The Dawn and the Day; Or, The Buddha and the Christ, Part I

by Henry Thayer Niles

BOOK II.

She passed along, and then the king and prince
With their attendants wheeled in line and moved
Down to the royal stand, each to his place.

The trumpets sound, and now the games begin.

But see the scornful curl of Culture's lip
At such low sports! Dyspeptic preachers hear
Harangue the sleepers on their sinfulness!
Hear grave philosophers, so limp and frail
They scarce can walk God's earth to breathe his air,
Talk of the waste of time! Short-sighted men!
God made the body just to fit the mind,
Each part exact, no scrimping and no waste—
Neglect the body and you cramp the soul.

First brawny wrestlers, shining from the bath,
Wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye,
After long play clinch close, arms twined, knees locked,
Each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still
As if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop,
Or else by power of magic changed to stone
In that supremest moment, when a breath
Or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale;
And when they fall the shouts from hill to hill
Sound like the voices of the mighty deep,
As wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound shore.

Then boxers, eye to eye and foot to foot,
One arm at guard, the other raised to strike.

The hurlers of the quoit next stand in line,
Measure the distance with experienced eye,
Adjust the rings, swing them with growing speed,
Until at length on very tiptoe poised,
Like Mercury just lighted on the earth,
With mighty force they whirl them through the air.

And then the spearmen, having for a mark
A lion rampant, standing as in life,
So distant that it seemed but half life-size,
Each vital part marked with a little ring.
And when the spears were hurled, six trembling stood
Fixed in the beast, piercing each vital part,
Leaving the victory in even scale.
For these was set far off a lesser mark,
Until at length by chance, not lack of skill,
The victory so long in doubt was won.
And then again the people wildly shout,
The prince victor and nobly vanquished praised.

Next runners, lithe and light, glide round the plain,
Whose flying feet like Mercury's seemed winged,
Their chests expanded, and their swinging arms
Like oars to guide and speed their rapid course;
And as they passed along the people cheered
Each well-known master of the manly art.

Then archers, with broad chests and brawny arms
Such as the blacksmith's heavy hammer wields
With quick, hard blows that make the anvil ring
And myriad sparks from the hot iron fly;
A golden eagle on a screen their mark,
So distant that it seemed a sparrow's size—
"For," said the prince, "let not this joyful day
Give anguish to the smallest living thing."
They strain their bows until their muscles seem
Like knotted cords, the twelve strings twang at once,
And the ground trembles as at the swelling tones
Of mighty organs or the thunder's roll.
Two arrows pierce the eagle, while the rest
All pierce the screen. A second mark was set,
When lo! high up in air two lines of swans,
Having one leader, seek their northern nests,
Their white plumes shining in the noonday sun,
Calling each other in soft mellow notes.
Instant one of the people cries "A mark!"
Whereat the thousands shout "A mark! a mark!"
One of the archers chose the leader, one the last.
Their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates
As if sore wounded, while the first came down
Like a great eagle swooping for its prey,
And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced,
Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood.
Whereat the people shout, and shout again,
Until the hills repeat the mighty sound.
The prince gently but sadly raised the bird,
Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear,
And gave to one to care for and to cure.

And now the people for the chariot-race
Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand,
By folding doors hid from the public view,
The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits
And paw the ground, impatient for the start.
The charioteers alert, with one strong hand
Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash.
Timour—a name that since has filled the world,
A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept
As with destruction's broom fair India's plains—
With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds;
Azim, from Cashmere's rugged lovely vale,
His prancing Babylonians firmly held;
Channa, from Ganges' broad and sacred stream,
With bit and word checked his Nisaean three;
While Devadatta, cousin to the prince,
Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms
As fondest mothers to their children use;
"Atair, my pet! Mira, my baby, hush!
Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!"
With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide,
And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw
Some distant object in their desert home.

At length the gates open as of themselves,
When at the trumpet's sound the steeds dash forth
As by one spirit moved, under tight rein,
And neck and neck they thunder down the plain,
While rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels.
But weight, not lack of nerve or spirit, tells;
Azim and Channa urge their steeds in vain,
By Tartar and light Arab left behind
As the light galley leaves the man-of-war;
They sweat and labor ere a mile is gained,
While their light rivals pass the royal stand
Fresh as at first, just warming to the race.

And now the real race at length begins,
A double race, such as the Romans loved.
Horses so matched in weight and strength and speed,
Drivers so matched in skill that as they pass
Azim and Channa seemed a single man.
Timour and Devadatta, side by side,
Wheel almost touching wheel, dash far ahead.

