In which calm home of happy life and loveLigged 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 headLulled 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 lookWas 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 setA stringed gourd on the sill, there where the windCould 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 thingsAre but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.O Maya's son! because we roam the earthMoan 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 windWander thou, too, O Prince, thy rest to find;Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sakeQuit 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 eveAmid his beauteous Court, holding the handOf 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 landsWonderful, distant, where pale peoples dwelledAnd 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 rollInto 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 dayTreads 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 westAnd 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 thenThe vast flat world, with crores on crores of folk.""Good," said Siddartha, "let the word be sentThat Channa yoke my chariot—at noonTomorrow 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 bidMy city deck itself, so there be metNo 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 downThe water-carriers sprinkled all the streetsFrom spirting skins, the housewives scattered freshRed powder on their thresholds, strung new wreaths,And trimmed the tulsi-bush before their doors.The paintings on the walls were heightened upWith liberal brush, the trees set thick with flags,The idols gilded; in the four-went waysSuryadeva and the great gods shone'Mid shrines of leaves; so that the city seemedA 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 todayNo 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 outTill nightfall. Thus Suddhodana commands."So all was comely and the houses trimThroughout Kapilavastu, while the PrinceCame forth in painted car, which two steers drew,Snow-white, with swinging dewlaps and huge humpsWrinkled against the carved and lacquered yoke.Goodly it was to mark the people's joyGreeting their Prince; and glad. Siddartha waxedAt sight of all those liege and friendly folkBright-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 boyWho 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 pleasedBecause I come abroad! How many thingsI need not if such little households holdEnough to make our city full of smiles!Drive, Channa! through the gates, and let me seeMore of this gracious world I have not known."So passed they through the gates, a joyous crowdThronging about the wheels, whereof some ranBefore the oxen, throwing wreaths, some strokedTheir silken flanks, some brought them rice and cakes,All crying, "Jai! jai! for our noble Prince!"Thus all the path was kept with gladsome looksAnd filled with fair sights—for the King's word wasThat 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 jawsWagging with palsy and the fright to seeSo many and such joy. One skinny handClutched a worn staff to prop his quavering limbs,And one was pressed upon the ridge of ribsWhence came in gasps the heavy painful breath."Alms!" moaned he, "give, good people! for I dieTomorrow or the next day!" then the coughChoked him, but still he stretched his palm, and stoodBlinking, and groaning 'mid his spasms, "Alms!"Then those around had wrenched his feeble feetAside, 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 heMoaning '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: nowThe 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 sparkWhich 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 longShall I be thus; and if YasodharaLive 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 returnedWistful Siddartha, sad of mien and mood;Nor tasted he the white cakes nor the fruitsSpread for the evening feast, nor once looked upWhile the best palace-dancers strove to charmNor spake—save one sad thing—when wofullyYasodhara sank to his feet and wept,Sighing, "Hath not my Lord comfort in me?""Ah, Sweet!" he said, "such comfort that my soulAches, 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 lipsSo close that night and day our breaths grew oneTime would thrust in between to filch awayMy passion and thy grace, as black Night stealsThe rose-gleams from you peak, which fade to greyAnd 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 LoveMight save its sweetness from the slayer, Time,Who makes men old." So through that night he sateSleepless, uncomforted.And all that nightThe King Suddhodana dreamed troublous dreams.The first fear of his vision was a flagBroad, glorious, glistening with a golden sun,The mark of Indra; but a strong wind blew,Rending its folds divine, and dashing itInto the dust; whereat a concourse cameOf shadowy Ones, who took the spoiled silk upAnd 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 beastWas 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 downMidway 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 roseHigh o'er the city till its stately headShone crowned with clouds, and on the top the PrinceStood, scattering from both hands, this way and that,Gems of most lovely light, as if it rainedJacynths and rubies; and the whole world came,Striving to seize those treasures as they fellTowards the four quarters. But the seventh fear wasA noise of wailing, and behold six menWho wept and gnashed their teeth, and laid their palmsUpon their mouths, walking disconsolate.These seven fears made the vision of his sleep,But none of all his wisest dream-readersCould tell their meaning. Then the King was wroth,Saying, "There cometh evil to my house,And none of ye have wit to help me knowWhat the great gods portend sending me this."So in the city men went sorrowfulBecause the King had dreamed seven