More than enough the prince had seen and heard. Bowed by the grievous burdens others bore, Feeling for others' sorrows as his own, Tears of divinest pity filled his eyes And deep and all-embracing love his heart. Home he returned, no more to find its rest.

But soon a light shines in that troubled house— A son is born to sweet Yasodhara. Their eyes saw not, neither do ours, that sun Whose light is wisdom and whose heat is love, Sending through nature waves of living light, Giving its life to everything that lives, Which through the innocence of little ones As through wide-open windows sends his rays To light the darkest, warm the coldest heart. Sweet infancy! life's solace and its rest, Driving away the loneliness of age, Wreathing in smiles the wrinkled brow of care, Nectar to joyful, balm to troubled hearts, Joyful once more is King Suddhodana; A placid joy beams from that mother's face; Joy lit the palace, flew from street to street, And from the city over hill and plain;

Joy filled the prince's agitated soul— He felt a power, from whence he could not tell, Drawing away, he knew not where it led. He knew the dreaded separation near, Yet half its pain and bitterness was passed. He need not leave his loved ones comfortless— His loving people still would have their prince, The king in young Rahula have his son, And sweet Yasodhara, his very life, Would have that nearest, dearest comforter To soothe her cares and drive away her tears.[1]

But now strange dreams disturb the good old king— Dreams starting him in terror from his sleep, Yet seeming prophecies of coming good. He dreamed he saw the flag his fathers loved In tatters torn and trailing in the dust, But in its place another glorious flag, Whose silken folds seemed woven thick with gems That as it waved glittered with dazzling light. He dreamed he saw proud embassies from far Bringing the crowns and scepters of the earth, Bowing in reverence before the prince, Humbly entreating him to be their king— From whom he fled in haste as if in fear. Then dreamed he saw his son in tattered robes Begging from Sudras for his daily bread. Again, he dreamed he saw the ancient tower Where he in worship had so often knelt, Rising and shining clothed with living light, And on its top the prince, beaming with love, Scattering with lavish hand the richest gems On eager crowds that caught them as they fell. But soon it vanished, and he saw a hill, Rugged and bleak, cliff crowned and bald and bare, And there he saw the prince, kneeling alone, Wasted with cruel fastings till his bones Clave to his skin, and in his sunken eyes With fitful flicker gleamed the lamp of life Until they closed, and on the ground he sank, As if in death or in a deadly swoon; And then the hill sank to a spreading plain, Stretching beyond the keenest vision's ken, Covered with multitudes as numberless As ocean's sands or autumn's forest leaves; And mounted on a giant elephant, White as the snows on Himalaya's peaks, The prince rode through their midst in royal state, And as he moved along he heard a shout, Rising and swelling, like the mighty voice Of many waters breaking on the shore: "All hail! great Chakravartin, king of kings! Hail! king of righteousness! Hail! prince of peace!"

Strange dreams! Where is their birthplace—where their home? Lighter than foam upon the crested wave, Fleeter than shadows of the passing cloud, They are of such fantastic substance made That quick as thought they change their fickle forms— Now grander than the waking vision views, Now stranger than the wildest fancy feigns, And now so grim and terrible they start The hardened conscience from its guilty sleep. In troops they come, trooping they fly away, Waved into being by the magic wand Of some deep purpose of the inmost soul, Some hidden joy or sorrow, guilt or fear— Or better, as the wise of old believed, Called into being by some heavenly guest To soothe, to warn, instruct or terrify.

Strange dreams by night and troubled thoughts by day Disturb the prince and banish quiet sleep. He dreamed that darkness, visible and dense, Shrouded the heavens and brooded o'er the earth, Whose rayless, formless, vacant nothingness Curdled his blood and made his eyeballs ache; When suddenly from out this empty void A cloud, shining with golden light, was borne By gentle winds, loaded with sweet perfumes, Sweeter than spring-time on this earth can yield. The cloud passed just above him, and he saw Myriads of cherub faces looking down, Sweet as Rahula, freed from earthly stain; Such faces mortal brush could never paint— Enraptured Raphael ne'er such faces saw. But still the outer darkness hovered near, And ever and anon a bony hand Darts out to snatch some cherub face away. Then dreamed he saw a broad and pleasant land, With cities, gardens, groves and fruitful fields, Where bee-fed flowers half hide the ripening fruits. And spicy breezes stir the trembling leaves, And many birds make sweetest melody, But bordered by a valley black as night, That ever vomits from its sunless depths Great whirling clouds of suffocating smoke, Blacker than hide the burning Aetna's head, Blacker than over Lake Avernus hung; No bird could fly above its fatal fumes; Eagles, on tireless pinions upward borne, In widening circles rising toward the sun, Venturing too near its exhalations, fall, As sinks the plummet in the silent sea; And lions, springing on their antlered prey, Drop still and lifeless on its deadly brink; Only the jackal's dismal howl is heard To break its stillness and eternal sleep. He was borne forward to the very verge Of this dark valley, by some power unseen. A wind that pierced his marrow parts the clouds, And far within, below he saw a sight That stood his hair on end, beaded his brow With icy drops, and made his blood run cold; He saw a lofty throne, blacker than jet, But shining with a strange and baleful light That made him shade his blinded, dazzled eyes, And seated on that throne a ghastly form That seemed a giant human skeleton, But yet in motion terrible and quick As lightning, killing ere the thunders roll; His fleshless skull had on a seeming crown, While from his sunken sockets glared his eyes Like coals of fire or eyes of basilisk, And from his bony hand each instant flew Unerring darts that flew to pierce and kill, Piercing the infant in its mother's arms, The mother when she feels her first-born's breath, Piercing the father in his happy home, Piercing the lover tasting love's first kiss, Piercing the vanquished when his banners fall, Piercing the victor 'mid triumphant shouts, Piercing the mighty monarch on his throne; While from a towering cypress growing near Every disease to which frail flesh is heir Like ravening vultures watch each arrow's flight, And quick as thought glide off on raven's wings To bring the wounded, writhing victim in— As well-trained hunters mark their master's aim, Then fly to bring the wounded quarry home. Meanwhile a stifling stench rose from below— As from a battle-field where nations met And fiery ranks of living valor fought, Now food for vultures, moldering cold and low— And bleaching bones were scattered everywhere.

Startled he wakes and rises from his couch. The lamps shine down with soft and mellow light. The fair Yasodhara still lay in sleep, But not in quiet sleep. Her bosom heaved As if a sigh were seeking to escape; Her brows were knit as if in pain or fear, And tears were stealing from her close-shut lids. But sweet Rahula slept, and sleeping smiled As if he too those cherub faces saw. In haste alone he noiselessly stole forth To wander in the park, and cool his brow And calm his burdened, agitated soul. The night had reached that hour preceding dawn When nature seems in solemn silence hushed, Awed by the glories of the coming day. The moon hung low above the western plains; Unnumbered stars with double brightness shine, And half-transparent mists the landscape veil, Through which the mountains in dim grandeur rise. Silent, alone he crossed the maidan wide Where first he saw the sweet Yasodhara, Where joyful multitudes so often met, Now still as that dark valley of his dream. He passed the lake, mirror of heaven's high vault, Whose ruffled waters ripple on the shore, Stirred by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks; And heedless of his way passed on and up, Through giant cedars and the lofty pines, Over a leafy carpet, velvet soft, While solemn voices from their branches sound, Strangely in unison with his sad soul; And on and up until he reached a spot Above the trees, above the mist-wrapped world, Where opening chasms yawned on every side. Perforce he stopped; and, roused from revery, Gazed on the dark and silent world below. The moon had sunk from sight, the stars grew dim, And densest darkness veiled the sleeping world, When suddenly bright beams of rosy light Shot up the east; the highest mountain-top Glittered as if both land and sea had joined Their richest jewels and most costly gems To make its crown; from mountain-peak to peak The brightness spread, and darkness slunk away, Until between two giant mountain-tops Glittered a wedge of gold; the hills were tinged, And soon the sun flooded the world with light As when the darkness heard that first command: "Let there be light!" and light from chaos shone. Raptured he gazed upon the glorious scene. "And can it be," he said, "with floods of light Filling the blue and boundless vault above, Bathing in brightness mountain, hill and plain, Sending its rays to ocean's hidden depths, With light for bird and beast and creeping thing, Light for all eyes, oceans of light to spare, That man alone from outer darkness comes, Gropes blindly on his brief and restless round, And then in starless darkness disappears? There must be light, fountains of living light, For which my thirsty spirit pining pants As pants the hunted hart for water-brooks— Another sun, lighting a better world, Where weary souls may find a welcome rest. Gladly I'd climb yon giddy mountain-heights, Or gladly take the morning's wings and fly To earth's remotest bounds, if light were there, Welcome to me the hermit's lonely cell, And welcome dangers, labors, fastings, pains— All would be welcome could I bring the light To myriads now in hopeless darkness sunk. Farewell to kingdom, comforts, home and friends! All will I leave to seek this glorious light." The die is cast, the victory is gained. Though love of people, parent, wife and child, Half selfish, half divine, may bid him pause, A higher love, unselfish, all divine, For them and every soul, bade him go forth To seek for light, and seek till light be found. Home he returned, now strong to say farewell.

