there

     Within the Deer-park, at the feet of Buddh,

     Yasad the Prince with nobles fifty-four

     Hearing the blessed word our Master spake

     Worshipped and followed; for there sprang up peace

     And knowledge of a new time come for men

     In all who heard, as spring the flowers and grass

     When water sparkles through a sandy plain.

          These sixty—said they—did our Lord send forth,

     Made perfect in restraint and passion-free,

     To teach the Way; but the World-honoured turned

     South from the Deer-park and Isipatan

     To Yashti and King Bimbasara's realm,

     Where many days he taught; and after these

     King Bimbasara and his folk believed,

     Learning the law of love and ordered life.

     Also he gave the Master, of free gift—

     Pouring forth water on the hands of Buddh—

     The Bamboo-Garden, named Weluvana,

     Wherein are streams and caves and lovely glades;

     And the King set a stone there, carved with this:

          "Ye dharma hetuppabhawa

          Yesan hetun Tathagato;

          Aha yesan cha yo nirodho

          Ewan wadi Maha samano.

          "What life's course and cause sustain

          These Tathagato made plain;

          What delivers from life's woe

          That our Lord hath made us know."

     And, in that Garden—said they—there was held

     A high Assembly, where the Teacher spake

     Wisdom and power, winning all souls which heard,

     So that nine hundred took the yellow robe—

     Such as the Master wears,—and spread his Law;

     And this the gatha was wherewith he closed:

          Sabba papassa akaranan;

          Kusalassa upasampada;

          Sa chitta pariyodapanan;

          Etan Budhanusasanan.

          "Evil swells the debts to pay,

          Good delivers and acquits;

          Shun evil, follow good; hold sway

          Over thyself.  This is the Way."

     Whom, when they ended, speaking so of him,

     With gifts, and thanks which made the jewels dull,

     The Princess recompensed.  "But by what road

     Wendeth my Lord?" she asked: the merchants said,

     "Yojans threescore stretch from the city-walls

     To Rajagriha, whence the easy path

     Passeth by Sona hither and the hills.

     Our oxen, treading eight slow koss a day,

     Came in one moon."

               Then the King hearing word,

     Sent nobles of the Court—well-mounted lords—

     Nine separate messengers, each embassy

     Bidden to say: "The King Suddhodana—

     Nearer the pyre by seven long years of lack,

     Wherethrough he hath not ceased to seek for thee—

     Prays of his son to come unto his own,

     The Throne and people of this longing Realm,

     Lest he shall die and see thy face no more."

     Also nine horsemen sent Yasodhara

     Bidden to say, "The Princess of thy House—

     Rahula's mother—craves to see thy face

     As the night-blowing moon-flower's swelling heart

     Pines for the moon, as pale asoka-buds

     Wait for a woman's foot: if thou hast found

     More than was lost, she prays her part in this,

     Rahula's part, but most of all thyself."

     So sped the Sakya Lords, but it befell

     That each one, with the message in his mouth,

     Entered the Bamboo-Garden in that hour

     When Buddha taught his Law; and—hearing—each

     Forgot to speak, lost thought of King and quest,

     Of the sad Princess even; only gazed

     Eye-rapt upon the Master; only hung

     Heart-caught upon the speech, compassionate,

     Commanding, perfect, pure, enlightening all,

     Poured from those sacred lips.  Look! like a bee

     Winged for the hive, who sees the mogras spread

     And scents their utter sweetness on the air,

     If he be honey-filled, it matters not;

     If night be nigh, or rain, he will not heed;

     Needs must he light on those delicious blooms

     And drain their nectar; so these messengers

     One with another, hearing Buddha's words,

     Let go the purpose of their speed, and mixed,

     Heedless of all, amid the Master's train.

     Wherefore the King bade that Udayi go—

     Chiefest in all the Court, and faithfullest,

     Siddartha's playmate in the happier days—

     Who, as he drew anear the garden, plucked

     Blown tufts of tree-wool from the grove and sealed

     The entrance of his hearing; thus he came

     Safe through the lofty peril of the place

     And told the message of the King, and hers.

          Then meekly bowed his head and spake our Lord

     Before the people: "Surely I shall go!

     It is my duty as it was my will;

     Let no man miss to render reverence

     To those who lend him life, whereby come means

     To live and die no more, but safe attain

     Blissful Nirvana, if ye keep the Law,

     Purging past wrongs and adding nought thereto,

     Complete in love and lovely charities.

     Let the King know and let the Princess hear

     I take the way forthwith."  This told, the folk

     Of white Kapilavastu and its fields

     Made ready for the entrance of their Prince.

     At the south gate a bright pavilion rose

     With flower-wreathed pillars and the walls of silk

     Wrought on their red and green with woven gold.

