Sorrowful dwelt the King SuddhodanaAll those long years among the Sakya LordsLacking the speech and presence of his Son;Sorrowful sate the sweet YasodharaAll those long years, knowing no joy of life,Widowed of him her living Liege and Prince.And ever, on the news of some recluseSeen far away by pasturing camel-menOr traders threading devious paths for gain,Messengers from the King had gone and comeBringing account of many a holy sageLonely and lost to home; but nought of himThe 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-treesAnd all the earth is clad with garb of spring,The Princess sate by that bright garden-streamWhose gliding glass, bordered with lotus-cups,Mirrored so often in the bliss gone byTheir clinging hands and meeting lips. Her lidsWere wan with tears, her tender cheeks had thinned;Her lips' delicious curves were drawn with griefThe lustrous glory of her hair was hid—Close-bound as widows use; no ornamentShe wore, nor any jewel clasped the cloth—Coarse, and of mourning-white—crossed on her breast.Slow moved and painfully those small fine feetWhich had the roe's gait and the rose-leaf's fallIn old years at the loving voice of him.Her eyes, those lamps of love,—which were as ifSunlight 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 SpringSo 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 loveSave that this scorned to limit love by life?)The other led her little son, a boyDivinely fair, the pledge Siddartha left—Named Rahula—now seven years old, who trippedGladsome beside his mother, light of heartTo see the spring-blooms burgeon o'er the world.So while they lingered by the lotus-poolsAnd, lightly laughing, Rahula flung riceTo feed the blue and purple fish, and sheWith 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 deathFor 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 CourtSaying: "Great Princess! there have entered inAt the south gate merchants of HastinpurTripusha called and Bhalluk, men of worth,Long traveled from the loud sea's edge, who bringMarvellous lovely webs pictured with gold,Waved blades of gilded steel, wrought bowls in brass,Cut ivories, spice, simples, and unknown birdsTreasures of far-off peoples; but they bringThat which doth beggar these, for He is seen!Thy Lord,—our Lord,—the hope of all the landSiddartha! they have seen him face to faceYea, and have worshipped him with knees and brows,And offered offerings; for he is becomeAll which was shown, a teacher of the wise,World-honoured, holy, wonderful; a BuddhWho doth deliver men and save all fleshBy sweetest speech and pity vast as HeavenAnd, lo! he journeyeth hither, these do say."Then—while the glad blood bounded in her veinsAs Gunga leaps when first the mountain snowsMelt at her springs—uprose YasodharaAnd clapped her palms, and laughed, with brimming tearsBeading her lashes. "Oh! call quick," she cried,"These merchants to my purdah, for mine earsThirst 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 thisIf there be gifts to speak my grateful heart."So went those merchants to the Pleasure House,Full softly pacing through its golden waysWith 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 charmedWith trembling music, saying: "Ye are comeFrom 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 seenThat sacred Master, Princess! we have bowedBefore his feet; for who was lost a PrinceIs found a greater than the King of kings.Under the Bodhi-tree by Phalgu's bankThat which shall save the world hath late been wroughtBy him—the Friend of all, the Prince of all—Thine most, High Lady! from whose tears men winThe 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 leavesTroop to wind or sheep draw after oneWho knows the pastures. We ourselves have heardBy Gaya in the green Tchirnika groveThose 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 wellNow and at all times with ye, worthy friends,Who bring good tidings; but of this great thingWist ye how it befell?"Then Bhalluk toldSuch as the people of the valleys knewOf that dread night of conflict, when the airDarkened with fiendish shadows, and the earthQuaked, and the waters swelled with Mara's wrath.Also how gloriously that morning brokeRadiant with rising hopes for man, and howThe 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 heartA 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 breakThe fleshly snare which binds them—how should suchReceive the Twelve Nidanas and the LawRedeeming all, yet strange to profit by,As the caged bird oft shuns its open door?So had we missed the helpful victoryIf, in this earth without a refuge, BuddhWinning the way had deemed it all too hardFor mortal feet, and passed, none following him.Yet pondered the compassion of our Lord,But in that hour there rang a voice as sharpAs cry of travail, so as if the earthMoaned in birth-throe "Nasyami aham bhuNasyati loka! Surely I Am Lost,I And My Creatures:" then a pause, and nextA pleading sigh borne on the western wind,"Sruyatam dharma, Bhagwat!" Oh, SupremeLet Thy Great Law Be Uttered! WhereuponThe Master cast his vision forth