signs of fearWhich none could read; but to the gate there cameAn 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 readThe vision of his sleep"; who, when he heardThe sevenfold mysteries of the midnight dream,Bowed reverent and said: "O Maharaj!I hail this favoured House, whence shall ariseA 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 downAnd carried out, did signify the endOf 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 earthThe ten great gifts of wisdom signify,In strength whereof the Prince shall quit his stateAnd shake the world with passage of the Truth.The four flame-breathing horses of the carAre those four fearless virtues which shall bringThy son from doubt and gloom to gladsome light;The wheel that turned with nave of burning goldWas that most precious Wheel of perfect LawWhich he shall turn in sight of all the world.The mighty drum whereon the Prince did beat,Till the sound filled all lands, doth signifyThe thunder of the preaching of the WordWhich he shall preach; the tower that grew to heavenThe growing of the Gospel of this BuddhSets forth; and those rare jewels scattered thenceThe untold treasures are of that good LawTo 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 sonShall, with bright truth and speech unanswerable,Convince of foolishness. O King! rejoice;The fortune of my Lord the Prince is moreThan kingdoms, and his hermit-rags will beBeyond 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 madeThe eight prostrations, touching thrice the ground;Then turned and passed; but when the King bade sendA rich gift after him, the messengersBrought word, "We came to where he entered inAt Chandra's temple, but within was noneSave a grey owl which fluttered from the shrine."The gods come sometimes thus.But the sad KingMarvelled, and gave command that new delightsBe compassed to enthrall Siddartha's heartAmid those dancers of his pleasure-house,Also he set at all the brazen doorsA doubled guard.Yet who shall shut out Fate?For once again the spirit of the PrinceWas moved to see this world beyond his gates,This life of man, so pleasant if its wavesRan not to waste and woful finishingIn Time's dry sands. "I pray you let me viewOur city as it is," such was his prayerTo King Suddhodana. "Your MajestyIn tender heed hath warned the folk beforeTo put away ill things and common sights,And make their faces glad to gladden me,And all the causeways gay; yet have I learnedThis is not daily life, and if I standNearest, 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 unknownBeyond my happy gardens; I shall comeThe more contented to their peace again,Or wiser, father, if not well content.Therefore, I pray thee, let me go at willTomorrow, 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 sightNew from his hood, but what a quiet eyeCometh 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 backIt 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 wellWith balanced chatties, and athwart their hipsThe black-eyed babes; the fly-swarmed sweetmeat shops,The weaver at his loom, the cotton-bowTwangling, the millstones grinding meal, the dogsProwling for orts, the skilful armourerWith tong and hammer linking shirts of mail,The blacksmith with a mattock and a spearReddening together in his coals, the schoolWhere 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 sunWet 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 throngGathered to watch some chattering snake-tamerWind round his wrist the living jewelleryOf asp and nag, or charm the hooded deathTo 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 wifeStealing with cakes and garlands to the godTo pray her husband's safe return from trade,Or beg a boy next birth; hard by the boothsWhere the sweat potters beat the noisy brassFor lamps and lotas; thence, by temple wallsAnd gateways, to the river and the bridgeUnder the city walls.These had they passedWhen 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 dustWrithing, with fiery purple blotches specked;The chill sweat beaded on his brow, his mouthWas dragged awry with twichings of sore pain,The wild eyes swam with inward agony.Gasping, he clutched the grass to rise, and roseHalf-way, then sank, with quaking feeble limbsAnd 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 harmHath 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 manIs smitten with some pest; his elementsAre all confounded; in his veins the blood,Which ran a wholesome river, leaps and boilsA 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 dieUntil the plague hath had its work in him,Killing the nerves which die before the life;Then, when his strings have cracked with agonyAnd all his bones are empty of the senseTo 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 comesIn many forms to all men; griefs and wounds,Sickness and tetters, palsies, leprosies,Hot fevers, watery wastings, issues, blainsBefall all flesh and enter everywhere.""Come such ills unobserved?" the Prince inquired.And Channa said: "Like the sly snake they comeThat stings unseen; like the striped murderer,Who waits to spring from the Karunda bush,Hiding beside the jungle path; or likeThe 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 sleepHappy 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 seeFast pacing towards the river brink a bandOf wailing people, foremost one who swungAn earthen bowl with lighted coals, behindThe 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 onTo 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 liesNaked to all the airs—for soon they setThe red flame to the corners four, which crept,And licked, and flickered, finding out his fleshAnd feeding on it with swift hissing tongues,And crackle of parched skin, and snap of joint;Till the fat smoke thinned and the ashes sankScarlet and grey, with here and there a boneWhite midst the grey—the total of the man.Then spake the Prince, "Is this the end which comesTo all who live?""This is the end that comesTo all," quoth Channa; "he upon the pyre—Whose remnants are so petty that the crowsCaw hungrily, then quit the fruitless feast—Ate, drank, laughed, loved, and lived, and likedlife 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 painsHath such; the kiss upon his lips is nought,The fire-scorch nought; he smelleth not his fleshA-roast, nor yet the sandal and the spiceThey burn; the taste is emptied from his mouth,The hearing of his ears is clogged, the sightIs blinded in his eyes; those whom he lovedWail 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 liveSomewhere, somehow,—who knows?