     Also the roads were laid with scented boughs

     Of neem and mango, and full mussuks shed

     Sandal and jasmine on the dust, and flags

     Fluttered; and on the day when he should come

     It was ordained how many elephants—

     With silver howdahs and their tusks gold-tipped—

     Should wait beyond the ford, and where the drums

     Should boom "Siddartha cometh!" where the lords

     Should light and worship, and the dancing-girls

     Where they should strew their flowers with dance and song

     So that the steed he rode might tramp knee-deep

     In rose and balsam, and the ways be fair;

     While the town rang with music and high joy.

     This was ordained and all men's ears were pricked

     Dawn after dawn to catch the first drum's beat

     Announcing, "Now he cometh!"

     But it fell Eager to be before—Yasodhara

     Rode in her litter to the city-walls

     Where soared the bright pavilion.  All around

     A beauteous garden smiled—Nigrodha named—

     Shaded with bel-trees and the green-plumed dates,

     New-trimmed and gay with winding walks and banks

     Of fruits and flowers; for the southern road

     Skirted its lawns, on this hand leaf and bloom,

     On that the suburb-huts where base-borns dwelt

     Outside the gates, a patient folk and poor,

     Whose touch for Kshatriya and priest of Brahm

     Were sore defilement.  Yet those, too, were quick

     With expectation, rising ere the dawn

     To peer along the road, to climb the trees

     At far-off trumpet of some elephant,

     Or stir of temple-drum; and when none came,

     Busied with lowly chores to please the Prince;

     Sweeping their door-stones, setting forth their flags,

     Stringing the fruited fig-leaves into chains,

     New furbishing the Lingam, decking new

     Yesterday's faded arc of boughs, but aye

     Questioning wayfarers if any noise

     Be on the road of great Siddartha.  These

     The Princess marked with lovely languid eyes,

     Watching, as they, the southward plain and bent

     Like them to listen if the passers gave

     News of the path.  So fell it she beheld

     One slow approaching with his head close shorn,

     A yellow cloth over his shoulder cast,

     Girt as the hermits are, and in his hand

     An earthen bowl, shaped melonwise, the which

     Meekly at each hut-door he held a space,

     Taking the granted dole with gentle thanks

     And all as gently passing where none gave.

     Two followed him wearing the yellow robe,

     But he who bore the bowl so lordly seemed,

     So reverend, and with such a passage moved,

     With so commanding presence filled the air,

     With such sweet eyes of holiness smote all,

     That as they reached him alms the givers gazed

     Awestruck upon his face, and some bent down

     In worship, and some ran to fetch fresh gifts,

     Grieved to be poor; till slowly, group by group,

     Children and men and women drew behind

     Into his steps, whispering with covered lips,

     "Who is he? who? when looked a Rishi thus?"

     But as he came with quiet footfall on

     Nigh the pavilion, lo! the silken door

     Lifted, and, all unveiled, Yasodhara

     Stood in his path crying, "Siddartha!  Lord!"

     With wide eyes streaming and with close-clasped hands,

     Then sobbing fell upon his feet, and lay.

          Afterwards, when this weeping lady passed

     Into the Noble Paths, and one had prayed

     Answer from Buddha wherefore-being vowed

     Quit of all mortal passion and the touch,

     Flower-soft and conquering, of a woman's hands—

     He suffered such embrace, the Master said

     "The greater beareth with the lesser love

     So it may raise it unto easier heights.

     Take heed that no man, being 'soaped from bonds,

     Vexeth bound souls with boasts of liberty.

     Free are ye rather that your freedom spread

     By patient winning and sweet wisdom's skill.

     Three eras of long toil bring Bodhisats—

     Who will be guides and help this darkling world—

     Unto deliverance, and the first is named

     Of deep 'Resolve,' the second of 'Attempt,'

     The third of 'Nomination.'  Lo!  I lived

     In era of Resolve, desiring good,

     Searching for wisdom, but mine eyes were sealed.

     Count the grey seeds on yonder castor-clump—

     So many rains it is since I was Ram,

     A merchant of the coast which looketh south

     To Lanka and the hiding-place of pearls.

     Also in that far time Yasodhara

     Dwelt with me in our village by the sea,

     Tender as now, and Lukshmi was her name.

     And I remember how I journeyed thence

     Seeking our gain, for poor the household was

     And lowly.  Not the less with wistful tears

     She prayed me that I should not part, nor tempt

     Perils by land and water.  'How could love

     Leave what it loved?' she wailed; yet, venturing, I

     Passed to the Straits, and after storm and toil

     And deadly strife with creatures of the deep,

     And woes beneath the midnight and the noon,

     Searching the wave I won therefrom a pearl

     Moonlike and glorious, such as kings might buy

     Emptying their treasury.  Then came I glad

     Unto mine hills, but over all that land

     Famine spread sore; ill was I stead to live

     In journey home, and hardly reached my door—

     Aching for food—with that white wealth of the sea

     Tied in my girdle.  Yet no food was there;

     And on the threshold she for whom I toiled—

     More than myself—lay with her speechless lips

     Nigh unto death for one small gift of grain.

     Then cried I, 'If there be who hath of grain,

     Here is a kingdom's ransom for one life

     Give Lukshmi bread and take my moonlight pearl.'