on flesh,Saw who should hear and who must wait to hear,As the keen Sun gilding the lotus-lakesSeeth which buds will open to his beamsAnd 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 hillsUnto 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 highFor those to reach whose passions sleep subdued.This was the fifteenth day of VaishyaMid-afternoon and that night was full moon.But, of the Rishis, first KaundinyaOwned the Four Truths and entered on the Paths;And after him Bhadraka, Asvajit, Bassav, Mahanama;also thereWithin the Deer-park, at the feet of Buddh,Yasad the Prince with nobles fifty-fourHearing the blessed word our Master spakeWorshipped and followed; for there sprang up peaceAnd knowledge of a new time come for menIn all who heard, as spring the flowers and grassWhen 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 turnedSouth from the Deer-park and IsipatanTo Yashti and King Bimbasara's realm,Where many days he taught; and after theseKing 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 hetuppabhawaYesan hetun Tathagato;Aha yesan cha yo nirodhoEwan wadi Maha samano."What life's course and cause sustainThese Tathagato made plain;What delivers from life's woeThat our Lord hath made us know."And, in that Garden—said they—there was heldA high Assembly, where the Teacher spakeWisdom 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 swayOver 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 roadWendeth my Lord?" she asked: the merchants said,"Yojans threescore stretch from the city-wallsTo Rajagriha, whence the easy pathPasseth 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 embassyBidden 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 YasodharaBidden to say, "The Princess of thy House—Rahula's mother—craves to see thy faceAs the night-blowing moon-flower's swelling heartPines for the moon, as pale asoka-budsWait for a woman's foot: if thou hast foundMore than was lost, she prays her part in this,Rahula's part, but most of all thyself."So sped the Sakya Lords, but it befellThat each one, with the message in his mouth,Entered the Bamboo-Garden in that hourWhen Buddha taught his Law; and—hearing—eachForgot to speak, lost thought of King and quest,Of the sad Princess even; only gazedEye-rapt upon the Master; only hungHeart-caught upon the speech, compassionate,Commanding, perfect, pure, enlightening all,Poured from those sacred lips. Look! like a beeWinged for the hive, who sees the mogras spreadAnd 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 bloomsAnd drain their nectar; so these messengersOne 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, pluckedBlown tufts of tree-wool from the grove and sealedThe entrance of his hearing; thus he cameSafe through the lofty peril of the placeAnd told the message of the King, and hers.Then meekly bowed his head and spake our LordBefore the people: "Surely I shall go!It is my duty as it was my will;Let no man miss to render reverenceTo those who lend him life, whereby come meansTo live and die no more, but safe attainBlissful 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 hearI take the way forthwith." This told, the folkOf white Kapilavastu and its fieldsMade ready for the entrance of their Prince.At the south gate a bright pavilion roseWith flower-wreathed pillars and the walls of silkWrought on their red and green with woven gold.Also the roads were laid with scented boughsOf neem and mango, and full mussuks shedSandal and jasmine on the dust, and flagsFluttered; and on the day when he should comeIt was ordained how many elephants—With silver howdahs and their tusks gold-tipped—Should wait beyond the ford, and where the drumsShould boom "Siddartha cometh!" where the lordsShould light and worship, and the dancing-girlsWhere they should strew their flowers with dance and songSo that the steed he rode might tramp knee-deepIn 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 prickedDawn after dawn to catch the first drum's beatAnnouncing, "Now he cometh!"But it fell Eager to be before—YasodharaRode in her litter to the city-wallsWhere soared the bright pavilion. All aroundA beauteous garden smiled—Nigrodha named—Shaded with bel-trees and the green-plumed dates,New-trimmed and gay with winding walks and banksOf fruits and flowers; for the southern roadSkirted its lawns, on this hand leaf and bloom,On that the suburb-huts where base-borns dweltOutside the gates, a patient folk and poor,Whose touch for Kshatriya and priest of BrahmWere sore defilement. Yet those, too, were quickWith expectation, rising ere the dawnTo peer along the road, to climb the treesAt 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 newYesterday's faded arc of boughs, but ayeQuestioning wayfarers if any noiseBe on the road of great Siddartha. TheseThe Princess marked with lovely languid eyes,Watching, as they, the southward plain and bentLike them to listen if the passers gaveNews of the path. So fell it she beheldOne slow approaching with his head close shorn,A yellow cloth over his shoulder cast,Girt as the