—and so againThe pangs, the parting, and the lighted pile—Such is man's round."But lo! Siddartha turnedEyes 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 flightSome far-off vision, linking this and that,Lost, past, but searchable, but seen, but known.Then cried he, while his lifted countenanceGlowed with the burning passion of a loveUnspeakable, the ardour of a hopeBoundless, 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 feelThe vastness of the agony of earth,The vainness of its joys, the mockeryOf 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 yokeMen to their wheel again to whirl the roundOf false delights and woes that are not false.Me too this lure hath cheated, so it seemedLovely to live, and life a sunlit streamFor ever flowing in a changeless peace;Whereas the foolish ripple of the floodDances so lightly down by bloom and lawnOnly to pour its crystal quicklierInto the foul salt sea. The veil is rentWhich blinded me! I am as all these menWho cry upon their gods and are not heardOr 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 themselvesBeing so feeble that when sad lips cryThey cannot save! I would not let one cryWhom I could save! How can it be that BrahmWould 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 setA triple guard, and bade no man should passBy day or night, issuing or entering in,Until the days were numbered of that dream.
But when the days were numbered, then befellThe 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 LawWhich whoso hears, the same shall make him free.Softly the Indian night sinks on the plainsAt full moon in the month of Chaitra Shud,When mangoes redden and the asoka budsSweeten 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 adownFrom snow-flats on Himala high-outspread;For the moon swung above the eastern peaks,Climbing the spangled vault, and lighting clearRobini's ripples and the hills and plains,And all the sleeping land, and near at handSilvering those roof-tops of the pleasure-house,Where nothing stirred nor sign of watching was,Save at the outer gates, whose warders criedMudra, the watchword, and the countersignAngana, and the watch-drums beat a round;Whereat the earth lay still, except for callOf prowling jackals, and the ceaseless trillOf crickets on the garden grounds.Within—Where the moon glittered through the laceworked stone,Lighting the walls of pearl-shell and the floorsPaved with veined marble—softly fell her beamsOn such rare company of Indian girls,It seemed some chamber sweet in ParadiseWhere Devis rested. All the chosen onesOf 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 layFairer and fairer, till the pleasured gazeRoamed o'er that feast of beauty as it roamsFrom 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 limbsPart hidden, part revealed; their glossy hairBound back with gold or flowers, or flowing looseIn black waves down the shapely nape and neck.Lulled into pleasant dreams by happy toils,They slept, no wearier than jewelled birdsWhich sing and love all day, then under wingFold head till morn bids sing and love again.Lamps of chased silver swinging from the roofIn 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 palmsDrooping or clasped, the faces fair and dark,The great arched brows, the parted lips, the teethLike pearls a merchant picks to make a string,The satin-lidded eyes, with lashes droppedSweeping the delicate cheeks, the rounded wristsThe smooth small feet with bells and bangles decked,Tinkling low music where some sleeper moved,Breaking her smiling dream of some new dancePraised 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 stringsThe little fingers still all interlacedAs when the last notes of her light song playedThose radiant eyes to sleep and sealed her own.Another slumbered folding in her armsA desert-antelope, its slender headBuried with back-sloped horns between her breastsSoft nestling; it was eating—when both drowsed—Red roses, and her loosening hand still heldA rose half-mumbled, while a rose-leaf curledBetween the deer's lips. Here two friends had dozedTogether, wearing mogra-buds, which boundTheir 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 stonesTo make a necklet—agate, onyx, sard,Coral, and moonstone—round her wrist it gleamedA coil of splendid colour, while she held,Unthreaded yet, the bead to close it upGreen turkis, carved with golden gods and scripts.Lulled by the cadence of the garden stream,Thus lay they on the clustered carpets, eachA girlish rose with shut leaves, waiting dawnTo 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 ministersIn 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 bowerOf inmost splendour, and the marriage-couchSet on a dais soft with silver cloths,Where the foot fell as though it trod on pilesOf 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 ranRich 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 framesWherein were set the fretted lattices,Through which there breathed, with moonlight andcool airs,Scents from the shell-flowers and the jasmine sprays;Not bringing thither grace or tendernessSweeter than shed from those fair presencesWithin 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 browLaid