     Whereat one brought the last of all his hoard,

     Millet—three seers—and clutched the beauteous thing.

     But Lukshmi lived and sighed with gathered life,

     'Lo! thou didst love indeed!' I spent my pearl

     Well in that life to comfort heart and mind

     Else quite uncomforted; but these pure pearls,

     My last large gain, won from a deeper wave—

     The Twelve Nidanas and the Law of Good—

     Cannot be spent, nor dimmed, and most fulfil

     Their perfect beauty being freeliest given.

     For like as is to Meru yonder hill

     Heaped by the little ants, and like as dew

     Dropped in the footmark of a bounding roe

     Unto the shoreless seas, so was that gift

     Unto my present giving; and so love—

     Vaster in being free from toils of sense—

     Was wisest stooping to the weaker heart;

     And so the feet of sweet Yasodhara

     Passed into peace and bliss, being softly led."

          But when the King heard how Siddartha came

     Shorn, with the mendicant's sad-coloured cloth,

     And stretching out a bowl to gather orts

     From base-borns' leavings, wrathful sorrow drove

     Love from his heart.  Thrice on the ground he spat,

     Plucked at his silvered beard, and strode straight forth

     Lackeyed by trembling lords.  Frowning he clomb

     Upon his war-horse, drove the spurs, and dashed,

     Angered, through wondering streets and lanes of folk.

     Scarce finding breath to say, "The King! bow down!"

     Ere the loud cavalcade had clattered by:

     Which—at the turning by the Temple-wall

     Where the south gate was seen—encountered full

     A mighty crowd; to every edge of it

     Poured fast more people, till the roads were lost,

     Blotted by that huge company which thronged

     And grew, close following him whose look serene

     Met the old King's.  Nor lived the father's wrath

     Longer than while the gentle eyes of Buddh

     Lingered in worship on his troubled brows,

     Then downcast sank, with his true knee, to earth

     In proud humility.  So dear it seemed

     To see the Prince, to know him whole, to mark

     That glory greater than of earthly state

     Crowning his head, that majesty which brought

     All men, so awed and silent, in his steps.

     Nathless the King broke forth: "Ends it in this,

     That great Siddartha steals into his realm,

     Wrapped in a clout, shorn, sandalled, craving food

     Of low-borns, he whose life was as a god's,

     My son! heir of this spacious power, and heir

     Of Kings who did but clap their palms to have

     What earth could give or eager service bring?

     Thou should'st have come apparelled in thy rank,

     With shining spears and tramp of horse and foot.

     Lo! all my soldiers camped upon the road,

     And all my city waited at the gates;

     Where hast thou sojourned through these evil years

     Whilst thy crowned father mourned? and she, too, there

     Lived as the widows use, foregoing joys;

     Never once hearing sound of song or string,

     Nor wearing once the festal robe, till now

     When in her cloth of gold she welcomes home

     A beggar spouse in yellow remnants clad.

     Son! why is this?"

                "My father!" came reply,

     "It is the custom of my race."

                          "Thy race,"

     Answered the King "counteth a hundred thrones

     From Maha Sammat, but no deed like this."

          "Not of a mortal line," the Master said,

     "I spake, but of descent invisible,

     The Buddhas who have been and who shall be:

     Of these am I, and what they did I do,

     And this which now befalls so fell before,

     That at his gate a King in warrior-mail

     Should meet his son, a Prince in hermit-weeds;

     And that, by love and self-control, being more

     Than mightiest Kings in all their puissance,

     The appointed Helper of the Worlds should bow—

     As now do I—and with all lowly love

     Proffer, where it is owed for tender debts,

     The first-fruits of the treasure he hath brought;

     Which now I proffer."

                     Then the King amazed

     Inquired "What treasure?" and the Teacher took

     Meekly the royal palm, and while they paced

     Through worshipping streets—the Princess and the King

     On either side—he told the things which make

     For peace and pureness, those Four noble Truths

     Which hold all wisdom as shores shut the seas,

     Those Eight right Rules whereby who will may walk—

     Monarch or slave—upon the perfect Path

     That hath its Stages Four and Precepts Eight,

     Whereby whoso will live—mighty or mean

     Wise or unlearned, man, woman, young or old

     Shall soon or late break from the wheels of life,

     Attaining blest Nirvana.  So they came

     Into the Palace-porch, Suddhodana

     With brows unknit drinking the mighty words,

     And in his own hand carrying Buddha's bowl,

     Whilst a new light brightened the lovely eyes

     Of sweet Yasodhara and sunned her tears;

     And that night entered they the Way of Peace.

Book The Eighth

     A broad mead spreads by swift Kohana's bank

     At Nagara; five days shall bring a man

     In ox-wain thither from Benares' shrines

     Eastward and northward journeying.  The horns

     Of white Himala look upon the place,

     Which all the year is glad with blooms and girt

     By groves made green from that bright streamlet's wave.