hermits are, and in his handAn earthen bowl, shaped melonwise, the whichMeekly at each hut-door he held a space,Taking the granted dole with gentle thanksAnd 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 gazedAwestruck upon his face, and some bent downIn worship, and some ran to fetch fresh gifts,Grieved to be poor; till slowly, group by group,Children and men and women drew behindInto his steps, whispering with covered lips,"Who is he? who? when looked a Rishi thus?"But as he came with quiet footfall onNigh the pavilion, lo! the silken doorLifted, and, all unveiled, YasodharaStood 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 passedInto the Noble Paths, and one had prayedAnswer from Buddha wherefore-being vowedQuit 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 loveSo 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 spreadBy 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 namedOf deep 'Resolve,' the second of 'Attempt,'The third of 'Nomination.' Lo! I livedIn 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 southTo Lanka and the hiding-place of pearls.Also in that far time YasodharaDwelt with me in our village by the sea,Tender as now, and Lukshmi was her name.And I remember how I journeyed thenceSeeking our gain, for poor the household wasAnd lowly. Not the less with wistful tearsShe prayed me that I should not part, nor temptPerils by land and water. 'How could loveLeave what it loved?' she wailed; yet, venturing, IPassed to the Straits, and after storm and toilAnd deadly strife with creatures of the deep,And woes beneath the midnight and the noon,Searching the wave I won therefrom a pearlMoonlike and glorious, such as kings might buyEmptying their treasury. Then came I gladUnto mine hills, but over all that landFamine spread sore; ill was I stead to liveIn journey home, and hardly reached my door—Aching for food—with that white wealth of the seaTied in my girdle. Yet no food was there;And on the threshold she for whom I toiled—More than myself—lay with her speechless lipsNigh 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 lifeGive 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 pearlWell in that life to comfort heart and mindElse 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 fulfilTheir perfect beauty being freeliest given.For like as is to Meru yonder hillHeaped by the little ants, and like as dewDropped in the footmark of a bounding roeUnto the shoreless seas, so was that giftUnto 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 YasodharaPassed into peace and bliss, being softly led."But when the King heard how Siddartha cameShorn, with the mendicant's sad-coloured cloth,And stretching out a bowl to gather ortsFrom base-borns' leavings, wrathful sorrow droveLove from his heart. Thrice on the ground he spat,Plucked at his silvered beard, and strode straight forthLackeyed by trembling lords. Frowning he clombUpon 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-wallWhere the south gate was seen—encountered fullA mighty crowd; to every edge of itPoured fast more people, till the roads were lost,Blotted by that huge company which throngedAnd grew, close following him whose look sereneMet the old King's. Nor lived the father's wrathLonger than while the gentle eyes of BuddhLingered in worship on his troubled brows,Then downcast sank, with his true knee, to earthIn proud humility. So dear it seemedTo see the Prince, to know him whole, to markThat glory greater than of earthly stateCrowning his head, that majesty which broughtAll 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 foodOf low-borns, he whose life was as a god's,My son! heir of this spacious power, and heirOf Kings who did but clap their palms to haveWhat 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 yearsWhilst thy crowned father mourned? and she, too, thereLived as the widows use, foregoing joys;Never once hearing sound of song or string,Nor wearing once the festal robe, till nowWhen in her cloth of gold she welcomes homeA 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 thronesFrom 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-mailShould meet his son, a Prince in hermit-weeds;And that, by love and self-control, being moreThan mightiest Kings in all their puissance,The appointed Helper of the Worlds should bow—As now do I—and with all lowly loveProffer, where it is owed for tender debts,The first-fruits of the treasure he hath brought;Which now I proffer."Then the King amazedInquired "What treasure?" and the Teacher tookMeekly the royal palm, and while they pacedThrough worshipping streets—the Princess and the KingOn either side—he told the things which makeFor peace and pureness, those Four noble TruthsWhich hold all wisdom as shores shut the seas,Those Eight right Rules whereby who will may walk—Monarch or slave—upon the perfect PathThat hath its Stages Four and Precepts Eight,Whereby whoso will live—mighty or meanWise or unlearned, man, woman, young or oldShall soon or late break from the wheels of life,Attaining blest Nirvana. So they cameInto the Palace-porch, SuddhodanaWith brows unknit drinking the mighty words,And in his own hand carrying Buddha's bowl,Whilst a new light brightened the lovely eyesOf sweet Yasodhara and sunned her tears;And that night entered they the Way of Peace.