Meanwhile the sweet Yasodhara still slept, And dreamed she saw Siddartha's empty couch. She dreamed she saw him flying far away, And when she called to him he answered not, But only stopped his ears and faster flew Until he seemed a speck, and then was gone. And then she heard a mighty voice cry out: "The time has come—his glory shall appear!" Waked by that voice, she found his empty couch, Siddartha gone, and with him every joy; But not all joy, for there Rahula lay, With great wide-open eyes and cherub smile, Watching the lights that flickered on the wall. Caught in her arms she pressed him to her heart To still its tumult and to ease its pain.

But now that step she knew so well is heard. Siddartha comes, filled with unselfish love Until his face beamed with celestial light That like a holy halo crowned his head. Gently he spoke: "My dearest and my best, The time has come—the time when we must part. Let not your heart be troubled—it is best." This said, a tender kiss spoke to her heart, In love's own language, of unchanging love. When sweet Rahula stretched his little arms, And cooing asked his share of tenderness, Siddartha from her bosom took their boy, And though sore troubled, both together smiled, And with him playing, that sweet jargon spoke, Which, though no lexicon contains its words, Seems like the speech of angels, poorly learned, For every sound and syllable and word Was filled brimful of pure and perfect love. At length grown calm, they tenderly communed Of all their past, of all their hopes and fears;

And when the time of separation came, His holy resolution gave her strength To give the last embrace and say farewell. And forth he rode,[2] mounted on Kantaka, A prince, a loving father, husband, son, To exile driven by all-embracing love.

What wonder, as the ancient writings say, That nature to her inmost depths was stirred, And as he passed the birds burst forth in song, Fearless of hawk or kite that hovered near? What wonder that the beasts of field and wood, And all the jungle's savage denizens, Gathered in groups and gamboled fearlessly, Leopards with kids and wolves with skipping lambs? For he who rode alone, bowed down and sad, Taught millions, crores[3] of millions, yet unborn To treat with kindness every living thing. What wonder that the deepest hells were stirred? What wonder that the heavens were filled with joy? For he, bowed down with sorrow, going forth, Shall come with joy and teach all men the way From earth's sad turmoil to Nirvana's rest.

[1]In the "Light of Asia" the prince is made to leave his young wife before the birth of their son, saying: "Whom, if I wait to bless, my heart will fail,"—a piece of cowardice hardly consistent with my conception of that brave and self-denying character.

[2]In the "Light of Asia," the prince, after leaving his young wife, is made to pass through a somewhat extensive harem en deshabille, which is described with voluptuous minuteness. Although there are some things in later Buddhistic literature that seem to justify it, I can but regard the introduction of an institution so entirely alien to every age, form and degree of Aryan civilization and so inconsistent with the tender conjugal love which was the strongest tie to his beloved home, as a serious blot on that beautiful poem and as inconsistent with its whole theory, for no prophet ever came from a harem.

[3]A crore is ten millions.



BOOK IV.

Far from his kingdom, far from home and friends, The prince has gone, his flowing locks close shorn, His rings and soft apparel laid aside, All signs of rank and royalty cast off. Clothed in a yellow robe, simple and coarse, Through unknown streets from door to door he passed, Holding an alms-bowl forth for willing gifts. But when, won by his stateliness and grace, They brought their choicest stores, he gently said: "Not so, my friends, keep such for those who need— The sick and old; give me but common food." And when sufficient for the day was given, He took a way leading without the walls, And through rich gardens, through the fruitful fields, Under dark mangoes and the jujube trees, Eastward toward Sailagiri, hill of gems; And through an ancient grove, skirting its base, Where, soothed by every soft and tranquil sound, Full many saints were wearing out their days In meditation, earnest, deep, intent, Seeking to solve the mystery of life, Seeking, by leaving all its joys and cares, Seeking, by doubling all its woes and pains, To gain an entrance to eternal rest; And winding up its rugged sides, to where A shoulder of the mountain, sloping west, O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied. This mountain cave was now his dwelling-place, A stone his pillow, and the earth his bed, His earthen alms-bowl holding all his stores Except the crystal waters, murmuring near. A lonely path, rugged, and rough, and steep; A lonely cave, its stillness only stirred By eagle's scream, or raven's solemn croak, Or by the distant city's softened sounds, Save when a sudden tempest breaks above, And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills— A path since worn by countless pilgrims' feet, Coming from far to view this hallowed spot, And bow in worship on his hard, cold bed, And press his pillow with their loving lips. For here, for six long years, the world-renowned, The tender lover of all living things, Fasted and watched and wrestled for the light, Less for himself than for a weeping world. And here arrived, he ate his simple meal, And then in silent meditation sat The livelong day, heedless of noon's fierce heat That sent to covert birds and panting beasts, And from the parched and glowing plain sent up, As from a furnace, gusts of scorching air, Through which the city's walls, the rocks and trees. All seemed to tremble, quiver, glow and shake, As if a palsy shook the trembling world; Heedless of loosened rocks that crashed so near, And dashed and thundered to the depths below, And of the shepherds, who with wondering awe Came near to gaze upon his noble form And gentle, loving but majestic face, And thought some god had deigned to visit men. And thus he sat, still as the rock his seat, Seeking to pierce the void from whence man came, To look beyond the veil that shuts him in, To find a clue to life's dark labyrinth, Seeking to know why man is cast adrift Upon the bosom of a troubled sea, His boat so frail, his helm and compass lost, To sink at last in dull oblivion's depths; When nature seems so perfect and complete, Grand as a whole, and perfect all its parts, Which from the greatest to the least proclaims That Wisdom, Watchfulness, and Power and Love Which built the mountains, spread the earth abroad, And fixed the bounds that ocean cannot pass; Which taught the seasons their accustomed rounds, Lest seed-time and the happy harvests fail; Which guides the stars in their celestial course, And guides the pigeon's swift unerring flight O'er mountain, sea and plain and desert waste, Straight as an arrow to her distant home; Teaching the ant for winter to prepare; Clothing the lily in its princely pride; Watching the tiny sparrow when it falls; Nothing too great for His almighty arm; Nothing too small for His all-seeing eye; Nothing too mean for His paternal care.

And thus he mused, seeking to find a light To guide men on their dark and weary way, And through the valley and the shades of death, Until the glories of the setting sun Called him to vespers and his evening meal.

Then roused from revery, ablutions made, Eight times he bowed, just as the setting sun, A fiery red, sunk slowly out of sight Beyond the western plains, gilded and tinged, Misty and vast, beneath a brilliant sky, Shaded from brightest gold to softest rose. Then, after supper, back and forth he paced Upon the narrow rock before his cave, Seeking to ease his numbed and stiffened limbs; While evening's sombre shadows slowly crept From plain to hill and highest mountain-top, And solemn silence settled on the world, Save for the night-jar's cry and owl's complaint; While many lights from out the city gleam, And thickening stars spangle the azure vault, Until the moon, with soft and silvery light, Half veils and half reveals the sleeping world. And then he slept—for weary souls must sleep, As well as bodies worn with daily toil; And as he lay stretched on his hard, cold bed, His youthful blood again bounds freely on, Repairing wastes the weary day had made. And then he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of home, Of young Rahula, reaching out his arms, Of sweet Yasodhara with loving words Cheering him on, as love alone can cheer. Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light For which his earnest soul so long had yearned— But over hills and mountains far away. And then he seemed with labored steps to climb Down giddy cliffs, far harder than ascent, While yawning chasms threatened to devour, And beetling cliffs precluded all retreat; But still the way seemed opening step by step, Until he reached the valley's lowest depths, Where twilight reigned, and grim and ghastly forms, With flaming swords, obstruct his onward way, But his all-conquering love still urged him on, When with wild shrieks they vanished in thin air; And then he climbed, clinging to jutting cliffs, And stunted trees that from each crevice grew, Till weary, breathless, he regained the heights, To see that light nearer, but still so far.

And thus he slept, and thus sometimes he dreamed, But rose before the dawn had tinged the east, Before the jungle-cock had made his call, When thoughts are clearest, and the world is still, Refreshed and strengthened for his daily search Into the seeds of sorrow, germs of pain, After a light to scatter doubts and fears.

But when the coming day silvered the east, And warmed that silver into softest gold, And faintest rose-tints tinged the passing clouds, He, as the Vedas taught, each morning bathed In the clear stream that murmured near his cave, Then bowed in reverence to the rising sun, As from behind the glittering mountain-peaks It burst in glory on the waking world.

