Round Rajagriha five fair hills arose,Guarding King Bimbasara's sylvan town;Baibhara, green with lemon-grass and palms;Bipulla, at whose foot thin SarsutiSteals with warm ripple; shadowy Tapovan,Whose steaming pools mirror black rocks, which oozeSovereign 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 tuftsUnder dark mangoes and the jujube-trees,Past milk-white veins of rock and jasper crags,Low cliff and flats of jungle-flowers, to whereThe shoulder of that mountain, sloping west,O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.Lo! thou who comest thither, bare thy feetAnd bow thy head! for all this spacious earthHath 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 mealChance-gathered from the charitable; at nightCrouched on the grass, homeless, alone; while yelpedThe sleepless jackals round his cave, or coughsOf famished tiger from the thicket broke.By day and night here dwelt the World-honoured,Subduing that fair body born for blissWith fast and frequent watch and search intenseOf silent meditation, so prolongedThat ofttimes while he mused—as motionlessAs the fixed rock his seat—the squirrel leapedUpon his knee, the timid quail led forthHer brood between his feet, and blue doves peckedThe rice-grains from the bowl beside his hand.Thus would he muse from noontide—when the landShimmered with heat, and walls and temples dancedIn the reeking air—till sunset, noting notThe blazing globe roll down, nor evening glide,Purple and swift, across the softened fields;Nor the still coming of the stars, nor throbOf drum-skins in the busy town, nor screechOf owl and night jar; wholly wrapt from selfIn keen unraveling of the threads of thoughtAnd steadfast pacing of life's labyrinths.Thus would he sit till midnight hushed the world,Save where the beasts of darkness in the brakeCrept and cried out, as fear and hatred cry,As lust and avarice and anger creepIn the black jungles of man's ignorance.Then slept he for what space the fleet moon asksTo swim a tenth part of her cloudy sea;But rose ere the false-dawn, and stood againWistful on some dark platform of his hill,Watching the sleeping earth with ardent eyesAnd thoughts embracing all its living things,While o'er the waving fields that murmur movedWhich is the kiss of Morn waking the lands,And in the east that miracle of DayGathered and grew: at first a dusk so dimNight 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 floodsOf silver, warming into pale gold, caughtBy topmost clouds, and flaming on their rimsTo fervent golden glow, flushed from the brinkWith saffron, scarlet, crimson, amethyst;Whereat the sky burns splendid to the blue,And, robed in raiment of glad light, theSong Of Life and Glory cometh!Then our Lord,After the manner of a Rishi, hailedThe rising orb, and went—ablutions made—Down by the winding path unto the town;And in the fashion of a Rishi passedFrom 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 runTo fill his jar, and fetch him milk and cakes.And ofttimes as he paced, gentle and slow,Radiant with heavenly pity, lost in careFor those he knew not, save as fellow lives,The dark surprised eyes of some Indian maidWould dwell in sudden love and worship deepOn that majestic form, as if she sawHer dreams of tenderest thought made true, and graceFairer than mortal fire her breast. But hePassed onward with the bowl and yellow robe,By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts,Wending his way back to the solitudesTo 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 tameWith 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 diseaseTheir slowly-wasting joints and stiffened limbsJutted from sapless shoulders like dead forksfrom forest trunks.Others had clenched their handsSo long and with so fierce a fortitude,The claw-like nails grew through the festered palm.Some walked on sandals spiked; some with sharp flintsGashed breast and brow and thigh, scarred thesewith fire,Threaded their flesh with jungle thorns and spits,Besmeared with mud and ashes, crouching foulIn rags of dead men wrapped about their loins.Certain there were inhabited the spotsWhere death pyres smouldered, cowering defiledWith corpses for their company, and kitesScreaming around them o'er the funeral-spoils;Certain who cried five hundred times a dayThe names of Shiva, wound with darting snakesAbout 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, visagesHaggard and wan as slain men's, five days dead;Here crouched one in the dust who noon by noonMeted a thousand grains of millet out,Ate it with famished patience, seed by seed,And so starved on; there one who bruised his pulseWith 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 strippedFor glory of much suffering, and the blissWhich they shall win—say holy books—whose woeShames gods that send us woe, and makes men godsStronger to suffer than hell is to harm.Whom sadly eyeing spake our Lord to one,Chief of the woe-begones: "Much-suffering sirThese many moons I dwell upon the hill—Who am a seeker of the Truth—and seeMy brothers here, and thee, so piteouslySelf-anguished; wherefore add ye ills to lifeWhich is so evil?"Answer made the sage"'T is written if