Azim and Channa, left so far behind,
No longer urge a race already lost.
The Babylonian and Nisaean steeds,
No longer pressed so far beyond their power,
With long and even strides sweep smoothly on,
Striking the earth as with a single blow,
Their hot breath rising in a single cloud.
Arab and Tartar with a longer stride
And lighter stroke skim lightly o'er the ground.
Watching the horses with a master's eye,
As Devadatta and Timour four times,
Azim and Channa thrice, swept by the stand,
The prince saw that another round would test,
Not overtax, their powers, and gave the sign,
When three loud trumpet-blasts to all proclaimed
That running one more round would end the race.
These ringing trumpet-calls that brought defeat
Or victory so near, startle and rouse.
The charioteers more ardent urge their steeds;
The steeds are with hot emulation fired;
The social multitude now cease to talk—
Even age stops short in stories often told;
Boys, downy-chinned, in rough-and-tumble sports
Like half-grown bears engaged, turn quick and look;
And blooming girls, with merry ringing laugh,
Romping in gentler games, watching meanwhile
With sly and sidelong look the rougher sports,
Turn eagerly to see the scene below;
While mothers for the time forget their babes,
And lovers who had sought out quiet nooks
To tell the tale that all the past has told
And coming times will tell, stand mute and gaze.
The home-stretch soon is reached, and Channa's three
By word and lash urged to their topmost speed,
The foaming Babylonians left behind,
While Devadatta and Timour draw near,
A whole round gained, Timour a length ahead.
But Devadatta loosens now his reins,
Chides his fleet pets, with lash swung high in air
Wounds their proud spirits, not their tender flesh.
With lion-bounds they pass the Tartar steeds,
That with hot rival rage and open mouths,
And flaming eyes, and fierce and angry cries,
Dash full at Regil's side, but dash in vain.
Fear adding speed, the Arabs sweep ahead.
Meanwhile the prince springs forward from his seat,
And all on tiptoe still and eager stand,
So that the rumbling of the chariot-wheels,
The tramp of flying feet and drivers' cries,
Alone the universal stillness break—
As when before the bursting of some fearful storm,
Birds, beasts and men stand mute with trembling awe,
While heaven's artillery and roaring winds
Are in the awful silence only heard.
But when the double victory is gained,
Drums, shells and trumpets mingle with the shouts
From hill to hill re-echoed and renewed—
As when, after the morning's threatening bow,
Dark, lurid, whirling clouds obscure the day,
And forked lightnings dart athwart the sky,
And angry winds roll up the boiling sea,
And thunder, raging winds and warring waves
Join in one mighty and earth shaking roar.

Thus end the games, and the procession forms,
The king and elders first, contestants next,
And last the prince; each victor laurel-crowned,
And after each his prize, while all were given
Some choice memorial of the happy day—
Cinctures to all athletes to gird the loins
And falling just below the knee, the belt
Of stoutest leather, joined with silver clasps,
The skirt of softest wool or finest silk,
Adorned with needlework and decked with gems,
Such as the modest Aryans always wore
In games intended for the public view,
Before the Greeks became degenerate,
And savage Rome compelled those noble men
Whose only crime was love of liberty,
By discipline and numbers overwhelmed,
Bravely defending children, wife and home,
Naked to fight each other or wild beasts,
And called this brutal savagery high sport
For them and for their proud degenerate dames,
Of whom few were what Caesar's wife should be.
The athletes' prizes all were rich and rare,
Some costly emblem of their several arts.
The archers' prizes all were bows; the first
Made from the horns of a great mountain-goat
That long had ranged the Himalayan heights,
Till some bold hunter climbed his giddy cliffs
And brought his unsuspecting victim down.
His lofty horns the bowsmith root to root
Had firmly joined, and polished, bright,
And tipped with finest gold, and made a bow
Worthy of Sinhahamu's[1] mighty arm.
The other prizes, bows of lesser strength
But better suited to their weaker arms.
A chariot, the charioteers' first prize,[2]
Its slender hubs made strong with brazen bands,
The spokes of whitest ivory polished bright,
The fellies ebony, with tires of bronze,
Each axle's end a brazen tiger's head,
The body woven of slender bamboo shoots
Intwined with silver wire and decked with gold.
A mare and colt of the victorious breed
The second prize, more worth in Timour's eyes.
Than forty chariots, though each were made
Of ebony or ivory or gold,
And all the laurel India ever grew.
The third, a tunic of soft Cashmere wool,
On which, by skillful needles deftly wrought,
The race itself as if in life stood forth.
The fourth, a belt to gird the laggard's loins
And whip to stimulate his laggard steeds.