Then bowl and staff in hand, he took his way Along his mountain-path and through the grove, And through the gardens, through the fruitful fields, Down to the city, for his daily alms; While children his expected coming watch, And running cry: "The gracious Rishi comes." All gladly gave, and soon his bowl was filled, For he repaid their gifts with gracious thanks, And his unbounded love, clearer than words, Spoke to their hearts as he passed gently on. Even stolid plowmen after him would look, Wondering that one so stately and so grand Should even for them have kind and gracious words, Sometimes while passing through the sacred grove, He paused beneath an aged banyan-tree, Whose spreading branches drooping down took root To grow again in other giant trunks, An ever-widening, ever-deepening shade, Where five, like him in manhood's early prime, Each bound to life by all its tender ties, High born and rich, had left their happy homes, Their only food chance-gathered day by day, Their only roof this spreading banyan-tree; And there long time they earnestly communed, Seeking to aid each other in the search For higher life and for a clearer light. And here, under a sacred peepul's shade, Two Brahmans, famed for sanctity, had dwelt For many years, all cares of life cast off, Who by long fastings sought to make the veil Of flesh translucent to the inner eye; Eyes fixed intently on the nose's tip, To lose all consciousness of outward things; By breath suppressed to still the outer pulse, So that the soul might wake to conscious life, And on unfolded wings unchecked might rise. And in the purest auras freely soar, Above cross-currents that engender clouds Where thunders roll, and quick cross-lightnings play, To view the world of causes and of life, And bathe in light that knows no night, no change. With eager questionings he sought to learn, While they with gentle answers gladly taught All that their self-denying search had learned. And thus he passed his days and months and years, In constant, patient, earnest search for light, With longer fastings and more earnest search, While day by day his body frailer grew, Until his soul, loosed from its earthly bonds, Sometimes escaped its narrow prison-house, And like the lark to heaven's gate it soared, To view the glories of the coming dawn. But as he rose, the sad and sorrowing world, For which his soul with tender love had yearned, Seemed deeper in the nether darkness sunk, Beyond his reach, beyond his power to save, When sadly to his prison-house he turned, Wishing no light that did not shine for all.

Six years had passed, six long and weary years, Since first he left the world to seek for light. Knowledge he found, knowledge that soared aloft To giddy heights, and sounded hidden depths, Secrets of knowledge that the Brahmans taught The favored few, but far beyond the reach Of those who toil and weep and cry for help; A light that gilds the highest mountain-tops, But leaves the fields and valleys dark and cold; But not that living light for which he yearned, To light life's humble walks and common ways, And send its warmth to every heart and home, As spring-time sends a warm and genial glow To every hill and valley, grove and field, Clothing in softest verdure common grass, As well as sandal-trees and lofty palms.

One night, when hope seemed yielding to despair, Sleepless he lay upon the earth—his bed— When suddenly a white and dazzling light Shone through the cave, and all was dark again. Startled he rose, then prostrate in the dust, His inmost soul breathed forth an earnest prayer[1] That he who made the light would make it shine Clearer and clearer to that perfect day, When innocence, and peace, and righteousness Might fill the earth, and ignorance and fear, And cruelty and crime, might fly away, As birds of night and savage prowling beasts Fly from the glories of the rising sun. Long time he lay, wrestling in earnest prayer, When from the eastern wall, one clothed in light, Beaming with love, and halo-crowned, appeared, And gently said: "Siddartha, rise! go forth! Waste not your days in fasts, your nights in tears! Give what you have; do what you find to do; With gentle admonitions check the strong; With loving counsels aid and guide the weak, And light will come, the day will surely dawn." This said, the light grew dim, the form was gone, But hope revived, his heart was strong again.

Joyful he rose, and when the rising sun Had filled the earth's dark places full of light, With all his worldly wealth, his staff and bowl, Obedient to that voice he left his cave; When from a shepherd's cottage near his way, Whence he had often heard the busy hum Of industry, and childhood's merry laugh, There came the angry, stern command of one Clothed in a little brief authority, Mingled with earnest pleadings, and the wail Of women's voices, and above them all The plaintive treble of a little child. Thither he turned, and when he reached the spot, The cause of all this sorrow was revealed: One from the king had seized their little all, Their goats and sheep, and e'en the child's pet lamb. But when they saw him they had often watched With reverent awe, as if come down from heaven, Prostrate they fell, and kissed his garment's hem, While he so insolent, now stood abashed, And, self accused, he thus excused himself: "The Brahmans make this day a sacrifice, And they demand unblemished goats and lambs. I but obey the king's express command To bring them to the temple ere high noon." But Buddha stooped and raised the little child, Who nestled in his arms in perfect trust, And gently said: "Rise up, my friends, weep not! The king must be obeyed—but kings have hearts. I go along to be your advocate. The king may spare what zealous priest would kill, Thinking the gods above delight in blood." But when the officers would drive the flock With staves and slings and loud and angry cries, They only scattered them among the rocks, And Buddha bade the shepherd call his own, As love can lead where force in vain would drive. He called; they knew his voice and followed him, Dumb innocents, down to the slaughter led, While Buddha kissed the child, and followed them, With those so late made insolent by power, Now dumb as if led out to punishment.

Meanwhile the temple-gates wide open stood, And when the king, in royal purple robed, And decked with gems, attended by his court, To clash of cymbals, sound of shell and drum, Through streets swept clean and sprinkled with perfumes, Adorned with flags, and filled with shouting crowds, Drew near the sacred shrine, a greater came, Through unswept ways, where dwelt the toiling poor, Huddled in wretched huts, breathing foul air, Living in fetid filth and poverty— No childhood's joys, youth prematurely old, Manhood a painful struggle but to live, And age a weary shifting of the scene; While all the people drew aside to gaze Upon his gentle but majestic face, Beaming with tender, all-embracing love. And when the king and royal train dismount, 'Mid prostrate people and the stately priests, On fragrant flowers that carpeted his way, And mount the lofty steps to reach the shrine, Siddartha came, upon the other side, 'Mid stalls for victims, sheds for sacred wood, And rude attendants on the pompous rites, Who seized a goat, the patriarch of the flock, And bound him firm with sacred munja grass, And bore aloft, while Buddha followed where A priest before the blazing altar stood With glittering knife, and others fed the fires, While clouds of incense from the altar rose, Sweeter than Araby the blest can yield, And white-robed Brahmans chant their sacred hymns. And there before that ancient shrine they met, The king, the priests, the hermit from the hill, When one, an aged Brahman, raised his hands, And praying, lifted up his voice and cried: "O hear! great Indra, from thy lofty throne On Meru's holy mountain, high in heaven. Let every good the king has ever done With this sweet incense mingled rise to thee; And every secret, every open sin Be laid upon this goat, to sink from sight, Drunk by the earth with his hot spouting blood, Or on this altar with his flesh be burned." And all the Brahman choir responsive cried: "Long live the king! now let the victim die!" But Buddha said: "Let him not strike, O king! For how can God, being good, delight in blood? And how can blood wash out the stains of sin, And change the fixed eternal law of life That good from good, evil from evil flows?" This said, he stooped and loosed the panting goat, None staying him, so great his presence was. And then with loving tenderness he taught How sin works out its own sure punishment; How like corroding rust and eating moth It wastes the very substance of the soul; Like poisoned blood it surely, drop by drop, Pollutes the very fountain of the life; Like deadly drug it changes into stone The living fibres of a loving heart; Like fell disease, it breeds within the veins The living agents of a living death; And as in gardens overgrown with weeds, Nothing but patient labor, day by day, Uprooting cherished evils one by one, Watering its soil with penitential tears, Can fit the soul to grow that precious seed, Which taking root, spreads out a grateful shade Where gentle thoughts like singing birds may lodge, Where pure desires like fragrant flowers may bloom, And loving acts like ripened fruits may hang. Then, chiding not, with earnest words he urged Humanity to man, kindness to beasts, Pure words, kind acts, in all our daily walks. As better than the blood of lambs and goats. Better than incense or the chanted hymn, To cleanse the heart and please the powers above, And fill the world with harmony and peace, Till pricked in heart, the priest let fall his knife; The Brahmans listening, ceased to chant their hymns; The king drank in his words with eager ears; And from that day no altar dripped with blood, But flowers instead breathed forth their sweet perfumes. And when that troubled day drew near its close, Joy filled once more that shepherd's humble home, From door to door his simple story flew, And when the king entered his palace gates, New thoughts were surging in his wakened soul.

But though the beasts have lairs, the birds have nests, Buddha had not whereon to lay his head, Not even a mountain-cave to call his home; And forth he fared, heedless about his way— For every way was now alike to him. Heedless of food, his alms-bowl hung unused. While all the people stood aside with awe, And to their children pointed out the man Who plead the shepherd's cause before the king. At length he passed the city's western gate, And crossed the little plain circling its walls. Circled itself by five bold hills that rise, A rugged, rampart and an outer wall. Two outer gates this mountain rampart had, The one a narrow valley opening west Toward Gaya, through the red Barabar hills. Through which the rapid Phalgu swiftly glides, Down from the Vindhya mountains far away, Then gently winds around this fruitful plain, Its surface green with floating lotus leaves. And bright with lotus blossoms, blue and white, O'erhung with drooping trees and trailing vines, Till through the eastern gate it hastens on, To lose itself in Gunga's sacred stream.