a man shall mortifyHis flesh, till pain be grown the life he livesAnd death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purgeSin's dross away, and the soul, purified,Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, wingedFor 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-waysBy 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 buysIs spent; and if ye buy heaven with your bloodIn hell's hard market, when the bargain's throughThe toil begins again!""It may begin,"The hermit moaned. "Alas! we know not this,Nor surely anything; yet after nightDay comes, and after turmoil peace, and weHate this accursed flesh which clogs the soulThat fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,We stake brief agonies in game with GodsTo gain the larger joys.""Yet if they lastA myriad years," he said, "they fade at length,Those joys; or if not, is there then some lifeBelow, above, beyond, so unlike life it will not change?Speak! do your Gods endureFor 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 serveTo 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 lightWhereby we gaze abroad to know if dawnWill break, and whither winds the better road?"Then cried they, "We have chosen this for roadAnd 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 menFear so to die they are afraid to fear,Lust so to live they dare not love their life,But plague it with fierce penances, belikeTo please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells;Belike in holy madness, hoping soulMay 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 breathOf fragrance and these robes of reverence donnedSilver and gold and purple—none of yeMiss perfect living, none of ye despoilYour happy beauty. O, ye palms, which riseEager to pierce the sky and drink the windBlown 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 deemTo strain to better by foregoing needs!But man, who slays ye—being lord—is wise,And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forthIn self-tormentings!"While the Master spakeBlew 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 gleamedOr wild figs hung. But always as they strayedThe herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and keptThe silly crowd still moving to the plain.A ewe with couplets in the flock there was.Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behindBleeding, 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 tenderlyHe 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 griefAs sit and watch the sorrows of the worldIn 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 sentTo fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,And five score sheep, the which our Lord the KingSlayeth this night in worship of his gods."Then said the Master, "I will also go."So paced he patiently, bearing the lambBeside 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 faceAnd lifted hands—saluted, bending low"Lord! thou art he," she said, "who yesterdayHad pity on me in the fig-grove here,Where I live lone and reared my child; but heStraying amid the blossoms found a snake,Which twined about his wrist, while he did laughAnd tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouthOf that cold playmate. But, alas! ere longHe turned so pale and still, I could not thinkWhy he should cease to play, and let my breastFall from his lips. And one said, 'He is sickOf poison'; and another, 'He will die.'But I, who could not lose my precious boy,Prayed of them physic, which might bring the lightBack to his eyes; it was so very smallThat kiss-mark of the serpent, and I thinkIt 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 hillLo! now he passeth in the yellow robeAsk of the Rishi if there be a cureFor that which ails thy son.' Whereon I cameTrembling 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 gazeWith gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;Then draw the face cloth back, saying to me,'Yea, little sister, there is that might healThee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing;For they who seek physicians bring to themWhat is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, findBlack mustard-seed, a tola; only markThou take it not from any hand or houseWhere 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 smiledExceeding tenderly. "Yea, I spake thus,Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find The seed?""I went, Lord, clasping to my breastThe 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 hereHath any peradventure ever diedHusband or wife, or child, or slave?' they said:'O sister! what is this you ask? the deadAre 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 diedBetween the rain-time and the harvesting!'Ah, sir! I could not find a single houseWhere there was mustard-seed and none had died!Therefore I left my child—who would not suckNor smile—beneath the wild vines by the stream,To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and prayWhere 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 balmI had to give thee. He thou lovest sleptDead on thy bosom yesterday: todayThou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woeThe grief which all hearts share grows less for one.Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stayThy tears and win the secret of that curseWhich makes sweet love our anguish, and which drivesO'er flowers and pastures to the sacrificeAs 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 sunGilded slow Sona's distant stream, and threwLong shadows down the street and through the gateWhere the King's men kept watch. But when they sawOur Lord bearing the lamb, the guards stood back,The market-people drew their wains aside,In the bazaar buyers and sellers stayedThe 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 lostHis count of cowries; from the unwatched riceShiva's white bull fed free; the wasted milkRan o'er the lota while the milkers watchedThe passage of our Lord moving so meek,With yet so beautiful a majesty.But most the women gathering in the doorsAsked: "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 manWho dwelleth with the Rishis on the hill."But the Lord paced, in meditation lost,Thinking, "Alas! for all my sheep which haveNo shepherd; wandering in the night with noneTo guide them; bleating blindly towards the knifeOf Death, as these dumb beasts which are their kin."Then some one told the King, "There cometh hereA holy hermit, bringing down the flockWhich thou didst bid to crown the sacrifice."The King stood in his hall of offering.On either hand, the white-robed Brahmans rangedMuttered their mantras, feeding still the fireWhich roared upon the midmost altar. ThereFrom scented woods flickered bright tongues of flame,Hissing and curling as they licked the giftsOf ghee and spices and the soma juice,The joy of Iudra. Round about the pileA 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 backWith munja grass; at its stretched throat the knifePressed by a priest, who murmured: "This, dread gods,Of many yajnas cometh as the crownFrom Bimbasara: take ye joy to seeThe spirted blood, and pleasure in the scentOf 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 loosedThe victim's bonds, none staying him, so greatHis presence was. Then, craving leave, he spakeOf 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 allWhere pity is, for pity makes the worldSoft to the weak and noble for the strong.Unto the dumb lips of his flock he lentSad pleading words, showing how man, who praysFor mercy to the gods, is merciless,Being as god to those; albeit all lifeIs linked and kin, and what we slay have givenMeek tribute of the milk and wool, and setFast trust upon the hands which murder them.Also he spake of what the holy booksDo surely teach, how that at death some sinkTo bird and beast, and these rise up to manIn wanderings of the spark which grows purged flame.So were the sacrifice new sin, if soThe fated passage of a soul be stayed.Nor, spake he, shall one wash his spirit cleanBy blood; nor gladden gods, being good, with blood;Nor bribe them, being evil; nay, nor layUpon the brow of innocent bound beastsOne hair's weight of that answer all must giveFor all things done amiss or wrongfully,Alone, each for himself, reckoning with thatThe 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 piteousWith such high lordliness of ruth and right,The priests drew back their garments o'er the handsCrimsoned with slaughter, and the King came near,Standing with clasped palms reverencing Buddh;While still our Lord went on, teaching how fairThis earth were if all living things be linkedIn friendliness, and common use of foodsBloodless 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-flamesAnd flung away the steel of sacrifice;And through the land next day passed a decreeProclaimed by criers, and in this wise gravedOn rock and column: "Thus the King's will is:There hath been slaughter for the sacrifice,And slaying for the meat, but henceforth noneShall 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 forthSweet 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 LordTaught with his saintly pity and soft speech.For aye so piteous was the Master's heartTo all that breathe this breath of fleeting life,Yoked in one fellowship of joys and pains,That it is written in the holy booksHow, in an ancient age—when Buddha woreA Brahman's form, dwelling upon the rockNamed Munda, by the village of Dalidd—Drought withered all the land: the young rice diedEre it could hide a quail; in forest gladesA fierce sun sucked the pools; grasses and herbsSickened, and all the woodland creatures fledScattering for sustenance. At such a time,Between the hot walls of a nullah, stretchedOn naked stones, our Lord spied, as he passed,A starving tigress. Hunger in her orbsGlared with green flame; her dry tongue lolled a spanBeyond the gasping jaws and shrivelled jowl;Her painted hide hung wrinkled on her ribs,As when between the rafters sinks a thatchRotten with rains; and at the poor lean dugsTwo cubs, whining with famine, tugged and sucked,Mumbling those milkless teats which rendered nought,While she, their gaunt dam, licked full motherlyThe clamorous twins, yielding her flank to themWith moaning throat, and love stronger than want,Softening the first of that wild cry