And thus arrayed they moved once round the course,
Then to the palace, as a fitter place
For beauty's contest than the open plain;
The singers chanting a triumphal hymn,
While many instruments, deep toned and shrill,
And all the multitude, the chorus swell.

This day his mission ceased to press the prince,
And he forgot the sorrows of the world,
So deep and earnest seemed the general joy.
Even those with grinning skeletons at home
In secret closets locked from public view,
And care and sorrow rankling at their hearts,
Joined in the general laugh and swelled the shouts,
And seemed full happy though they only seemed.
But through the games, while all was noisy mirth,
He felt a new, strange feeling at his heart,
And ever and anon he stole a glance
At beauty's rose-embowered hiding-place,
To catch a glimpse of those two laughing eyes,
So penetrating yet so soft and mild.
And at the royal banquet spread for all
It chanced Yasodhara sat next the prince—
An accident by older heads designed—
And the few words that such constraint allowed
Were music to his ears and touched his heart;
And when her eyes met his her rosy blush
Told what her maiden modesty would hide.
And at the dance, when her soft hands touched his
The music seemed to quicken, time to speed;
But when she bowed and passed to other hands,
Winding the mystic measure of the dance,[3]
The music seemed to slacken, time to halt,
Or drag his limping moments lingering on.
At length, after the dance, the beauties passed
Before the prince, and each received her prize.
So rich and rare that each thought hers the first,
A treasure to be kept and shown with pride,
And handed down to children yet unborn.
But when Yasodhara before him stood,
The prizes all were gone; but from his neck
He took a golden chain thick set with gems,
And clasped it round her slender waist, and said:
"Take this, and keep it for the giver's sake."

And from the prince they passed before the king.
The proud and stately he would greet with grace,
The timid cheer with kind and gracious words.
But when Yasodhara bowed low and passed,
He started, and his color went and came
As if oppressed with sudden inward pain.
Asita, oldest of his counselors,
Sprang to his side and asked: "What ails the king?"
"Nothing, my friend, nothing," the king replied,
"But the sharp probing of an ancient wound.
You know how my sweet queen was loved of all—
But how her life was woven into mine,
Filling my inmost soul, none e'er can know.
My bitter anguish words can never tell,
As that sweet life was gently breathed away.
Time only strengthens this enduring love,
And she seems nearer me as I grow old.
Often in stillest night's most silent hour,
When the sly nibbling of a timid mouse
In the deep stillness sounds almost as loud
As builders' hammers in the busy day,
My Maya as in life stands by my side.
A halo round her head, as she would say:
'A little while, and you shall have your own.'
Often in deepest sleep she seems to steal
Into that inmost chamber of my soul
Vacant for her, and nestle to my heart,
Breathing a peace my waking hours know not.
And when I wake, and turn to clasp my love
My sinking heart finds but her vacant place.
Since that sad day that stole her from my arms
I've seen a generation of sweet girls
Grow up to womanhood, but none like her!
Hut that bright vision that just flitted by
Seemed so like her it made me cringe and start.
O dear Asita, little worth is life,
With all its tears and partings, woes and pains,
If when its short and fitful fever ends
There is no after-life, where death and pain,
And sundered ties, and crushed and bleeding hearts,
And sad and last farewells are never known."

Such was the old and such the new-born love;
The new quick bursting into sudden flame,
Warming the soul to active consciousness
That man alone is but a severed part
Of one full, rounded, perfect, living whole;
The old a steady but undying flame,
A living longing for the loved and lost;
But each a real hunger of the soul
For what gave paradise its highest bliss,
And what in this poor fallen world of ours
Gives glimpses of its high and happy life.

O love! how beautiful! how pure! how sweet!
Life of the angels that surround God's throne!
But when corrupt, Pandora's box itself,
Whence spring all human ills and woes and crimes,
The very fire that lights the flames of hell.

The festival is past. The crowds have gone,
The diligent to their accustomed round
Of works and days, works to each day assigned,
The thoughtless and the thriftless multitude
To meet their tasks haphazard as they come,
But all the same old story to repeat
Of cares and sorrows sweetened by some joys.