     Soft are its slopes and cool its fragrant shades,

     And holy all the spirit of the spot

     Unto this time: the breath of eve comes hushed

     Over the tangled thickets, and high heaps

     Of carved red stones cloven by root and stem

     Of creeping fig, and clad with waving veil

     Of leaf and grass.  The still snake glistens forth

     From crumbled work of lac and cedar-beams

     To coil his folds there on deep-graven slabs;

     The lizard dwells and darts o'er painted floors

     Where kings have paced; the grey fox litters safe

     Under the broken thrones; only the peaks,

     And stream, and sloping lawns, and gentle air

     Abide unchanged.  All else, like all fair shows

     Of life, are fled—for this is where it stood,

     The city of Suddhodana, the hill

     Whereon, upon an eve of gold and blue

     At sinking sun Lord Buddha set himself

     To teach the Law in hearing of his own.

     Lo! ye shall read it in the Sacred Books

     How, being met in that glad pleasaunce-place—

     A garden in old days with hanging walks,

     Fountains, and tanks, and rose-banked terraces

     Girdled by gay pavilions and the sweep

     Of stately palace-fronts—the Master sate

     Eminent, worshipped, all the earnest throng

     Catching the opening of his lips to learn

     That wisdom which hath made our Asia mild;

     Whereto four hundred crores of living souls

     Witness this day.  Upon the King's right hand

     He sate, and round were ranged the Sakya Lords

     Ananda, Devadatta—all the Court.

     Behind stood Seriyut and Mugallan, chiefs

     Of the calm brethren in the yellow garb,

     A goodly company.  Between his knees

     Rahula smiled with wondering childish eyes

     Bent on the awful face, while at his feet

     Sate sweet Yasodhara, her heartaches gone,

     Foreseeing that fair love which doth not feed

     On fleeting sense, that life which knows no age,

     That blessed last of deaths when Death is dead,

     His victory and hers.  Wherefore she laid

     Her hand upon his hands, folding around

     Her silver shoulder-cloth his yellow robe,

     Nearest in all the world to him whose words

     The Three Worlds waited for.  I cannot tell

     A small part of the splendid lore which broke

     From Buddha's lips: I am a late-come scribe

     Who love the Master and his love of men,

     And tell this legend, knowing he was wise,

     But have not wit to speak beyond the books;

     And time hath blurred their script and ancient sense,

     Which once was new and mighty, moving all.

     A little of that large discourse I know

     Which Buddha spake on the soft Indian eve.

     Also I know it writ that they who heard

     Were more—lakhs more—crores more—than could be seen,

     For all the Devas and the Dead thronged there,

     Till Heaven was emptied to the seventh zone

     And uttermost dark Hells opened their bars;

     Also the daylight lingered past its time

     In rose-leaf radiance on the watching peaks,

     So that it seemed night listened in the glens,

     And noon upon the mountains; yea! they write,

     The evening stood between them like some maid

     Celestial, love-struck, rapt; the smooth-rolled clouds

     Her braided hair; the studded stars the pearls

     And diamonds of her coronal; the moon

     Her forehead jewel, and the deepening dark

     Her woven garments.  'T was her close-held breath

     Which came in scented sighs across the lawns

     While our Lord taught, and, while he taught, who heard—

     Though he were stranger in the land, or slave,

     High caste or low, come of the Aryan blood,

     Or Mlech or Jungle-dweller—seemed to hear

     What tongue his fellows talked.  Nay, outside those

     Who crowded by the river, great and small,

     The birds and beasts and creeping things—'t is writ—

     Had sense of Buddha's vast embracing love

     And took the promise of his piteous speech;

     So that their lives—prisoned in shape of ape,

     Tiger, or deer, shagged bear, jackal, or wolf,

     Foul-feeding kite, pearled dove, or peacock gemmed,

     Squat toad, or speckled serpent, lizard, bat,

     Yea, or of fish fanning the river waves—

     Touched meekly at the skirts of brotherhood

     With man who hath less innocence than these;

     And in mute gladness knew their bondage broke

     Whilst Buddha spake these things before the King:

     Om, Amitaya! measure not with words

          Th' Immeasurable; nor sink the string of thought

     Into the Fathomless.  Who asks doth err,

          Who answers, errs.  Say nought!

     The Books teach Darkness was, at first of all,

          And Brahm, sole meditating in that Night;

     Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there!

          Nor him, nor any light

     Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes,

          Or any searcher know by mortal mind,

     Veil after veil will lift—but there must be

          Veil upon veil behind.

     Stars sweep and question not.  This is enough

          That life and death and joy and woe abide;

     And cause and sequence, and the course of time,

          And Being's ceaseless tide,

     Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river

          By ripples following ripples, fast or slow—

     The same yet not the same—from far-off fountain

          To where its waters flow

     Into the seas.  These, steaming to the Sun,

          Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece

     To trickle down the hills, and glide again;

          Having no pause or peace.

     This is enough to know, the phantasms are;

          The Heavens, Earths, Worlds, and changes changing them

     A mighty whirling wheel of strife and stress

          Which none can stay or stem.

     Pray not! the Darkness will not brighten!