wherewithShe laid her famished muzzle to the sandAnd roared a savage thunder-peal of woe.Seeing which bitter strait, and heeding noughtSave the immense compassion of a Buddh,Our Lord bethought, "There is no other wayTo 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 kindEven to the uttermost?" So saying, BuddhSilently laid aside sandals and staff,His sacred thread, turban, and cloth, and cameForth 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 earthThat willing victim, had her feast of himWith all the crooked daggers of her clawsRending his flesh, and all her yellow fangsBathed in his blood: the great cat's burning breathMixed with the last sigh of such fearless love.Thus large the Master's heart was long ago,Not only now, when with his gracious ruthHe 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'dIts doors of pearl and Devis wooed me in.I go to build the Kingdom of the Law, journeying toGaya and the forest shades,Where, as I think, the light will come to me;For nowise here among the Rishis comesThat light, nor from the Shasters, nor from fastsBorne 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 attainI will return and quit thy love."ThereatThrice round the Prince King Bimbasara paced,Reverently bending to the Master's feet,And bade him speed. So passed our Lord awayTowards 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 clearIn holy Shasters, and that none might winHigher than Sruti and than Smriti—nay,Not the chief saints!—for how should mortal manBe wiser than the Jnana-Kand, which tellsHow Brahm is bodiless and actionless,Passionless, calm, unqualified, unchanged,Pure life, pure thought, pure joy? Or how should manIts better than the Karmma-Kand, which showsHow 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 senseTo peace eternal, where the silence lives?But the prince heard them, not yet comforted.
Thou who wouldst see where dawned the light at last,North-westwards from the "Thousand Gardens" goBy Gunga's valley till thy steps be setOn the green hills where those twin streamlets springNilajan 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 meetIn Phalgu's bed, flowing by rocky banksTo 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 woodWaves 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 rearedIts roofs of grass, nestled amid the palms,Peaceful with simple folk and pastoral toils.There in the sylvan solitudes once moreLord 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 flungFrom cloud to cloud across the sky, which hathMists for its masonry and vapoury piers,Melting to void again which was so fairWith sapphire hues, garnet, and chrysoprase.Moon after moon our Lord sate in the wood,So meditating these that he forgotOfttimes the hour of food, rising from thoughtsProlonged beyond the sunrise and the noonTo see his bowl unfilled, and eat perforceOf wild fruit fallen from the boughs o'erhead,Shaken to earth by chattering ape or pluckedBy purple parokeet. Therefore his graceFaded; 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 feetFrom off the sal-branch, bore less likelinessOf spring's soft greenery than he of himWho was the princely flower of all his land.And once at such a time the o'erwrought PrinceFell to the earth in deadly swoon, all spent,Even as one slain, who hath no longer breathNor any stir of blood; so wan he was,So motionless. But there came by that wayA shepherd-boy, who saw Siddartha lieWith lids fast-closed, and lines of nameless painFixed on his lips—the fiery noonday sunBeating upon his head—who, plucking boughsFrom wild rose-apple trees, knitted them thickInto a bower to shade the sacred face.Also he poured upon the Master's lipsDrops of warm milk, pressed from his she-goat's bag,Lest, being of low caste, he do wrong to oneSo high and holy seeming. But the booksTell how the jambu-branches, planted thus,Shot with quick life in wealth of leaf and flowerAnd glowing fruitage interlaced and close,So that the bower grew like a tent of silkPitched for a king at hunting, decked with studsOf silver-work and bosses of red gold.And the boy worshipped, deeming him some God;But our Lord, gaining breath, arose and askedMilk in the shepherd's lots. "Ah, my Lord,I cannot give thee," quoth the lad; "thou seestI am a Sudra, and my touch defiles!"Then the World-honoured spake: "Pity and needMake 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 manTo birth with tilka-mark stamped on the brow,Nor sacred thread on neck. Who doth right deedsIs twice-born, and who doeth ill deeds vile.Give me to drink, my brother; when I comeUnto my quest it shall be good for thee."Thereat the peasant's heart was glad, and gave.And on another day there passed that roadA band of tinselled, girls, the nautch-dancersOf Indra's temple in the town, with thoseWho made their music—one that beat a drumSet round with peacock-feathers, one that blewThe piping bansuli, and one that twitchedA three-string sitar. Lightly tripped they downFrom ledge to ledge and through the chequered pathsTo some gay festival, the silver bellsChiming soft peals about the small brown feet,Armlets and wrist-rings tattling answer shrill;While he that bore