Toward Gaya now Siddartha bent his steps, Distant the journey of a single day As men marked distance in those ancient times, No longer heeded in this headlong age, When we count moments by the miles we pass; And one may see the sun sink out of sight. Behind great banks of gray and wintry clouds, While feathery snowflakes fill the frosty air, And after quiet sleep may wake next day To see it bathe green fields with floods of light, And dry the sparkling dew from opening flowers, And hear the joyful burst of vernal song, And breathe the balmy air of opening spring.

And as he went, weary and faint and sad, The valley opening showed a pleasant grove, Where many trees mingled their grateful shade, And many blossoms blended sweet perfumes; And there, under a drooping vakul-tree, A bower of roses and sweet jasmine vines, Within a couch, without a banquet spread, While near a fountain with its falling spray Ruffled the surface of a shining pool, Whose liquid cadence mingled with the songs Of many birds concealed among the trees.

And there three seeming sister graces were,[2] Fair as young Venus rising from the sea, The one in seeming childlike innocence Bathed in the pool, while her low liquid laugh Rung sweet and clear; and one her vina tuned, And as she played, the other lightly danced, Clapping her hands, tinkling her silver bells, Whose gauzy silken garments seemed to show Rather than hide her slender, graceful limbs. And she who played the vina sweetly sang;

"Come to our bower and take your rest— Life is a weary road at best. Eat, for your board is richly spread; Drink, for your wine is sparkling red; Rest, for the weary day is past; Sleep, for the shadows gather fast. Tune not your vina-strings too high, Strained they will break and the music die. Come to our bower and take your rest— Life is a weary road at best."

But Buddha, full of pity, passing said: "Alas, poor soul! flitting a little while Like painted butterflies before the lamp That soon will burn your wings; like silly doves, Calling the cruel kite to seize and kill; Displaying lights to be the robber's guide; Enticing men to wrong, who soon despise. Ah! poor, perverted, cold and cruel world! Delights of love become the lures of lust, The joys of heaven changed into fires of hell."

[1]I am aware there are many who think that Buddha did not believe in prayer, which Arnold puts into his own mouth in these words, which sound like the clanking of chains in a prison-vault:

"Pray not! the darkness will not brighten! Ask Nought from Silence, for it cannot speak!"

Buddha did teach that mere prayers without any effort to overcome our evils is of no more use than for a merchant to pray the farther bank of a swollen stream to come to him without seeking any means to cross, which merely differs in words from the declaration of St. James that faith without works is dead; but if he ever taught that the earnest yearning of a soul for help, which is the essence of prayer, is no aid in the struggle for a higher life, then my whole reading has been at fault, and the whole Buddhist worship has been a departure from the teachings of its founder.

[2]Mara dispatched three pleasure-girls from the north quarter to come and tempt him. Their names were Tanha, Rati and Ranga. Fa Hian (Beal), p. 120.



BOOK V.

Now mighty Mara, spirit of the air, The prince of darkness, ruling worlds below, Had watched for Buddha all these weary years, Seeking to lead his steady steps astray By many wiles his wicked wit devised, Lest he at length should find the living light And rescue millions from his dark domains. Now, showing him the kingdoms of the world. He offered him the Chakravartin's crown; Now, opening seas of knowledge, shoreless, vast, Knowledge of ages past and yet to come, Knowledge of nature and the hidden laws That guide her changes, guide the roiling spheres, Sakwal on sakwal,[1] boundless, infinite, Yet ever moving on in harmony, He thought to puff his spirit up with pride Till he should quite forget a suffering world, In sin and sorrow groping blindly on. But when he saw that lust of power moved not, And thirst for knowledge turned him not aside From earnest search after the living light, From tender love for every living thing, He sent the tempters Doubt and dark Despair. And as he watched for final victory He saw that light flash through the silent cave, And heard the Buddha breathe that earnest prayer, And fled amazed, nor dared to look behind. For though to Buddha all his way seemed dark, His wily enemy could see a Power, A mighty Power, that ever hovered near, A present help in every time of need, When sinking souls seek earnestly for aid. He fled, indeed, as flies the prowling wolf, Alarmed at watch-dog's bark or shepherd's voice, While seeking entrance to the slumbering fold, But soon returns with soft and stealthy step, With keenest scent snuffing the passing breeze, With ears erect catching each slightest sound, With glaring eyes watching each moving thing, With hungry jaws, skulking about the fold Till coming dawn drives him to seek his lair. So Mara fled, and so he soon returned, And thus he watched the Buddha's every step; Saw him with gentleness quell haughty power; Saw him with tenderness raise up the weak; Heard him before the Brahmans and the king Denounce those bloody rites ordained by him; Heard him declare the deadly work of Sin, His own prime minister and eldest-born; Heard him proclaim the mighty power of Love To cleanse the life and make the flinty heart As soft as sinews of the new-born babe. And when he saw whither he bent his steps, He sent three wrinkled hags, deformed and foul, The willing agents of his wicked will— Life-wasting Idleness, the thief of time; Lascivious Lust, whose very touch defiles, Poisoning the blood, polluting all within; And greedy Gluttony, most gross of all, Whose ravening maw forever asks for more— To that delightful garden near his way, To tempt the Master, their true forms concealed— For who so gross that such coarse hags could tempt?— But clothed instead in youthful beauty's grace. And now he saw him pass unmoved by lust, Nor yet with cold, self-righteous pride puffed up, But breathing pity from his inmost soul E'en for the ministers of vice themselves.

Defeated, not discouraged, still he thought To try one last device, for well he knew That Buddha's steps approached the sacred tree Where light would dawn and all his power would end. Upon a seat beside the shaded path, A seeming aged Brahman, Mara sat, And when the prince approached, his tempter rose, Saluting him with gentle stateliness, Saluted in return with equal grace.

"Whither away, my son?" the tempter said, "If you to Gaya now direct your steps, Perhaps your youth may cheer my lonely age." "I go to seek for light," the prince replied, "But where it matters not, so light be found."

But Mara answered him: "Your search is vain. Why seek to know more than the Vedas teach? Why seek to learn more than the teachers know? But such is youth; the rosy tints of dawn Tinge all his thoughts. 'Excelsior!' he cries, And fain would scale the unsubstantial clouds To find a light that knows no night, no change; We Brahmans chant our hymns in solemn wise, The vulgar listen with profoundest awe; But still our muffled heart-throbs beat the march Onward, forever onward, to the grave, When one ahead cries, 'Lo! I see a light!' And others clutch his garments, following on. Till all in starless darkness disappear, There may be day beyond this starless night, There may be life beyond this dark profound— But who has ever seen that changeless day? What steps have e'er retraced that silent road? Fables there are, hallowed by hoary age, Fables and ancient creeds, that men have made To give them power with ignorance and fear; Fables of gods with human passions filled: Fables of men who walked and talked with gods; Fables of kalpas passed, when Brahma slept And all created things were wrapped in flames, And then the floods descended, chaos reigned, The world a waste of waters, and the heavens A sunless void, until again he wakes, And sun and moon and stars resume their rounds, Oceans receding show the mountain-tops, And then the hills and spreading plains— Strange fables all, that crafty men have feigned. Why waste your time pursuing such vain dreams— As some benighted travelers chase false lights To lose themselves in bogs and fens at last? But read instead in Nature's open book How light from darkness grew by slow degrees; How crawling worms grew into light-winged birds, Acquiring sweetest notes and gayest plumes; How lowly ferns grew into lofty palms; How men have made themselves from chattering apes;[2] How, even from protoplasm to highest bard, Selecting and rejecting, mind has grown, Until at length all secrets are unlocked, And man himself now stands pre-eminent, Maker and master of his own great self, To sneer at all his lisping childlike past And laugh at all his fathers had revered."

The prince with gentle earnestness replied: "Full well I know how blindly we grope on In doubt and fear and ignorance profound, The wisdom of the past a book now sealed. But why despise what ages have revered? As some rude plowman casts on rubbish-heaps The rusty casket that his share reveals, Not knowing that within it are concealed Most precious gems, to make him rich indeed, The hand that hid them from the robber, cold, The key that locked this rusty casket, lost. The past was wise, else whence that wondrous tongue[3] That we call sacred, which the learned speak, Now passing out of use as too refined For this rude age, too smooth for our rough tongues, Too rich and delicate for our coarse thoughts. Why should such men make fables so absurd Unless within their rough outside is stored Some precious truth from profanation hid? Revere your own, revile no other faith, Lest with the casket you reject the gems, Or with rough hulls reject the living seed. Doubtless in nature changes have been wrought That speak of ages in the distant past, Whose contemplation fills the mind with awe. The smooth-worn pebbles on the highest hills Speak of an ocean sweeping o'er their tops; The giant palms, now changed to solid rocks, Speak of the wonders of a buried world. Why seek to solve the riddle nature puts, Of whence and why, with theories and dreams? The crawling worm proclaims its Maker's power; The singing bird proclaims its Maker's skill; The mind of man proclaims a greater Mind, Whose will makes world, whose thoughts are living acts. Our every heart-throb speaks of present power, Preserving, recreating, day by day. Better confess how little we can know, Better with feet unshod and humble awe Approach this living Power to ask for aid." And as he spoke the devas filled the air, Unseen, unheard of men, and sweetly sung: "Hail, prince of peace! hail, harbinger of day! The darkness vanishes, the light appears." But Mara heard, and silent slunk away, The o'erwrought prince fell prostrate on the ground And lay entranced, while devas hovered near, Watching each heart-throb, breathing that sweet calm Its guardian angel gives the sleeping child.