in both palms, the lovely Princess leanedWith 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 stillShe moaned anew before the words would come;Then spake: "'Alas, my Prince! I sank to sleepMost happy, for the babe I bear of theeQuickened this eve, and at my heart there beatThat double pulse of life and joy and loveWhose 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 shoneAs if some star had dropped to glitter there,Or like the kantha-stone the great Snake keepsTo make bright daylight underneath the earth.Slow through the streets toward the gates he paced,And none could stay him, though there came a voiceFrom 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-kingBellowed, 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 PresencesSplendid with shining eyes, so beautifulThey seemed the Regents of the Earth who dwellOn Mount Sumeru, lighting from the skyWith retinue of countless heavenly ones,Swift swept unto our city, where I sawThe golden flag of Indra on the gateFlutter and fall; and lo! there rose insteadA glorious banner, all the folds whereofRippled with flashing fire of rubies sewnThick on the silver threads, the rays wherefromSet forth new words and weighty sentencesWhose message made all living creatures glad;And from the east the wind of sunrise blewWith tender waft, opening those jewelled scrollsSo that all flesh might read; and wondrous bloomsPlucked 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 fearCrying, `The time is nigh! the time is nigh!'Thereat the third dream came; for when I soughtThy side, sweet Lord! ah, on our bed there layAn 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 sawThy belt of pearls, tied here below my breasts,Change to a stinging snake; my ankle-ringsFall 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 meanExcept I die, or—worse than any death—Thou shouldst forsake me or be taken?"SweetAs the last smile of sunset was the lookSiddartha bent upon his weeping wife."Comfort thee, dear!" he said, "if comfort livesIn changeless love; for though thy dreams may beShadows of things to come, and though the godsAre shaken in their seats, and though the worldStands 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 hereO'er all these lives that share and sweeten mineSo 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 roundThe lands and seas—as full of ruth for menAs the far-flying dove is full of ruthFor her twin nestlings—ever it has comeHome with glad wing and passionate plumes to thee,Who art the sweetness of my kind best seen,The utmost of their good, the tenderestOf 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 wavedIts 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 beA way of peace on earth by woes of ours;And have with this embrace what faithful loveCan 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 wordsFrom heart to heart therewith, that thou mayst know—What others will not—that I loved thee mostBecause 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 starsIn that same silver order long foretoldStood ranged to say: "This is the night!—choose thouThe way of greatness or the way of goodTo reign a King of kings, or wander lone,Crownless and homeless, that the world be helped."Moreover, with the whispers of the gloomCame to his ears again that warning song,As when the Devas spoke upon the wind:And surely gods were round about the placeWatching our Lord, who watched the shining stars."I will depart," he spake; "the hour is come!Thy tender lips, dear sleeper, summon meTo that which saves the earth but sunders us;And in the silence of yon sky I readMy fated message flashing. Unto thisCame I, and unto this all nights and daysHave led me; for I will not have that crownWhich may be mine: I lay aside those realmsWhich wait the gleaming of my naked swordMy chariot shall not roll with bloody wheelsFrom victory to victory, till earthWears the red record of my name. I chooseTo tread its paths with patient, stainless feet,Making its dust my bed, its loneliest wastesMy dwelling, and its meanest things my mates:Clad in no prouder garb than outcasts wear,Fed with no meats save what the charitableGive of their will, sheltered by no more pompThan the dim cave lends or the jungle-bush,This will I do because the woful cryOf life and all flesh living cometh upInto my ears, and all my soul is fullOf pity for the sickness of this world;Which I will heal, if healing may be foundBy uttermost renouncing and strong strife.For which of all the great and lesser godsHave power or pity? Who hath seen them—who?What have they wrought to help their worshippers?How hath it steaded man to pray, and payTithes of the corn and oil, to chant the charms,To slay the shrieking sacrifice, to rearThe stately fane, to feed the priests, and callOn Vishnu, Shiva, Surya, who saveNone—not the worthiest—from the griefs that teachThose litanies of flattery and fearAscending day by day, like wasted smoke?Hath any of my brothers 'scaped therebyThe 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 beyondWaits—till the whirling wheel comes up again,And new lives bring new sorrows to be borne,New generations for the new desiresWhich have their end in the old mockeries?Hath any of my tender sisters foundFruit of the fast or harvest of the hymn,Or bought one pang the less at bearing-timeFor white curds offered and trim tulsi-leaves?Nay; it may be some of the gods are goodAnd evil some, but all in action weak;Both pitiful and pitiless, and bothAs 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 upFrom mote, and gnat, and worm, reptile, and fish,Bird and shagged beast, man, demon, Deva, God,To clod and mote again; so are we kinTo all that is; and thus, if one might saveMan from his curse, the whole wide world should shareThe lightened horror of this ignoranceWhose shadow is chill fear, and crueltyIts bitter pastime. Yea, if one might save!And