the sitar thrummed and twangedHis 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 butterflyFrom glade to glade along the forest path,Nor dreamed her light words echoed on the earOf him, that holy man, who sate so raptUnder the fig-tree by the path. But BuddhLifted 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 landholderPious 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, loveliestOf all the dark-eyed daughters of the plain;Gentle and true, simple and kind was she,Noble of mien, with gracious speech to allAnd gladsome looks—a pearl of womanhood—Passing calm years of household happinessBeside her lord in that still Indian home,Save that no male child blessed their wedded love.Wherefore with many prayers she had besoughtLukshmi, and many nights at full-moon goneRound the great Lingam, nine times nine, with giftsOf rice and jasmine wreaths and sandal oil,Praying a boy; also Sujata vowed—If this should be—an offering of foodUnto 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 herA beauteous boy, now three months old, who layBetween Sujata's breasts, while she did paceWith grateful footsteps to the Wood-God's shrine,One arm clasping her crimson sari closeTo wrap the babe, that jewel of her joys,The other lifted high in comely curveTo steady on her head the bowl and dishWhich held the dainty victuals for the God.But Radha, sent before to sweep the groundAnd 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 drewTremblingly nigh, and kissed the earth and said,With sweet face bent: "Would that the Holy OneInhabiting his grove, Giver of good,Merciful unto me his handmaiden,Vouchsafing now his presence, might acceptThese our poor gifts of snowy curds, fresh made,With milk as white as new-carved ivory!"Therewith into the golden bowl she pouredThe curds and milk, and on the hands of BuddhDropped attar from a crystal flask-distilledOut of the hearts of roses; and he ate,Speaking no word, while the glad mother stoodIn reverence apart. But of that mealSo wondrous was the virtue that our LordFelt strength and life return as though the nightsOf watching and the days of fast had passedIn dream, as though the spirit with the fleshShared that fine meat and plumed its wings anew,Like some delighted bird at sudden streamsWeary with flight o'er endless wastes of sand,Which laves the desert dust from neck and crest—And more Sujata worshipped, seeing our LordGrow 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 tookMilk of a hundred mothers newly-calved,And with that milk I fed fifty white cows,And with their milk twenty-and-five, and thenWith theirs twelve more, and yet again with theirsThe six noblest and best of all our herds,That yield I boiled with sandal and fine spiceIn silver lotas, adding rice, well grownFrom 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 boyI would make offering for my joy, and nowI have my son and all my life is bliss!"Softly our Lord drew down the crimson fold,And, laying on the little head those handsWhich 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 PrinceAnd now a wanderer, seeking night and dayThese six hard years that light which somewhere shinesTo lighten all men's darkness, if they knew!And I shall find the light; yea, now it dawnedGlorious and helpful, when my weak flesh failedWhich this pure food, fair Sister, hath restored,Drawn manifold through lives to quicken lifeAs life itself passes by many birthsTo happier heights and purging off of sins.Yet dost thou truly find it sweet enoughOnly to live? Can life and love suffice?"Answered Sujata: "Worshipful! my heartIs little, and a little rain will fillThe lily's cup which hardly moists the field.It is enough for me to feel life's sunShine in my lord's grace and my baby's smile,Making the loving summer of our home.Pleasant my days pass filled with household caresFrom 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 noonWhen my lord lays his head upon my lapLulled 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 handShall lead his soul to Swerga, if it need?For holy books teach when a man shall plantTrees for the travelers' shade, and dig a wellFor 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 oldWho 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 goodAnd ill of evil—surely—unto all—In every place and time—seeing sweet fruitGroweth from wholesome roots, and bitter thingsFrom poison-stocks; yea, seeing, too, how spiteBreeds hate, and kindness friends, and patience peaceEven while we live; and when 't is willed we dieShall there not be as good a `Then' as `Now'?Haply much better! since one grain of riceShoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls,And all the starry champak's white and goldLurks in those little, naked, grey spring-buds.Ah, Sir! I know there might be woes to bearWould lay fond Patience with her face in dust;If this my babe pass first I think my heartWould break—almost I hope my heart would break!That I might clasp him dead and wait my lordIn whatsoever world holds faithful wives—Duteous, attending till his hour should come.But if Death called Senani, I should mountThe pile and lay that dear head in my lap,My