The night has passed, the day-star fades from sight, And morning's softest tint of rose and gold Tinges the east and tips the mountain-tops. The silent village stirs with waking life, The bleat of goats and low of distant herds, The song of birds and crow of jungle-cocks Breathe softest music through the dewy air.

And now two girls,[4] just grown to womanhood, The lovely daughters of the village lord, Trapusha one, and one Balika called, Up with the dawn, trip lightly o'er the grass, Bringing rich curds and rice picked grain by grain, A willing offering to their guardian god— Who dwelt, as all the simple folk believed, Beneath an aged bodhi-tree that stood Beside the path and near where Buddha lay— To ask such husbands as their fancies paint, Gentle and strong, and noble, true and brave; And having left their gifts and made their vows, With timid steps the maidens stole away.

But while the outer world is filled with life. That inner world from whence this life proceeds, Concealed from sight by matter's blinding folds, Whose coarser currents fill with wondrous power The nervous fluid of the universe Which darts through nature's frame, from star to star, From cloud to cloud, filling the world with awe; Now harnessed to our use, a patient drudge, Heedless of time or space, bears human thought From land to land and through the ocean's depths; And bears the softest tones of human speech Faster than light, farther than ocean sounds; And whirls the clattering car through crowded streets, And floods with light the haunts of prowling thieves— That inner world, whose very life is love, Pure love, and perfect, infinite, intense, That world is now astir. A rift appears In those dark clouds that rise from sinful souls And hide from us its clear celestial light, And clouds of messengers from that bright world, Whom they called devas and we angels call, Rush to that rift to rescue and to save. The wind from their bright wings fanned Buddha's soul, The love from their sweet spirits warmed his heart. He starts from sleep, but rising, scarcely knows If he had seen a vision while awake, Or, sunk in sleep, had dreamed a heavenly dream. From that pure presence all his tempters fled. The calm of conflict ended filled his soul, And led by unseen hands he forward passed To where the sacred fig-tree long had grown, Beneath whose shade the village altar stood, Where simple folk would place their willing gifts, And ask the aid their simple wants required, Believing all the life above, around, The life within themselves, must surely come From living powers that ever hovered near. Here lay the food Sagata's daughters brought, The choicest products of his herds and fields, This grateful food met nature's every need, Diffused a healthful glow through all his frame, And all the body's eager yearnings stilled. Seven days he sat, and ate no more nor drank, Yet hungered not, nor burned with parching thirst, For heavenly manna fed his hungry soul— Its wants were satisfied, the body's ceased. Seven days he sat, in sweet internal peace Waiting for light, and sure that light would come, When seeming scales fell from his inner sight, His spirit's eyes were opened and he saw Not far away, but near, within, above, As dwells the soul within this mortal frame, A world within this workday world of ours, The living soul of all material things.

Eastward he saw a never-setting Sun, Whose light is truth, the light of all the worlds, Whose heat is tender, all-embracing love, The inmost Life of everything that lives, The mighty Prototype and primal Cause Of all the suns that light this universe, From ours, full-orbed, that tints the glowing east And paints the west a thousand varied shades, To that far distant little twinkling star That seems no larger than the glow-worm's lamp, Itself a sun to light such worlds as ours; And round about Him clouds of living light, Bright clouds of cherubim and seraphim, Who sing His praise and execute His will— Not idly singing, as the foolish feign, But voicing forth their joy they work and sing; Doing His will, their works sound forth His praise.

On every side were fields of living green, With gardens, groves and gently rising hills, Where crystal streams of living waters flow, And dim with distance Meru's lofty heights. No desert sands, no mountains crowned with ice, For here the scorching simoom never blows, Nor wintry winds, that pierce and freeze and kill, But gentle breezes breathing sweet perfumes; No weeds, no thorns, no bitter poisonous fruits, No noxious reptiles and no prowling beasts; For in this world of innocence and love No evil thoughts give birth to evil things, But many birds of every varied plume Delight the ear with sweetest melody; And many flowers of every varied tint Fill all the air with odors rich and sweet; And many fruits, suited to every taste, Hang ripe and ready that who will may eat— A world of life, with all its lights and shades, The bright original of our sad world Without its sin and storms, its thorns and tears. No Lethe's sluggish waters lave its shores, Nor solemn shades, of poet's fancy bred, Sit idly here to boast of battles past, Nor wailing ghosts wring here their shadowy hands For lack of honor to their cast-off dust; But living men, in human bodies clothed— Not bodies made of matter, dull and coarse, Dust from the dust and soon to dust returned, But living bodies, clothing living souls, Bodies responsive to the spirit's will, Clothing in acts the spirit's inmost thoughts— Dwell here in many mansions, large and fair, Stretching beyond the keenest vision's hen, With room for each and more than room for all, Forever filling and yet never full. Not clogged by matter, fast as fleetest birds, Wishing to go, they go; to come, they come. No helpless infancy or palsied age, But all in early manhood's youthful bloom, The old grown young, the child to man's estate. Gentle they seemed as they passed to and fro, Gentle and strong, with every manly grace; Busy as bees in summer's sunny hours, In works of usefulness and acts of love; No pinching poverty or grasping greed, Gladly receiving, they more gladly give, Sharing in peace the bounties free to all.

As lost in wonder and delight he gazed, He saw approaching from a pleasant grove Two noble youths, yet full of gentleness, Attending one from sole to crown a queen, With every charm of fresh and blooming youth And every grace of early womanhood, Her face the mirror of her gentle soul, Her flowing robes finer than softest silk, That as she moved seemed woven of the light; Not borne by clumsy wings, or labored steps, She glided on as if her will had wings That bore her willing body where she wished. As she approached, close by her side he saw, As through a veil or thin transparent mist, The form and features of the aged king, Older and frailer by six troubled years Than when they parted, yet his very face, Whom she was watching with the tenderest care. And nearer seen each seeming youth was two, As when at first in Eden's happy shade Our primal parents ere the tempter came Were twain, and yet but one, so on they come, Hand joined in hand, heart beating close to heart, One will their guide and sharing every thought, Beaming with tender, all-embracing love, Whom God had joined and death had failed to part.

What need of words to introduce his guests? Love knows her own, the mother greets her son. Her parents and the king's, who long had watched Their common offspring with a constant care, Inspiring hope and breathing inward peace When secret foes assailed on every side, Now saw him burst the clouds that veiled their view And stand triumphant full before their eyes. O happy meeting! joy profound, complete! Soul greeting soul, heart speaking straight to heart, While countless happy faces hovered near And song's of joy sound through Nirvana's heights.

At length, the transports of first meeting past, More of this new-found world he wished to see, More of its peace and joy he wished to know. Led by his loving guides, enwrapt he saw Such scenes of beauty passing human speech, Such scenes of peace and joy past human thought, That he who sings must tune a heavenly lyre And seraphs touch his lips with living fire. My unanointed lips will not presume To try such lofty themes, glad if I gain A distant prospect of the promised land, And catch some glimpses through the gates ajar. Long time he wandered through these blissful scenes, Time measured by succession of delights, Till wearied by excess of very joy Both soul and body sunk in tranquil sleep. He slept while hosts of devas sweetly sung: "Hail, great physician! savior, lover, friend! Joy of the worlds, guide to Nirvana, hail!" From whose bright presence Mara's myriads fled. But Mara's self, subtlest of all, fled not, But putting on a seeming yogi's form, Wasted, as if by fasts, to skin and bone, On one foot standing, rooted to the ground, The other raised against his fleshless thigh, Hands stretched aloft till joints had lost their use, And clinched so close, as if in firm resolve, The nails had grown quite through the festering palms,[5] His tattered robes, as if worn out by age, Hanging like moss from trees decayed and dead, While birds were nesting in his tangled hair. And thus disguised the subtle Mara stood, And when the master roused him from his sleep His tempter cried in seeming ecstasy: "O! happy wakening! joy succeeding grief! Peace after trouble! rest that knows no end! Life after death! Nirvana found at last! Here let us wait till wasted by decay The body's worn-out fetters drop away."

"Much suffering-brother," Buddha answered him, "The weary traveler, wandering through the night In doubt and darkness, gladly sees the dawn. The storm-tossed sailor on the troubled sea, Wearied and drenched, with joy re-enters port. But other nights succeed that happy dawn, And other seas may toss that sailor's bark. But he who sees Nirvana's sacred Sun, And in Nirvana's haven furls his sails, No more shall wander through the starless night, No more shall battle with the winds and waves. O joy of joys! our eyes have seen that Sun! Our sails have almost reached that sheltering port, But shall we, joyful at our own escape, Leave our poor brothers battling with the storm, Sails rent, barks leaking, helm and compass lost, No light to guide, no hope to cheer them on?"