A broad mead spreads by swift Kohana's bankAt Nagara; five days shall bring a manIn ox-wain thither from Benares' shrinesEastward and northward journeying. The hornsOf white Himala look upon the place,Which all the year is glad with blooms and girtBy 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 spotUnto this time: the breath of eve comes hushedOver the tangled thickets, and high heapsOf carved red stones cloven by root and stemOf creeping fig, and clad with waving veilOf leaf and grass. The still snake glistens forthFrom crumbled work of lac and cedar-beamsTo coil his folds there on deep-graven slabs;The lizard dwells and darts o'er painted floorsWhere kings have paced; the grey fox litters safeUnder the broken thrones; only the peaks,And stream, and sloping lawns, and gentle airAbide unchanged. All else, like all fair showsOf life, are fled—for this is where it stood,The city of Suddhodana, the hillWhereon, upon an eve of gold and blueAt sinking sun Lord Buddha set himselfTo teach the Law in hearing of his own.Lo! ye shall read it in the Sacred BooksHow, being met in that glad pleasaunce-place—A garden in old days with hanging walks,Fountains, and tanks, and rose-banked terracesGirdled by gay pavilions and the sweepOf stately palace-fronts—the Master sateEminent, worshipped, all the earnest throngCatching the opening of his lips to learnThat wisdom which hath made our Asia mild;Whereto four hundred crores of living soulsWitness this day. Upon the King's right handHe sate, and round were ranged the Sakya LordsAnanda, Devadatta—all the Court.Behind stood Seriyut and Mugallan, chiefsOf the calm brethren in the yellow garb,A goodly company. Between his kneesRahula smiled with wondering childish eyesBent on the awful face, while at his feetSate sweet Yasodhara, her heartaches gone,Foreseeing that fair love which doth not feedOn fleeting sense, that life which knows no age,That blessed last of deaths when Death is dead,His victory and hers. Wherefore she laidHer hand upon his hands, folding aroundHer silver shoulder-cloth his yellow robe,Nearest in all the world to him whose wordsThe Three Worlds waited for. I cannot tellA small part of the splendid lore which brokeFrom Buddha's lips: I am a late-come scribeWho 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 knowWhich Buddha spake on the soft Indian eve.Also I know it writ that they who heardWere 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 zoneAnd uttermost dark Hells opened their bars;Also the daylight lingered past its timeIn 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 maidCelestial, love-struck, rapt; the smooth-rolled cloudsHer braided hair; the studded stars the pearlsAnd diamonds of her coronal; the moonHer forehead jewel, and the deepening darkHer woven garments. 'T was her close-held breathWhich came in scented sighs across the lawnsWhile 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 hearWhat tongue his fellows talked. Nay, outside thoseWho crowded by the river, great and small,The birds and beasts and creeping things—'t is writ—Had sense of Buddha's vast embracing loveAnd 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 brotherhoodWith man who hath less innocence than these;And in mute gladness knew their bondage brokeWhilst Buddha spake these things before the King:Om, Amitaya! measure not with wordsTh' Immeasurable; nor sink the string of thoughtInto 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 lightShall any gazer see with mortal eyes,Or any searcher know by mortal mind,Veil after veil will lift—but there must beVeil upon veil behind.Stars sweep and question not. This is enoughThat 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 riverBy ripples following ripples, fast or slow—The same yet not the same—from far-off fountainTo where its waters flowInto the seas. These, steaming to the Sun,Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleeceTo 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 themA mighty whirling wheel of strife and stressWhich 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! seekNought 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 reapFruits of a holy past.The devils in the underworlds wear outDeeds 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 PrinceFor gentle worthiness and merit won;Who ruled a King may wander earth in ragsFor 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 spokesGo 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 GoodDoth 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 LibertyHo! ye who suffer! knowYe suffer from yourselves. None else compelsNone other holds you that ye live and die,And whirl upon the wheel, and hug and kissIts 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 seedsThe 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 