          Ask Nought from the Silence, for it cannot speak!

     Vex not your mournful minds with pious pains!

          Ah! Brothers, Sisters! seek

     Nought from the helpless gods by gift and hymn,

          Nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruit and cakes;

     Within yourselves deliverance must be sought;

          Each man his prison makes.

     Each hath such lordship as the loftiest ones;

           Nay, for with Powers above, around, below,

     As with all flesh and whatsoever lives,

           Act maketh joy and woe.

     What hath been bringeth what shall be, and is,

           Worse—better—last for first and first for last;

     The Angels in the Heavens of Gladness reap

           Fruits of a holy past.

     The devils in the underworlds wear out

          Deeds that were wicked in an age gone by.

     Nothing endures: fair virtues waste with time,

          Foul sins grow purged thereby.

     Who toiled a slave may come anew a Prince

          For gentle worthiness and merit won;

     Who ruled a King may wander earth in rags

          For things done and undone.

     Higher than Indra's ye may lift your lot,

          And sink it lower than the worm or gnat;

     The end of many myriad lives is this,

          The end of myriads that.

     Only, while turns this wheel invisible,

          No pause, no peace, no staying-place can be;

     Who mounts will fall, who falls may mount; the spokes

          Go round unceasingly!

     If ye lay bound upon the wheel of change,

          And no way were of breaking from the chain,

     The Heart of boundless Being is a curse,

          The Soul of Things fell Pain.

     Ye are not bound! the Soul of Things is sweet,

          The Heart of Being is celestial rest;

     Stronger than woe is will: that which was Good

          Doth pass to Better—Best.

     I, Buddh, who wept with all my brothers' tears,

          Whose heart was broken by a whole world's woe,

          Laugh and am glad, for there is Liberty

     Ho! ye who suffer! know

     Ye suffer from yourselves.  None else compels

          None other holds you that ye live and die,

     And whirl upon the wheel, and hug and kiss

          Its spokes of agony,

     Its tire of tears, its nave of nothingness.

          Behold, I show you Truth!  Lower than hell,

     Higher than heaven, outside the utmost stars,

          Farther than Brahm doth dwell,

     Before beginning, and without an end,

          As space eternal and as surety sure,

     Is fixed a Power divine which moves to good,

          Only its laws endure.

     This is its touch upon the blossomed rose,

          The fashion of its hand shaped lotus-leaves;

     In dark soil and the silence of the seeds

          The robe of Spring it weaves;

     That is its painting on the glorious clouds,

          And these its emeralds on the peacock's train;

     It hath its stations in the stars;

          Its slaves in lightning, wind, and rain.

     Out of the dark it wrought the heart of man,

          Out of dull shells the pheasant's pencilled neck;

     Ever at toil, it brings to loveliness

          All ancient wrath and wreck.

     The grey eggs in the golden sun-bird's nest

          Its treasures are, the bees' six-sided cell

     Its honey-pot; the ant wots of its ways,

          The white doves know them well.

     It spreadeth forth for flight the eagle's wings

          What time she beareth home her prey; it sends

     The she-wolf to her cubs; for unloved things

        It findeth food and friends.

     It is not marred nor stayed in any use,

          All liketh it; the sweet white milk it brings

     To mothers' breasts; it brings the white drops, too,

          Wherewith the young snake stings.

     The ordered music of the marching orbs

          It makes in viewless canopy of sky;

     In deep abyss of earth it hides up gold,

          Sards, sapphires, lazuli.

     Ever and ever bringing secrets forth,

          It sitteth in the green of forest-glades

     Nursing strange seedlings at the cedar's root,

          Devising leaves, blooms, blades.

     It slayeth and it saveth, nowise moved

          Except unto the working out of doom;

     Its threads are Love and Life; and Death and Pain

          The shuttles of its loom.

     It maketh and unmaketh, mending all;

          What it hath wrought is better than hath been;

     Slow grows the splendid pattern that it plans

          Its wistful hands between.

     This is its work upon the things ye see,

          The unseen things are more; men's hearts and minds,

     The thoughts of peoples and their ways and wills,

          Those, too, the great Law binds.

     Unseen it helpeth ye with faithful hands,

          Unheard it speaketh stronger than the storm.

     Pity and Love are man's because long stress

          Moulded blind mass to form.

     It will not be contemned of any one;

          Who thwarts it loses, and who serves it gains;

     The hidden good it pays with peace and bliss,

          The hidden ill with pains.

     It seeth everywhere and marketh all

          Do right—it recompenseth! do one wrong—

     The equal retribution must be made,

          Though DHARMA tarry long.

     It knows not wrath nor pardon; utter-true

          Its measures mete, its faultless balance weighs;

     Times are as nought, tomorrow it will judge,

          Or after many days.

     By this the slayer's knife did stab himself;

          The unjust judge hath lost his own defender;

     The false tongue dooms its lie; the creeping thief

          And spoiler rob, to render.

     Such is the Law which moves to righteousness,

          Which none at last can turn aside or stay;

     The heart of it is Love, the end of it

          Is Peace and Consummation sweet.  Obey!