"Each for himself must seek, as we have sought," The tempter said, "and each must climb alone The rugged path our weary feet have trod. No royal road leads to Nirvana's rest; No royal captain guides his army there. Why leave the heights with so much labor gained? Why plunge in darkness we have just escaped? Men will not heed the message we may bring. The great will scorn, the rabble will deride,[6] And cry 'He hath a devil and is mad.'"

"True," answered Buddha, "each must seek to find; Each for himself must leave the downward road; Each for himself must choose the narrow path That leads to purity and peace and life. But helping hands will aid those struggling up; A warning voice may check those hasting down. Men are like lilies in yon shining pool: Some sunk in evil grovel in the dust, Loving like swine to wallow in the mire— Like those that grow within its silent depths, Scarce raised above its black and oozy bed; While some love good, and seek the purest light, Breathing sweet fragrance from their gentle lives— Like those that rise above its glassy face, Sparkling with dewdrops, royally arrayed, Drinking the brightness of the morning sun, Distilling odors through the balmy air; But countless multitudes grope blindly on, Shut out from light and crushed by cruel castes, Willing to learn, whom none will deign to teach, Willing to rise, whom none will deign to guide, Who from the cradle to the silent grave, Helpless and hopeless, only toil and weep— Like those that on the stagnant waters float, Smothered with leaves, covered with ropy slime, That from the rosy dawn to dewy eve Scarce catch one glimmer of the glorious sun. The good scarce need, the bad will scorn, my aid; But these poor souls will gladly welcome help. Welcome to me the scorn of rich and great, Welcome the Brahman's proud and cold disdain, Welcome revilings from the rabble rout, If I can lead some groping souls to light— If I can give some weary spirits rest. Farewell, my brother, you have earned release— Rest here in peace. I go to aid the poor." And as he spoke a flash of lurid light Shot through the air, and Buddha stood alone— Alone! to teach the warring nations peace! Alone! to lead a groping world to light! Alone! to give the heavy-laden rest!

[1]A sakwal was a sun with its system of worlds, which the ancient Hindoos believed extended one beyond another through infinite space. It indicates great advance in astronomical knowledge when such a complex idea, now universally received as true, as that the fixed stars are suns with systems of worlds like ours, could be expressed in a single word.

[2]It may seem like an anachronism to put the very words of the modern agnostic into the mouth of Buddha's tempter, but these men are merely threshing over old straw. The sneer of Epicurus curled the lip of Voltaire, and now merely breaks out into a broad laugh on the good-natured face of Ingersoll.

[3]The Sanscrit, the most perfect of all languages, and the mother of Greek and of all the languages of the Aryan races, now spread over the world, had gone out of use in Buddha's time, and the Pali, one of its earliest offspring, was used by the great teacher and his people.

[4]Arnold follows the tradition, that there was but one, whom he makes a young wife, without any authority so far as I can learn. I prefer to follow the Chinese pilgrim, Fa Hian, who was on the ground with every means of knowing, who makes them two young girls, and named as above.

[5]Bishop Heber says he saw a recluse whose hands had been clinched so close and so long that the nails had actually grown through the hands as here described.

[6]The last temptation of Buddha was to keep his light to himself under the fear that men would reject his message.



BOOK VI.

Seven days had passed since first he saw the light, Seven days of deep, ecstatic peace and joy, Of open vision of that blissful world, Of sweet communion with those dwelling there. But having tasted, seen and felt the joys Of that bright world where love is all in all, Filling each heart, inspiring every thought, Guiding each will and prompting every act, He yearned to see the other, darker side Of that bright picture, where the wars and hates, The lust, the greed, the cruelty and crime That fill the world with pain and want and woe Have found their dwelling-place and final goal.

Quicker than eagles soaring toward the sun Till but a speck against the azure vault Swoop down upon their unsuspecting prey, Quicker than watch-fires on the mountain-top Send warnings to the dwellers in the plain, Led by his guides he reached Nirvana's verge, Whence he beheld a broad and pleasant plain, Spread with a carpet of the richest green And decked with flowers of every varied tint, Whose blended odors fill the balmy air, Where trees, pleasant to sight and good for food, In rich abundance and spontaneous grow. A living stream, as purest crystal clear, With gentle murmurs wound along the plain, Its surface bright with fairer lotus-flowers Than mortal eye on earth had ever seen, While on its banks were cool, umbrageous groves Whose drooping branches spicy breezes stir, A singing bird in every waving bough, Whose joyful notes the soul of music shed.

A mighty multitude, beyond the power Of men to number, moved about the plain; Some, seeming strangers, wander through the groves And pluck the flowers or eat the luscious fruits; Some, seeming visitors from better worlds, Here wait and watch as for expected guests; While angel devas, clothed in innocence, Whose faces beam with wisdom, glow with love, With loving welcomes greet each coming guest, With loving counsels aid, instruct and guide. And as he looked, the countless, restless throng Seemed ever changing, ever moving on, So that this plain, comparing great to small, Seemed like a station near some royal town, Greater than London or old Babylon, Where all the roads from some vast empire meet, And many caravans or sweeping trains Bring and remove the ever-changing throng. This plain a valley bordered, deep and still, The very valley of his fearful dream Seen from the other side, whose rising mists Were all aglow with ever-changing light, Like passing clouds above the setting sun, Through which as through a glass he darkly saw Unnumbered funeral-trains, in sable clad, To solemn music and with measured tread Bearing their dead to countless funeral-piles, As thick as heaps that through the livelong day With patient toil the sturdy woodmen rear, While clearing forests for the golden grain, And set aflame when evening's shades descend, Filling the glowing woods with floods of light And ghostly shadows: So these funeral-piles Send up their curling smoke and crackling flames.

There eager flames devour an infant's flesh; Here loving arms that risen infant clasp; There loud laments bewail a loved one lost; Here joyful welcomes greet that loved one found. And there he saw a pompous funeral-train, Bearing a body clothed in robes of state, To blare of trumpet, sound of shell and drum, While many mourners bow in silent grief, And widows, orphans raise a loud lament As for a father, a protector lost; And as the flames lick up the fragrant oils, And whirl and hiss around that wasting form, An eager watcher from a better world Welcomes her husband to her open arms, The cumbrous load of pomp and power cast off, While waiting devas and the happy throng His power protected and his bounty blessed With joy conduct his unaccustomed steps Onward and upward, to those blissful seats Where all his stores of duties well performed, Of power well used and wealth in kindness given, Were garnered up beyond the reach of thieves, Where moths ne'er eat and rust can ne'er corrupt.

Another train draws near a funeral-pile, Of aloes, sandal-wood and cassia built, And drenched with every incense-breathing oil, And draped with silks and rich with rarest flowers, Where grim officials clothed in robes of state Placed one in royal purple, decked with gems, Whose word had been a trembling nation's law, Whose angry nod was death to high or low. No mourners gather round this costly pile; The people shrink in terror from the sight. But sullen soldiers there keep watch and ward While eager flames consume those nerveless hands So often raised to threaten or command, Suck out those eyes that filled the court with fear, And only left of all this royal pomp A little dust the winds may blow away.

But here that selfsame monarch comes in view, For royal purple clothed in filthy rags, And lusterless that crown of priceless gems; Those eyes, whose bend so lately awed the world, Blinking and bleared and blinded by the light; Those hands, that late a royal scepter bore, Shaking with fear and dripping all with blood. And as he looked that some should give him place And lead him to a seat for monarchs fit, He only saw a group of innocents His hands had slain, now clothed in spotless white, From whom he fled as if by furies chased, Fled from those groves and gardens of delight, Fled on and down a broad and beaten road By many trod, and toward a desert waste With distance dim, and gloomy, grim and vast, Where piercing thorns and leafless briars grow, And dead sea-apples, ashes to the taste, Where loathsome reptiles crawl and hiss and sting, And birds of night and bat-winged dragons fly, Where beetling cliffs seem threatening instant fall, And opening chasms seem yawning to devour, And sulphurous seas were swept with lurid flames That seethe and boil from hidden fires below.

Again he saw, beyond that silent vale, One frail and old, without a rich man's gate Laid down to die beneath a peepul-tree, And parched with thirst and pierced with sudden pain, A root his pillow and the earth his bed; Alone he met the King of terrors there; Whose wasting body, cumbering now the ground, Chandalas cast upon the passing stream To float and fester in the fiery sun, Till whirled by eddies, caught by roots, it lay A prey for vultures and for fishes food.

That selfsame day a dart of deadly pain Shot through that rich man's hard, unfeeling heart, That laid him low, beyond the power to save, E'en while his servants cast without his gates That poor old man, who came to beg him spare His roof-tree, where his fathers all had died, His hearth, the shrine of all his inmost joys, His little home, to every heart so dear; And in due season tongues of hissing flames That rich man's robes like snowflakes whirled in air, And curled his crackling skin, consumed his flesh, And sucked the marrow from his whitened bones.