lovelinessAll ancient wrath and wreck.The grey eggs in the golden sun-bird's nestIts treasures are, the bees' six-sided cellIts honey-pot; the ant wots of its ways,The white doves know them well.It spreadeth forth for flight the eagle's wingsWhat time she beareth home her prey; it sendsThe she-wolf to her cubs; for unloved thingsIt findeth food and friends.It is not marred nor stayed in any use,All liketh it; the sweet white milk it bringsTo mothers' breasts; it brings the white drops, too,Wherewith the young snake stings.The ordered music of the marching orbsIt 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-gladesNursing strange seedlings at the cedar's root,Devising leaves, blooms, blades.It slayeth and it saveth, nowise movedExcept unto the working out of doom;Its threads are Love and Life; and Death and PainThe 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 plansIts 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 stressMoulded 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 allDo right—it recompenseth! do one wrong—The equal retribution must be made,Though DHARMA tarry long.It knows not wrath nor pardon; utter-trueIts 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 thiefAnd 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 itIs Peace and Consummation sweet. Obey!
The Books say well, my Brothers! each man's lifeThe outcome of his former living is;The bygone wrongs bring forth sorrows and woesThe bygone right breeds bliss.That which ye sow ye reap. See yonder fieldsThe sesamum was sesamum, the cornWas 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 marHim 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 payHis utmost debt for ancient evils doneIn Love and Truth alway;If making none to lack, he throughly purgeThe lie and lust of self forth from his blood;Suffering all meekly, rendering for offenceNothing but grace and good;If he shall day by day dwell merciful,Holy and just and kind and true; and rendDesire from where it clings with bleeding roots,Till love of life have end:He—dying—leaveth as the sum of himA 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 beganIs finished: he hath wrought the purpose throughOf what did make him Man.Never shall yearnings torture him, nor sinsStain him, nor ache of earthly joys and woesInvade his safe eternal peace; nor deathsAnd lives recur. He goesUnto NIRVANA! He is one with lifeYet lives not. He is blest, ceasing to be.OM, MANI PADME, OM! the Dewdrop slipsInto 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 spentDeath dies along with it.Say not "I am," "I was," or "I shall be,"Think not ye pass from house to house of fleshLike travelers who remember and forget,Ill-lodged or well-lodged. FreshIssues upon the Universe that sumWhich is the lattermost of lives.It makes Its habitation as the worm spins silkAnd dwells therein. It takesFunction and substance as the snake's egg hatchedTakes scale and fang; as feathered reedseeds flyO'er rock and loam and sand, until they findTheir 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, drivenOn wings of plague and blight.But when the mild and just die, sweet airs breathe;The world grows richer, as if desert-streamShould sink away to sparkle up againPurer, with broader gleam.So merit won winneth the happier ageWhich by demerit halteth short of end;Yet must this Law of Love reign King of allBefore the Kalpas end.What lets?—Brothers? the Darkness lets! which breedsIgnorance, mazed whereby ye take these showsFor true, and thirst to have, and, having, clingTo lusts which work you woes.Ye that will tread the Middle Road, whose courseBright Reason traces and softQuiet 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 areAs 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 kissThe breasts which pillow and the lips which cling;Gallant is warlike Might, but vultures pickThe joints of chief and King.Beauteous is Earth, but all its forest-broodsPlot mutual slaughter, hungering to live;Of sapphire are the skies, but when men cryFamished, no drops they give.Ask of the sick, the mourners, ask of himWho tottereth on his staff, lone and forlorn,"Liketh thee life?"—these say the babe is wiseThat weepeth, being born.The Second Truth is Sorrow's Cause. What griefSprings of itself and springs not of Desire?Senses and things perceived mingle and lightPassion'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 makeA world around which seems;Blind to the height beyond, deaf to the soundOf sweet airs breathed from far past Indra's sky;Dumb to the summons of the true life keptFor 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 yearsWith wild red feet. So, where the grain should grow,Spreads the biran-weed with its evil rootAnd poisonous blossoms; hardly good seeds findSoil 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 earnsThe 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 treasureOf perfect service rendered, duties doneIn charity, soft speech, and stainless daysThese 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.