     The Books say well, my Brothers! each man's life

          The outcome of his former living is;

     The bygone wrongs bring forth sorrows and woes

          The bygone right breeds bliss.

     That which ye sow ye reap.  See yonder fields

          The sesamum was sesamum, the corn

     Was corn.  The Silence and the Darkness knew!

          So is a man's fate born.

     He cometh, reaper of the things he sowed,

          Sesamum, corn, so much cast in past birth;

     And so much weed and poison-stuff, which mar

          Him and the aching earth.

     If he shall labour rightly, rooting these,

          And planting wholesome seedlings where they grew,

     Fruitful and fair and clean the ground shall be,

          And rich the harvest due.

     If he who liveth, learning whence woe springs,

          Endureth patiently, striving to pay

     His utmost debt for ancient evils done

          In Love and Truth alway;

     If making none to lack, he throughly purge

          The lie and lust of self forth from his blood;

     Suffering all meekly, rendering for offence

          Nothing but grace and good;

     If he shall day by day dwell merciful,

          Holy and just and kind and true; and rend

     Desire from where it clings with bleeding roots,

          Till love of life have end:

     He—dying—leaveth as the sum of him

          A life-count closed, whose ills are dead and quit,

     Whose good is quick and mighty, far and near,

          So that fruits follow it.

     No need hath such to live as ye name life;

          That which began in him when he began

     Is finished: he hath wrought the purpose through

          Of what did make him Man.

     Never shall yearnings torture him, nor sins

          Stain him, nor ache of earthly joys and woes

     Invade his safe eternal peace; nor deaths

          And lives recur.  He goes

     Unto NIRVANA!  He is one with life

          Yet lives not.  He is blest, ceasing to be.

     OM, MANI PADME, OM! the Dewdrop slips

          Into the shining sea!

     This is the doctrine of the KARMA.  Learn!

          Only when all the dross of sin is quit,

     Only when life dies like a white flame spent

          Death dies along with it.

     Say not "I am," "I was," or "I shall be,"

          Think not ye pass from house to house of flesh

     Like travelers who remember and forget,

          Ill-lodged or well-lodged.  Fresh

     Issues upon the Universe that sum

          Which is the lattermost of lives.

     It makes Its habitation as the worm spins silk

          And dwells therein.  It takes

     Function and substance as the snake's egg hatched

          Takes scale and fang; as feathered reedseeds fly

     O'er rock and loam and sand, until they find

          Their marsh and multiply.

     Also it issues forth to help or hurt.

          When Death the bitter murderer doth smite,

     Red roams the unpurged fragment of him, driven

          On wings of plague and blight.

     But when the mild and just die, sweet airs breathe;

          The world grows richer, as if desert-stream

     Should sink away to sparkle up again

          Purer, with broader gleam.

     So merit won winneth the happier age

          Which by demerit halteth short of end;

     Yet must this Law of Love reign King of all

          Before the Kalpas end.

     What lets?—Brothers?  the Darkness lets! which breeds

          Ignorance, mazed whereby ye take these shows

     For true, and thirst to have, and, having, cling

          To lusts which work you woes.

     Ye that will tread the Middle Road, whose course

          Bright Reason traces and soft

     Quiet smoothes; Ye who will take the high Nirvana-way,

          List the Four Noble Truths.

     The First Truth is of Sorrow. Be not mocked!

          Life which ye prize is long-drawn agony:

     Only its pains abide; its pleasures are

          As birds which light and fly,

     Ache of the birth, ache of the helpless days,

          Ache of hot youth and ache of manhood's prime;

     Ache of the chill grey years and choking death,

          These fill your piteous time.

     Sweet is fond Love, but funeral-flames must kiss

          The breasts which pillow and the lips which cling;

     Gallant is warlike Might, but vultures pick

          The joints of chief and King.

     Beauteous is Earth, but all its forest-broods

          Plot mutual slaughter, hungering to live;

     Of sapphire are the skies, but when men cry

          Famished, no drops they give.

     Ask of the sick, the mourners, ask of him

          Who tottereth on his staff, lone and forlorn,

     "Liketh thee life?"—these say the babe is wise

          That weepeth, being born.

     The Second Truth is Sorrow's Cause.  What grief

          Springs of itself and springs not of Desire?

     Senses and things perceived mingle and light

          Passion's quick spark of fire:

     So flameth Trishna, lust and thirst of things.

          Eager ye cleave to shadows, dote on dreams.

     A false Self in the midst ye plant, and make

          A world around which seems;

     Blind to the height beyond, deaf to the sound

          Of sweet airs breathed from far past Indra's sky;

     Dumb to the summons of the true life kept

          For him who false puts by.