But here these two their places seem to change. That rich man's houses, lands, and flocks and herds, His servants, rich apparel, stores of gold, And all he loved and lived for left behind, The friends that nature gave him turned to foes, Dependents whom his greed had wronged and crushed Shrinking away as from a deadly foe; No generous wish, no gentle, tender, thought To hide his nakedness, his shriveled soul Stood stark and bare, the gaze of passers-by; Nothing within to draw him on and up, He slinks away, and wanders on and down, Till in the desert, groveling in the dust, He digs and burrows, seeking treasures there— While that poor man, as we count poverty, Is rich in all that makes the spirit's wealth, His heart so pure that thoughts of guile And evil purpose find no lodgment there; His life so innocent that bitter words And evil-speaking ne'er escape his lips; The little that he had he freely shared, And wished it more that more he might have given; Now rich in soul—for here a crust of bread In kindness shared, a cup of water given, Is worth far more than all Potosi's mines, And Araby's perfumes and India's silks, And all the cattle on a thousand hills— And clothed as with a robe of innocence The devas welcome him, his troubles passed, The conflict ended and the triumph gained.

And there two Brahmans press their funeral-pile, And sink to dust amid the whirling flames. Each from his lisping infancy had heard That Brahmans were a high and holy caste, Too high and holy for the common touch, And each had learned the Vedas' sacred lore. But here they parted. One was cold and proud, Drawing away from all the humbler castes As made to toil, and only fit to serve. The other found within those sacred books That all were brothers, made of common clay, And filled with life from one eternal source, While Brahmans only elder brothers were, With greater light to be his brother's guide, With greater strength to give his brother aid; That he alone a real Brahman was Who had a Brahman's spirit, not his blood. With patient toil from youth to hoary age He taught the ignorant and helped the weak. And now they come where all external pomp And rank and caste and creed are nothing worth. But when that proud and haughty Brahman saw Poor Sudras and Chandalas clothed in white, He swept away with proud and haughty scorn, Swept on and down where heartless selfishness Alone can find congenial company. The other, full of joy, his brothers met, And in sweet harmony they journeyed on Where higher joys await the pure in heart.

And there he saw all ranks and grades and castes, Chandala, Sudra, warrior, Brahman, prince, The wise and ignorant, the strong and weak, In all the stages of our mortal round From lisping; infancy to palsied age, By all the ways to human frailty known, Enter that vale of shadows, deep and still, Leaving behind their pomp and power and wealth, Leaving their rags and wretchedness and want, And cast-off bodies, dust to dust returned, By flames consumed or moldering to decay, While here the real character appeared, All shows, hypocrisies and shams cast off, So that a life of gentleness and love Shines through the face and molds the outer form To living beauty, blooming not to fade, While every act of cruelty and crime Seems like a gangrened ever-widening wound, Wasting the very substance of the soul, Marring its beauty, eating out its strength.

And here arrived, the good, in little groups Together drawn by inward sympathy, And led by devas, take the upward way To those sweet fields his opened eyes had seen, Those ever-widening mansions of delight; While those poor souls—O sad and fearful sight!— The very well-springs of the life corrupt, Shrink from the light and shun the pure and good, Fly from the devas, who with perfect love Would gladly soothe their anguish, ease their pain, Fly on and down that broad and beaten road, Till in the distance in the darkness lost. Lost! lost! and must it be forever lost? The gentle Buddha's all-embracing love Shrunk from the thought, but rather sought relief In that most ancient faith by sages taught, That these poor souls at length may find escape, The grasping in the gross and greedy swine, The cunning in the sly and prowling fox, The cruel in some ravening beast of prey; While those less hardened, less depraved, may gain Rebirth in men, degraded, groveling, base.[1]

But here in sadness let us drop the veil, Hoping that He whose ways are not like ours, Whose love embraces all His handiwork, Who in beginnings sees the final end, May find some way to save these sinful souls Consistent with His fixed eternal law That good from good, evil from evil flows.

Here Buddha saw the mystery of life At last unfolded to its hidden depths. He saw that selfishness was sorrow's root, And ignorance its dense and deadly shade; He saw that selfishness bred lust and hate, Deformed the features, and defiled the soul And closed its windows to those waves of love That flow perennial from Nirvana's Sun. He saw that groveling lusts and base desires Like noxious weeds unchecked luxurious grow, Making a tangled jungle of the soul, Where no good seed can find a place to root, Where noble purposes and pure desires And gentle thoughts wither and fade and die Like flowers beneath the deadly upas-tree. He saw that selfishness bred grasping greed, And made the miser, made the prowling thief, And bred hypocrisy, pretense, deceit, And made the bigot, made the faithless priest, Bred anger, cruelty, and thirst for blood, And made the tyrant, stained the murderer's knife, And filled the world with war and want and woe, And filled the dismal regions of the lost With fiery flames of passions never quenched, With sounds of discord, sounds of clanking chains, With cries of anguish, howls of bitter hate, Yet saw that man was free—not bound and chained[2] Helpless and hopeless to a whirling wheel, Rolled on resistless by some cruel power, Regardless of their cries and prayers and tears— Free to resist those gross and groveling lusts, Free to obey Nirvana's law of love, The law of order—primal, highest law— Which guides the great Artificer himself, Who weaves the garments of the joyful spring, Who paints the glories of the passing clouds, Who tunes the music of the rolling spheres, Guided by love in all His mighty works, Filling with love the humblest willing heart.

He saw that love softens and sweetens life, And stills the passions, soothes the troubled breast, Fills homes with joy and gives the nations peace, A sovereign balm for all the spirit's wounds, The living fountain of Nirvana's bliss; For here before his eyes were countless souls, Born to the sorrows of a sinful world, With burdens bowed, by cares and griefs oppressed, Who felt for others' sorrows as their own, Who lent a helping hand to those in need, Returning good for evil, love for hate, Whose garments now were white as spotless wool, Whose faces beamed with gentleness and love, As onward, upward, devas guide their steps, Nirvana's happy mansions full in view.

He saw the noble eightfold path that mounts From life's low levels to Nirvana's heights. Not by steep grades the strong alone can climb, But by such steps as feeblest limbs may take. He saw that day by day and step by step, By lusts resisted and by evil shunned, By acts of love and daily duties done, Soothing some heartache, helping those in need, Smoothing life's journey for a brother's feet, Guarding the lips from harsh and bitter words, Guarding the heart from gross and selfish thoughts, Guarding the hands from every evil act, Brahman or Sudra, high or low, may rise Till heaven's bright mansions open to the view, And heaven's warm sunshine brightens all the way; While neither hecatombs of victims slain, Nor clouds of incense wafted to the skies, Nor chanted hymns, nor prayers to all the gods, Can raise a soul that clings to groveling lusts.

He saw the cause of sorrow, and its cure. He saw that waves of love surround the soul As waves of sunlight fill the outer world, While selfishness, the subtle alchemist Concealed within, changes that love to hate, Forges the links of karma's fatal chain, Of passions, envies, lusts to bind the soul, And weaves his webs of falsehood and deceit To close its windows to the living light, Changing its mansion to its prison-house, Where it must lay self-chained and self-condemned; While DHARMA, TRUTH, the LAW, the LIVING WORD, Brushes away those deftly woven webs, Opens its windows to the living light, Reveals the architect of all its ills, Scatters the timbers of its prison-house,[3] And snaps in twain those bitter, galling chains So that the soul once more may stand erect, Victor of self, no more to be enslaved, And live in charity and gentle peace, Bearing all meekly, loving those who hate; And when at last the fated stream is reached, With lightened boat to reach the other shore. And here he found the light he long had sought, Gilding at once Nirvana's blissful heights And lighting life's sequestered, lowly vales— A light whose inner life is perfect love, A love whose outer form is living light, Nirvana's Sun, the Light of all the worlds,[4] Heart of the universe, whose mighty pulse Gives heaven, the worlds and even hell their life, Maker and Father of all living things Matreya's[5] self, the Lover, Saviour, Guide, The last, the greatest Buddha, who must rule As Lord of all before the kalpa's end.

The way of life—the noble eightfold path, The way of truth, the Dharma-pada—found, With joy he bade his loving guides farewell, With joy he turned from all those blissful scenes. And when the rosy dawn next tinged the east, And morning's burst of song had waked the day, With staff and bowl he left the sacred tree— Where pilgrims, passing pathless mountain-heights, And desert sands, and ocean's stormy waves, From every nation, speaking every tongue, Should come in after-times to breathe their vows— Beginning on that day his pilgrimage Of five and forty years from place to place, Breaking the cruel chains of caste and creed, Teaching the law of love, the way of life.

[1]The later Buddhists make much of the doctrine of metempsychosis, but in the undoubted sayings and Sutras or sermons of Buddha I find no mention of it except in this way as the last hope of those who persist through life in evil, while the good after death reach the other shore, or Nirvana, where there is no more birth or death.

[2]This great and fundamental truth, lying as the basis of human action and responsibility, was recognized by Homer, who makes Jupiter say:

"Perverse mankind, whose wills created free, Charge all their woes to absolute decree."