daily way, rejoicing when the torchLit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke.For it is written if an Indian wifeDie so, her love shall give her husband's soulFor every hair upon her head a croreOf years in Swerga. Therefore fear I not.And therefore, Holy Sir! my life is glad,Nowise forgetting yet those other livesPainful 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 trustThat 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 thusThy way of right and duty: grow, thou flowerWith thy sweet kind in peaceful shade—the lightOf Truth's high noon is not for tender leavesWhich must spread broad in other suns and liftIn 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 manAnd 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 eyesBent on her babe, who reached its tender handsTo 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 yearsNever to fade, and ever to be keptIn homage of the world), beneath whose leavesIt was ordained that Truth should come to BuddhWhich now the Master knew; wherefore he wentWith 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 roofedWith vaults of glistening green—the conscious earthWorshipped with waving grass and sudden flushOf flowers about his feet. The forest-boughsBent down to shade him; from the river sighedCool wafts of wind laden with lotus-scentsBreathed by the water-gods. Large wondering eyesOf woodland creatures—panther, boar, and deer—At peace that eve, gazed on his face benignFrom cave and thicket. From its cold cleft woundThe mottled deadly snake, dancing its hoodIn honour of our Lord; bright butterfliesFluttered their vans, azure and green and gold,To be his fan-bearers; the fierce kite droppedIts prey and screamed; the striped palm-squirrel racedFrom stem to stem to see; the weaver-birdChirped 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 subduedAngers and prides, desires and fears and doubts,Thou that for each and all hast given thyself,Pass to the Tree! The sad world blesseth theeWho 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 sateUnder that Tree. But he who is the PrinceOf Darkness, Mara—knowing this was BuddhWho should deliver men, and now the hourWhen he should find the Truth and save the worlds—Gave unto all his evil powers command.Wherefore there trooped from every deepest pitThe fiends who war with Wisdom and the Light,Arati, Trishna, Raga, and their crewOf 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 HellBattled that night to keep the Truth from Buddh:Sometimes with terrors of the tempest, blastsOf demon-armies clouding all the wind,With thunder, and with blinding lightning flungIn jagged javelins of purple wrathFrom splitting skies; sometimes with wiles and wordsFair-sounding, 'mid hushed leaves and softened airsFrom shapes of witching beauty; wanton songs,Whispers of love; sometimes with royal alluresOf proffered rule; sometimes with mocking doubts,Making truth vain. But whether these befellWithout and visible, or whether BuddhStrove 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 UniverseAs 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 gropeLightless; it is enough that thou art ThouChangelessly; rise and take the bliss of godsWho 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 thisHissed 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 wayThan 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 HellsAnd open Heavens. "Wilt thou dare," she said,"Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods,Unpeople all the temples, shaking downThat law which feeds the priests and props the realms?"But Buddha answered, "What thou bidd'st me keepIs form which passes, but the free Truth stands;Get thee unto thy darkness." Next there drewGallantly nigh a braver Tempter, he,Kama, the King of passions, who hath swayOver the gods themselves, lord of all loves,Ruler of Pleasure's realm. Laughing he cameUnto the Tree, bearing his bow of goldWreathed with red blooms, and arrows of desirePointed with five-tongued delicate flame which stingsThe heart it smites sharper than poisoned barb.And round him came into that lonely placeBands of bright shapes with heavenly eyes and lipsSinging in lovely words the praise of LoveTo music of invisible sweet chords,So witching, that it seemed the night stood stillTo hear them, and the listening stars and moon,Paused in their orbits while these hymned to BuddhOf lost delights, and how a mortal manFindeth nought dearer in the three wide worldsThan are the yielded loving fragrant breastsOf Beauty and the rosy breast-blossoms,Love's rubies; nay, and toucheth nought more highThan is that dulcet harmony of formSeen in the lines and charms of lovelinessUnspeakable, yet speaking, soul to soul,Owned by the bounding blood, worshipped by willWhich leaps to seize it, knowing this is best,This the true heaven where mortals are like gods,Makers and Masters, this the gift of giftsEver 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 limbsRevealing and concealing like burst budsWhich tell their colour, but hide yet their hearts.Never so matchless grace delighted eyeAs troop by troop these midnight-dancers sweptNearer 