     So grow the strifes and lusts which make earth's war,

          So grieve poor cheated hearts and flow salt tears;

     So wag the passions, envies, angers, hates;

          So years chase blood-stained years

     With wild red feet.  So, where the grain should grow,

          Spreads the biran-weed with its evil root

     And poisonous blossoms; hardly good seeds find

          Soil where to fall and shoot;

     And drugged with poisonous drink the soul departs,

          And fierce with thirst to drink Karma returns;

     Sense-struck again the sodden self begins,

          And new deceits it earns

     The Third is Sorrow's Ceasing.  This is peace—

          To conquer love of self and lust of life,

     To tear deep-rooted passion from the breast,

          To still the inward strife;

     For love, to clasp Eternal Beauty close;

          For glory, to be lord of self; for pleasure,

     To live beyond the gods; for countless wealth,

          To lay up lasting treasure

     Of perfect service rendered, duties done

          In charity, soft speech, and stainless days

     These riches shall not fade away in life,

          Nor any death dispraise.

     Then Sorrow ends, for Life and Death have ceased;

          How should lamps flicker when their oil is spent?

     The old sad count is clear, the new is clean;

          Thus hath a man content.

     The Fourth Truth is The Way. It openeth wide,

          Plain for all feet to tread, easy and near,

     The Noble Eightfold Path; it goeth straight

          To peace and refuge.  Hear!

     Manifold tracks lead to yon sister-peaks

          Around whose snows the gilded clouds are curled

     By steep or gentle slopes the climber comes

          Where breaks that other world.

     Strong limbs may dare the rugged road which storms,

          Soaring and perilous, the mountain's breast;

     The weak must wind from slower ledge to ledge

          With many a place of rest.

     So is the Eightfold Path which brings to peace;

          By lower or by upper heights it goes.

     The firm soul hastes, the feeble tarries.  All

          Will reach the sunlit snows.

     The First good Level is Right Doctrine.

          Walk In fear of Dharma, shunning all offence;

     In heed of Karma, which doth make man's fate;

          In lordship over sense.

     The Second is Right Purpose.  Have good-will

          To all that lives, letting unkindness die

     And greed and wrath; so that your lives be made

          Like soft airs passing by.

     The Third is Right Discourse.  Govern the lips

          As they were palace-doors, the King within;

     Tranquil and fair and courteous be all words

          Which from that presence win.

     The Fourth is Right Behavior.  Let each act

          Assoil a fault or help a merit grow;

     Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads

          Let love through good deeds show.

     Four higher roadways be.    Only those feet

          May tread them which have done with earthly things—

     Right Purity, Right Thought, Right Loneliness,

          Right Rapture.  Spread no wings

     For sunward flight, thou soul with unplumed vans

          Sweet is the lower air and safe, and known

     The homely levels: only strong ones leave

          The nest each makes his own.

     Dear is the love, I know, of Wife and Child;

          Pleasant the friends and pastimes of your years;

     Fruitful of good Life's gentle charities;

          False, though firm-set, its fears.

     Live—ye who must—such lives as live on these;

          Make golden stair-ways of your weakness; rise

     By daily sojourn with those phantasies

          To lovelier verities.

     So shall ye pass to clearer heights and find

          Easier ascents and lighter loads of sins,

     And larger will to burst the bonds of sense,

          Entering the Path.  Who wins

     To such commencement hath the First Stage touched;

          He knows the Noble Truths, the Eightfold Road;

     By few or many steps such shall attain

          NIRVANA's blest abode.

     Who standeth at the Second Stage, made free

          From doubts, delusions, and the inward strife,

     Lord of all lusts, quit of the priests and books,

          Shall live but one more life.

     Yet onward lies the Third Stage: purged and pure

          Hath grown the stately spirit here, hath risen

     To love all living things in perfect peace.

           His life at end, life's prison

     Is broken.  Nay, there are who surely pass

          Living and visible to utmost goal

     By Fourth Stage of the Holy ones—the Buddhs—

          And they of stainless soul.

     Lo! like fierce foes slain by some warrior,

          Ten sins along these Stages lie in dust,

     The Love of Self, False Faith, and Doubt are three,

          Two more, Hatred and Lust.

     Who of these Five is conqueror hath trod

          Three stages out of Four: yet there abide

     The Love of Life on earth, Desire for Heaven,

          Self-Praise, Error, and Pride.

     As one who stands on yonder snowy horn

          Having nought o'er him but the boundless blue,

     So, these sins being slain, the man is come

          NIRVANA's verge unto.

     Him the Gods envy from their lower seats;

          Him the Three Worlds in ruin should not shake;

     All life is lived for him, all deaths are dead;

          Karma will no more make

     New houses.  Seeking nothing, he gains all;

          Foregoing self, the Universe grows "I":

     If any teach NIRVANA is to cease,

          Say unto such they lie.

     If any teach NIRVANA is to live,

          Say unto such they err; not knowing this,

     Nor what light shines beyond their broken lamps,

          Nor lifeless, timeless bliss.

     Enter the Path!  There is no grief like Hate!

          No pains like passions, no deceit like sense!

     Enter the Path! far hath he gone whose foot

          Treads down one fond offence.