Odyssey, Book I, lines 41 and 42

[3]After examining the attempted explanations of that remarkable passage, the original of which is given at the end of the sixth book of Arnold's "Light of Asia," I am satisfied this is its true interpretation. It is not the death of the body, for he lived forty-five years afterwards, much less the annihilation of the soul, as some have imagined, but the conquest of the passions and gross and selfish desires which make human life a prison, the very object and end of the highest Christian teaching's and aspirations.

[4] "Know then that heaven and earth's compacted frame, And flowing waters, and the starry flame, And both the radiant lights, one common soul Inspires and feeds and animates the whole." Dryden's Virgil, Book VI, line 360.

[5]Buddha predicted that Matreya (Love incarnate) would be his successor (see Beal's Fa Hian, page 137, note 2, and page 162; also Hardy's Manual, page 386, and Oldenburgh's Buddhism, page 386), who was to come at the end of five hundred years at the end of his Dharma (see Buddhism and Christianity, Lillie, page 2).

It is a remarkable fact that this successor is the most common object of worship among Buddhists, so that the most advanced Buddhists and the most earnest Christians have the same object of worship under different names.



BOOK VII.

Alone on his great mission going forth, Down Phalgu's valley he retraced his steps, Down past the seat where subtle Mara sat, And past the fountain where the siren sang, And past the city, through the fruitful fields And gardens he had traversed day by day For six long years, led by a strong desire To show his Brahman teachers his new light. But ah! the change a little time had wrought! A new-made stupa held their gathered dust, While they had gone where all see eye to eye, The darkness vanished and the river crossed.

Then turning sadly from this hallowed spot— Hallowed by strivings for a higher life More than by dust this little mound contained— He sought beneath the spreading banyan-tree His five companions, whom he lately left Sad at his own departure from the way The sacred Vedas and the fathers taught. They too had gone, to Varanassi[1] gone, High seat and centre of all sacred lore.

The day was well-nigh spent; his cave was near, Where he had spent so many weary years, And as he thither turned and upward climbed, The shepherd's little child who watched the flock His love had rescued from the bloody knife, Upon a rock that rose above his path Saw him pass by, and ran with eagerness To bear the news. Joy filled that humble home. They owed him all. The best they had they brought, And offered it with loving gratitude. The master ate, and as he ate he taught These simple souls the great, the living truth That love is more than costly sacrifice; That daily duties done are highest praise; That when life's duties end its sorrows end, And higher joys await the pure in heart. Their eager souls drank in his living words As those who thirst drink in the living spring. Then reverently they kissed his garment's hem, And home returned, while he lay down to sleep. And sweetly as a babe the master slept— No doubts, no darkness, and no troubled dreams. When rosy dawn next lit the eastern sky, And morning's grateful coolness filled the air, The master rose and his ablutions made. With bowl and staff in hand he took his way Toward Varanassi, hoping there to find The five toward whom his earnest spirit yearned.

Ten days have passed, and now the rising sun. That hangs above the distant mountain-peaks Is mirrored back by countless rippling waves That dance upon the Ganges' yellow stream, Swollen by rains and melted mountain-snows, And glorifies the thousand sacred fanes[2] With gilded pinnacles and spires and domes That rise in beauty on its farther bank, While busy multitudes glide up and down With lightly dipping oars and swelling sails. And pilgrims countless as those shining waves, From far and near, from mountain, hill and plain, With dust and travel-stained, foot-sore, heart-sick, Here came to bathe within the sacred stream, Here came to die upon its sacred banks, Seeking to wash the stains of guilt away, Seeking to lay their galling burdens down. Scoff not at these poor heavy-laden souls! Blindly they seek, but that all-seeing Eye That sees the tiny sparrow when it falls, Is watching them, His angels hover near. Who knows what visions meet their dying gaze? Who knows what joys await those troubled hearts?

The ancient writings say that having naught To pay the ferryman, the churl refused To ferry him across the swollen stream, When he was raised and wafted through the air. What matter whether that all-powerful Love Which moves the worlds, and bears with all our sins, Sent him a chariot and steeds of fire, Or moved the heart of some poor fisherman To bear him over for a brother's sake? All power is His, and men can never thwart His all-embracing purposes of love. Now past the stream and near the sacred grove The deer-park called, the five saw him approach. But grieved at his departure from the way The ancient sages taught, said with themselves They would not rise or do him reverence. But as he nearer came, the tender love, The holy calm that shone upon his face, Made them at once forget their firm resolve. They rose together, doing reverence, And bringing water washed his way-soiled feet, Gave him a mat, and said as with one voice: "Master Gautama, welcome to our grove. Here rest your weary limbs and share our shade. Have you escaped from karma's fatal chains And gained clear vision—found the living light?"

"Call me not master. Profitless to you Six years have passed," the Buddha answered them, "In doubt and darkness groping blindly on. But now at last the day has surely dawned. These eyes have seen Nirvana's sacred Sun, And found the noble eightfold path that mounts From life's low levels, mounts from death's dark shades To changeless day, to never-ending rest." Then with the prophet's newly kindled zeal, Zeal for the truth his opened eyes had seen, Zeal for the friends whose struggles he had shared, Softened by sympathy and tender love, He taught how selfishness was primal cause Of every ill to which frail flesh is heir, The poisoned fountain whence all sorrows flow, The loathsome worm that coils about the root And kills the germ of every springing joy, The subtle foe that sows by night the tares That quickly springing choke the goodly seed Which left to grow would fill the daily life With balmy fragrance and with precious fruit. He showed that selfishness was life's sole bane And love its great and sovereign antidote. He showed how selfishness would change the child From laughing innocence to greedy youth And heartless manhood, cold and cruel age, Which past the vale and stript of all disguise Shrinks from the good, and eager slinks away And seeks those dismal regions of the lost His opened eyes with sinking heart had seen. Then showed how love its guardian angel paints Upon the cooing infant's smiling face, Grows into gentle youth, and manhood rich In works of helpfulness and brotherhood, And ripens into mellow, sweet old age, Childhood returned with all its gentleness, Whose funeral-pile but lights the upward way To those sweet fields his opened eyes had seen, Those ever-widening mansions of delight.

Enwrapt the teacher taught the living truth; Enwrapt the hearers heard his living words; The night unheeded winged its rapid flight, The morning found their souls from darkness free.

Six yellow robes Benares daily saw, Six wooden alms-bowls held for daily food, Six meeting sneers with smiles and hate with love, Six watchers by the pilgrim's dying bed, Six noble souls united in the work Of giving light and hope and help to all.

A rich and noble youth, an only son, Had seen Gautama passing through the streets, A holy calm upon his noble face, Had heard him tell the pilgrims by the stream, Gasping for breath and breathing out their lives, Of higher life and joys that never end; And wearied, sated by the daily round Of pleasure, luxury and empty show That waste his days but fail to satisfy, Yet fearing his companions' gibes and sneers, He sought the master in the sacred grove When the full moon was mirrored in the stream, The sleeping city silvered by its light; And there he lingered, drinking in his words, Till night was passed and day was well-nigh spent.

The father, anxious for his absent son, Had sought him through the night from street to street In every haunt that youthful folly seeks, And now despairing sought the sacred grove— Perhaps by chance, perhaps led by the light That guides the pigeon to her distant home— And found him there. He too the Buddha heard, And finding light, and filled with joy, he said: "Illustrious master, you have found the way. You place the upturned chalice on its base. You fill with light the sayings dark of old. You open blinded eyes to see the truth."

At length they thought of those poor hearts at home, Mother and sister, watching through the night— Waiting and watching through the livelong day, Startled at every step, at every sound, Startled at every bier that came in view In that great city of the stranger dead, That city where the living come to die— And home returned when evening's rose and gold Had faded from the sky, and myriad lamps Danced on the sacred stream, and moon and stars Hung quivering in its dark and silent depths. But day by day returned, eager to hear More of that truth that sweetens daily life, Yet reaches upward to eternal day.

A marriage-feast,[3] three festivals in one, Stirs to its depths Benares' social life. A gorgeous sunset ushers in the night, Sunset and city mirrored in the stream. Broad marble steps upon the river-bank Lead to a garden where a blaze of bloom, A hedge of rose-trees, forms the outer wall; An aged banyan-tree,[4] whose hundred trunks Sustain a vaulted roof of living green Which scarce a ray of noonday's sun can pierce, The garden's vestibule and outer court; While trees of every varied leaf and bloom Shade many winding walks, where fountains fall With liquid cadence into shining pools. Above, beyond, the stately palace stands, Inviting in, calling to peace and rest, As if a soul dwelt in its marble form.

The darkness thickens, when a flood of light Fills every recess, lighting every nook; The garden hedge a wall of mellow light, A line of lamps along the river's bank, With lamps in every tree and lining every walk, While lamps thick set surround each shining pool, Weaving with rainbow tints the falling spray. And now the palace through the darkness shines. A thing of beauty traced with lines of light.[5]