means must be! There must be refuge!""MenPerished in winter-winds till one smote fireFrom 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 cameFrom search and strife and loving sacrifice?If one, then, being great and fortunate,Rich, dowered with health and ease, from birth designedTo rule—if he would rule—a King of kings;If one, not tired with life's long day, but gladI' the freshness of its morning, one not cloyedWith love's delicious feasts, but hungry still;If one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage,But joyous in the glory and the graceThat mix with evils here, and free to chooseEarth's loveliest at his will: one even as I,Who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefsWhich 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 heartBeats with each throb of all the hearts that ache,Known and unknown, these that are mine and thoseWhich shall be mine, a thousand million moreSaved by this sacrifice I offer now.Oh, summoning stars! Oh, mournful earthFor 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 shareA little while the anguish of this hourThat 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 seekBe found—if fervent search and strife avail."So with his brow he touched her feet, and bentThe 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 steppedWith 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 loveThen, o'er his head drawing his cloth, he turnedAnd 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 notWhat else will come to all of us save eldWithout assuage and death without avail?Lo! as ye lie asleep so must ye lieA-dead; and when the rose dies where are goneIts scent and splendour? when the lamp is drainedWhither 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 moanUnder their darkness. Therefore farewell, friends!While life is good to give, I give, and goTo 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 scentsFrom pink and purple censers: o'er the land,From Himalay unto the Indian Sea,A tremor spread, as if earth's soul beneathStirred with an unknown hope; and holy books—Which tell the story of our Lord—say, too,That rich celestial musics thrilled the airFrom hosts on hosts of shining ones, who throngedEastward and westward, making bright the nightNorthward 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 InvisiblesIn arms of sapphire, silver, gold, and pearl—Watched with joined hands the Indian Prince, who stood,His tearful eyes raised to the stars, and lipsClose-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 quitThis golden prison where my heart lives cagedTo 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 menWho cast the stars and bade us wait the timeWhen King Suddhodana's great son should ruleRealms upon realms, and be a Lord of lords?Wilt thou ride hence and let the rich world slipOut of thy grasp, to hold a beggar's bowl?Wilt thou go forth into the friendless wasteThat hast this Paradise of pleasures here?"The Prince made answer: "Unto this I came,And not for thrones: the kingdom that I craveIs more than many realms, and all things passTo 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 falseWhich 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 saveThem 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 rackTook down the silver bit and bridle-chains,Breast-cord and curb, and knitted fast the straps,And linked the hooks, and led out KantakaWhom 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 setThe 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 booksWrite, "Surely all had heard Kantaka's neigh,And that strong trampling of his iron heels,Save that the Devas laid their unseen wingsOver 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 nowThe 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 bladesDeny the road! let neither wall nor moatForbid our flight! Look! if I touch thy flankAnd cry, `On, Kantaka! I let whirlwinds lagBehind thy course! Be fire and air, my horse!To stead thy Lord, so shalt thou share with himThe greatness of this deed which helps the world;For therefore ride I, not for men alone,But for all things which, speechless, share our painAnd have no hope, nor wit to ask for hope.Now, therefore, bear thy master valorously!"Then to the saddle lightly leaping, heTouched the arched crest, and Kantaka sprang forthWith armed hoofs sparkling on the stones and ringOf champing bit; but none did hear that sound,For that the Suddha Devas, gathering near,Plucked the red mohra-flowers and strewed them thickUnder his tread, while hands invisibleMuffled the ringing bit and bridle chains.Moreover, it is written when they cameUpon the pavement near the inner gates,The Yakshas of the air laid magic clothsUnder the stallion's feet, so that he wentSoftly and still.But when they reached the gateOf tripled brass—which hardly fivescore menServed to unbar and open—lo! the doorsRolled back all silently, though one might hearIn daytime two koss off the thunderous roarOf those grim hinges and unwieldy plates.Also the middle and the outer gatesUnfolded each their monstrous portals thusIn silence as Siddartha and his steedDrew 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 sleepBefore the Prince's path, which, being breathed,Lulled every sense aswoon: and so he passedFree from the palace.When the morning starStood half a spear's length from the eastern rim,And o'er the earth the breath of morning sighedRippling Anoma's wave, the border-stream,Then drew he rein, and leaped to earth and kissedWhite Kantaka betwixt the ears, and spakeFull sweet to Channa: "This which thou hast doneShall 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 theseThe long locks by its bright edge severed thusFrom off my brows. Give the King all, and saySiddartha prays forget him till he comeTen times a prince, with royal wisdom wonFrom 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."