     Enter the Path!  There spring the healing streams

          Quenching all thirst! there bloom th' immortal flowers

     Carpeting all the way with joy! there throng,

          Swiftest and sweetest hours!

     More is the treasure of the Law than gems;

          Sweeter than comb its sweetness; its delights

     Delightful past compare.  Thereby to live

          Hear the Five Rules aright:—

     Kill not—for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay

     The meanest thing upon its upward way.

     Give freely and receive, but take from none

     By greed, or force, or fraud, what is his own.

     Bear not false witness, slander not, nor lie;

     Truth is the speech of inward purity.

     Shun drugs and drinks which work the wit abuse;

     Clear minds, clean bodies, need no soma juice.

     Touch not thy neighbour's wife, neither commit

     Sins of the flesh unlawful and unfit.

     These words the Master spake of duties due

     To father, mother, children, fellows, friends;

     Teaching how such as may not swiftly break

     The clinging chains of sense—whose feet are weak

     To tread the higher road—should order so

     This life of flesh that all their hither days

     Pass blameless in discharge of charities

     And first true footfalls in the Eightfold Path;

     Living pure, reverent, patient, pitiful,

     Loving all things which live even as themselves;

     Because what falls for ill is fruit of ill

     Wrought in the past, and what falls well of good;

     And that by howsomuch the householder

     Purgeth himself of self and helps the world,

     By so much happier comes he to next stage,

     In so much bettered being.  This he spake,

     As also long before, when our Lord walked

     By Rajagriha in the Bamboo-Grove

     For on a dawn he walked there and beheld

     The householder Singala, newly bathed,

     Bowing himself with bare head to the earth,

     To Heaven, and all four quarters; while he threw

     Rice, red and white, from both hands.  "Wherefore thus

     Bowest thou, Brother?" said the Lord; and he,

     "It is the way, Great Sir! our fathers taught

     At every dawn, before the toil begins,

     To hold off evil from the sky above

     And earth beneath, and all the winds which blow."

     Then the World-honoured spake: "Scatter not rice,

     But offer loving thoughts and acts to all.

     To parents as the East where rises light;

     To teachers as the South whence rich gifts come;

     To wife and children as the West where gleam

     Colours of love and calm, and all days end;

     To friends and kinsmen and all men as North;

     To humblest living things beneath, to Saints

     And Angels and the blessed Dead above

     So shall all evil be shut off, and so

     The six main quarters will be safely kept."

     But to his own, them of the yellow robe

     They who, as wakened eagles, soar with scorn

     From life's low vale, and wing towards the Sun

     To these he taught the Ten Observances

     The Dasa-Sil, and how a mendicant

     Must know the Three Doors and the Triple Thoughts;

     The Sixfold States of Mind; the Fivefold Powers;

     The Eight High Gates of Purity; the Modes

     Of Understanding; Iddhi; Upeksha;

     The Five Great Meditations, which are food

     Sweeter than Amrit for the holy soul;

     The Jhana's and the Three Chief Refuges.

     Also he taught his own how they should dwell;

     How live, free from the snares of love and wealth;

     What eat and drink and carry—three plain cloths,

     Yellow, of stitched stuff, worn with shoulder bare

     A girdle, almsbowl, strainer.  Thus he laid

     The great foundations of our Sangha well,

     That noble Order of the Yellow Robe

     Which to this day standeth to help the World.

          So all that night he spake, teaching the Law

     And on no eyes fell sleep—for they who heard

     Rejoiced with tireless joy.  Also the King,

     When this was finished, rose upon his throne

     And with bared feet bowed low before his Son

     Kissing his hem; and said, "Take me, O Son!

     Lowest and least of all thy Company."

     And sweet Yasodhara, all happy now,—

     Cried "Give to Rahula—thou Blessed One!

     The Treasure of the Kingdom of thy Word

     For his inheritance."   Thus passed these Three

     Into the Path.

     ——————

     Here endeth what I write

     Who love the Master for his love of us,

     A little knowing, little have I told

     Touching the Teacher and the Ways of Peace.

     Forty-five rains thereafter showed he those

     In many lands and many tongues and gave

     Our Asia light, that still is beautiful,

     Conquering the world with spirit of strong grace

     All which is written in the holy Books,

     And where he passed and what proud Emperors

     Carved his sweet words upon the rocks and caves:

     And how—in fulness of the times—it fell

     The Buddha died, the great Tathagato,

     Even as a man 'mongst men, fulfilling all

     And how a thousand thousand crores since then

     Have trod the Path which leads whither he went

     Unto NIRVANA where the Silence lives.

          Ah! Blessed Lord!  Oh, High Deliverer!

     Forgive this feeble script, which doth thee wrong.

     Measuring with little wit thy lofty love.

     Ah!  Lover!  Brother!  Guide!  Lamp of the law!

     I take my refuge in they name and thee!

     I take my refuge in they order!  OM!

     The dew is on the lotus!—Rise, Great Sun!

     And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.

     Om Mani Padme Hum, the sunrise comes!

     The Dewdrop Slips Into The Shining Sea!

     The End