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 shapeFairest and stateliest of the throng came forthWearing the guise of sweet Yasodhara.Tender the passion of those dark eyes seemedBrimming with tears; yearning those outspread armsOpened towards him; musical that moanWherewith the beauteous shadow named his name,Sighing: "My Prince! I die for lack of thee!What heaven hast thou found like that we knewBy bright Rohini in the Pleasure-house,Where all these weary years I weep for thee?Return, Siddartha! ah, return! But touchMy lips again, but let me to thy breastOnce, 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 thusFair 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 cryThrilled through the grove, and all that comely routFaded with flickering wafts of flame, and trailOf vaporous ropes.Next under darkening skiesAnd noise of rising storm came fiercer SinsThe rearmost of the Ten, Patigha—Hate—With serpents coiled about her waist, which suckPoisonous milk from both her hanging dugs,And with her curses mix their angry hiss.Little wrought she upon that Holy OneWho with his calm eyes dumbed her bitter lipsAnd made her black snakes writhe to hide their fangs.Then followed Ruparaga—Lust of days—That sensual Sin which out of greed for lifeForgets to live; and next him Lust of Fame,Nobler Aruparaga, she whose spellBeguiles 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 bandOf vile and formless things, which crept and flappedToad-like and bat-like—Ignorance, the DamOf Fear and Wrong, Avidya, hideous hag,Whose footsteps left the midnight darker, whileThe rooted mountains shook, the wild winds howled,The broken clouds shed from their caverns streamsOf levin-lighted rain; stars shot from heaven,The solid earth shuddered as if one laidFlame to her gaping wounds; the torn black airWas full of whistling wings, of screams and yells,Of evil faces peering, of vast frontsTerrible and majestic, Lords of HellWho from a thousand Limbos led their troopsTo tempt the Master.But Buddh heeded not,Sitting serene, with perfect virtue walledAs is a stronghold by its gates and ramps;Also the Sacred Tree—the Bodhi-tree—Amid that tumult stirred not, but each leafGlistened as still as when on moonlit evesNo zephyr spills the glittering gems of dew;For all this clamour raged outside the shadeSpread 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 sawBy light which shines beyond our mortal kenThe 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, marksHis path wind up by precipice and cragPast thick-set woods shrunk to a patch; through bogsGlittering false-green; down hollows where he toiledBreathless; on dizzy ridges where his feetHad well-nigh slipped; beyond the sunny lawns,The cataract and the cavern and the pool,Backward to those dim flats wherefrom he sprangTo reach the blue—thus Buddha did beholdLife's upward steps long-linked, from levels lowWhere breath is base, to higher slopes and higherWhereon the ten great Virtues wait to leadThe climber skyward. Also, Buddha sawHow 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 upDebit or credit, whereupon th' accountIn merits or demerits stamps itselfBy 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 marksOf lives foregone:And in the middle watch,Our Lord attained Abhidjna—insight vastRanging beyond this sphere to spheres unnamed,System on system, countless worlds and sunsMoving in splendid measures, band by bandLinked in division, one yet separate,The silver islands of a sapphire seaShoreless, unfathomed, undiminished, stirredWith waves which roll in restless tides of change.He saw those Lords of Light who hold their worldsBy bonds invisible, how they themselvesCircle obedient round mightier orbsWhich serve profounder splendours, star to starFlashing the ceaseless radiance of lifeFrom centres ever shifting unto cirquesKnowing no uttermost. These he beheldWith unsealed vision, and of all those worlds,Cycle on epicycle, all their taleOf Kalpas, Mahakalpas—terms of timeWhich no man grasps, yea, though he knew to countThe drops in Gunga from her springs to the sea,Measureless unto speech—whereby these waxAnd wane; whereby each of this heavenly hostFulfils its shining life and darkling dies.Sakwal by Sakwal, depths and heights be passedTransported 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 willsEvolve 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 godsImmutable, unspeakable, supreme,A Power which builds, unbuilds, and builds again,Ruling all things accordant to the ruleOf 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 wellObedient to its kind; the hawk does wellWhich 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 wellSo if he guide his ways by blamelessnessAnd earnest will to hinder not but helpAll 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 cameOf Sorrow, which with evil mars the law,As damp and dross hold back the goldsmith's fire.Then was the Dukha-satya opened himFirst of the "Noble Truths"; how Sorrow isShadow to life, moving where life doth move;Not to be laid aside until one laysLiving aside, with all its changing states,Birth, growth, decay, love, hatred, pleasure, pain,Being and doing. How that none strips offThese sad delights and pleasant griefs who lacksKnowledge to know them snares; but he who knowsAvidya—Delusion—sets those snares,Loves life no longer but ensues escape.The eyes of such a one are wide; he seesDelusion breeds Sankhara, TendencyPerverse: Tendency Energy—Vidnnan—Whereby comes Namarupa, local formAnd name and bodiment, bringing the manWith senses naked to the sensible,A helpless mirror of all shows which passAcross 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 drinkDeeper and deeper of the false salt wavesWhereon they float—pleasures, ambitions, wealth,Praise, fame, or domination, conquest, love;Rich meats and robes, and fair abodes, and prideOf ancient lines, and lust of days, and strifeTo live, and sins that flow from strife, some sweet,Some bitter. Thus Life's thirst quenches itselfWith draughts which double thirst; but who is wiseTears from his soul this Trishna, feeds his senseNo longer on false shows, fills his firm mindTo seek not, strive not, wrong not; bearing meekAll ills which flow from foregone wrongfulness,And so constraining passions that they dieFamished; till all the sum of ended life—The Karma—all that total of a soulWhich 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 moreNeeding to find a body and a place,Or so informing what fresh frame it takesIn new existence that the new toils proveLighter 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—savedFrom whirling on the wheel; aroused and saneAs 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 restThat change which never changes!Lo! the DawnSprang with Buddh's Victory! lo! in the EastFlamed the first fires of beauteous day, poured forthThrough fleeting folds of Night's black drapery.High in the widening blue the herald-starFaded to paler silver as there shotBrighter and brighter bars of rosy gleamAcross the grey. Far off the shadowy hillsSaw the great Sun, before the world was 'ware,And donned their crowns of crimson; flower by flowerFelt the warm breath of Morn and 'gan unfoldTheir tender lids. Over the spangled grassSwept the swift footsteps of the lovely Light,Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems,Decking the earth with radiance, 'broideringThe sinking storm-clouds with a golden fringe;Gilding the feathers of the palms, which wavedGlad salutation; darting beams of goldInto the glades; touching with magic wandThe stream to rippled ruby; in the brakeFinding the mild eyes of the antelopesAnd saying, "It is day"; in nested sleepTouching the small heads under many a wingAnd 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 forthTo find the honey ere the bees be out,The grey crow's caw, the parrot's scream, the strokesOf the green hammersmith, the myna's chirp,The never finished love-talk of the dovesYea! and so holy was the influenceOf that high Dawn which came with victoryThat, far and near, in homes of men there spreadAn unknown peace. The slayer hid his knife;The robber laid his plunder back; the shroffCounted full tale of coins; all evil heartsGrew gentle, kind hearts gentler, as the balmOf that divinest Daybreak lightened Earth.Kings at fierce war called truce; the sick men leapedLaughing from beds of pain; the dying smiledAs though they knew that happy Morn was sprungFrom 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 failNor such vast sorrow miss to end in joy.So glad the World was—though it wist not why—That over desolate wastes went swooning songsOf mirth, the voice of bodiless Prets and BhutsForeseeing Buddh; and Devas in the air Cried,"It is finished, finished!" and the priestsStood with the wondering people in the streetsWatching those golden splendours flood the skyAnd saying, "There hath happed some mighty thing."Also in Ran and jungle grew that dayFriendship amongst the creatures: spotted deerBrowsed fearless where the tigress fed her cubs,And cheetahs lapped the pool beside the bucks;Under the eagle's rock the brown hares scouredWhile his fierce beak but preened an idle wing;The snake sunned all his jewels in the beamWith deadly fangs in sheath; the shrike let passThe nestling finch; the emerald halcyonsSate dreaming while the fishes played beneath,Nor hawked the merops, though the butterflies—Crimson and blue and amber-flitted thickAround his perch; the Spirit of our LordLay potent upon man and bird and beast,Even while he mused under that Bodhi-tree,Glorified with the Conquest gained for allAnd lightened by a Light greater than Day's.Then he arose—radiant, rejoicing, strong—Beneath the Tree, and lifting high his voiceSpake this, in hearing of all Times and Worlds:AnekajatisangsarangSandhawissang anibhisangGahakarakangawesantoDukkhajatipunappunang.Gahakarakadithosi;Punagehang nakahasi;Sabhatephasukhabhagga,Gahakutangwisang Khitang;Wisangkharagatang chittang,Janhanangknayamajhaga.Many a House of LifeHeld me—Seeking Ever Him WroughtThese 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 AgainThese Walls of Pain,Nor Raise the Roof-Tree of Deceits, Nor LayFresh Rafters on the Clay:Broken Thy House is, and the Ridge-Pole Split!Delusion Fashioned it!Safe Pass I Thence—Deliverance to Obtain.