Three days the sweet Yasodhara remained,
For her long journey taking needful rest.
But when the rosy dawn next tinged the east
And lit the mountain-tops and filled the park
With a great burst of rich and varied song,
The good old king bade the sweet girl farewell,
Imprinting on her brow a loving kiss,
While welling up from tender memories
Big tear-drops trickled down his furrowed cheeks.
And as her train, escorted by the prince
And noble youth, wound slowly down the hill,
The rising sun with glory gilds the city
That like a diadem circled its brow,
While giant shadows stretch across the plain;
And when they reach the plain they halt for rest
Deep in a garden's cooling shade, where flowers
That fill the air with grateful fragrance hang
By ripening fruits, and where all seems at rest
Save two young hearts and tiny tireless birds
That dart from flower to newer to suck their sweets,
And even the brook that babbled down the hill
Now murmurs dreamily as if asleep.
Sweet spot! sweet hour! how quick its moments fly!
How soon the cooling winds and sinking sun
And bustling stir of preparation tells
'Tis time for her to go; and when they part,
The gentle pressure of the hand, one kiss—
A kiss not given yet not resisted—tells
A tale of love that words are poor to tell.
And when she goes how lonely seems her way
Through groves, through fields, through busy haunts of men;
And as he climbs the hill and often stops
To watch her lessening train until at length
Her elephant seems but a moving speck,
Proud Kantaka, pawing and neighing, asks
As plain as men could ever ask in, words:
"What makes my master choose this laggard pace?"

At length she climbs those rocky, rugged hills.
That guarded well the loveliest spot on earth
Until the Moguls centuries after came,
Like swarms of locusts swept before the wind,
Or ravening wolves, to conquer fair Cashmere.[4]
And when she reached the top, before her lay,
As on a map spread out, her native land,
By lofty mountains walled on every side,
From winds, from wars, and from the world shut out;
The same great snow-capped mountains north and east
In silent, glittering, awful grandeur stand,
And west the same bold, rugged, cliff-crowned hills.
That filled her eyes with wonder when a child.
Below the snow a belt of deepest green;
Below this belt of green great rolling hills,
Checkered with orchards, vineyards, pastures, fields,
The vale beneath peaceful as sleeping babe,
The city nestling round the shining lake,
And near the park and palace, her sweet home.

O noble, peaceful, beautiful Cashmere!
Well named the garden of eternal spring!
But yet, with home and all its joys so near.
She often turned and strained her eager eyes
To catch one parting glimpse of that sweet spot
Where more than half of her young heart was left.

At length their horns, whose mocking echoes
Rolled from hill to hill, were answered from below,
While from the park a gay procession comes,
Increasing as it moves, to welcome her,
Light of the palace, the people's idol, home.

The prince's thoughts by day and dreams by night
Meanwhile were filled with sweet Yasodhara,
And this bright vision ever hovering near
Hid from his eyes those grim and ghastly forms,
Night-loving and light-shunning brood of sin,
That ever haunt poor fallen human lives,
And from the darkened corners of the soul
Are quick to sting each pleasure with sharp pain,
To pour some bitter in life's sweetest cup,
And shadow with despair its brightest hopes—
Made him forget how sorrow fills the world,
How strength is used to crush and not to raise,
How creeds are bandages to blind men's eyes,
Lest they should see and walk in duty's path
That leads to peace on earth and joy in heaven,
And even made him for the time forget
His noble mission to restore and save.

He sought her for his bride, but waited long,
For princes cannot wed like common folk—
Friends called, a feast prepared, some bridal gifts,
Some tears at parting and some solemn vows,
Rice scattered, slippers thrown with noisy mirth,
And common folk are joined till death shall part.
Till death shall part! O faithless, cruel thought!
Death ne'er shall part souls joined by holy love,
Who through life's trials, joys and cares
Have to each other clung, faithful till death,
Tender and true in sickness and in health,
Bearing each other's burdens, sharing griefs,
Lightening each care and heightening every joy.
Such life is but a transient honeymoon,
A feeble foretaste of eternal joys.
But princes when they love, though all approve,
Must wait on councils, embassies and forms.
But how the coach of state lumbers and lags
With messages of love whose own light wings
Glide through all bars, outstrip all fleetest things—
No bird so light, no thought so fleet as they.

But while the prince chafed at the long delay,
The sweet Yasodhara began to feel
The bitter pangs of unrequited love.
But her young hands, busy with others' wants,
And her young heart, busy with others' woes,
With acts of kindness filled the lagging hours,
Best of all medicines for aching hearts.
Yet often she would seek a quiet nook
Deep in the park, where giant trees cross arms,
Making high gothic arches, and a shade
That noonday's fiercest rays could scarcely pierce,
And there alone with her sad heart communed:
"Yes! I have kept it for the giver's sake,
But he has quite forgot his love, his gift, and me.
How bright these jewels seemed warmed by his love,
But now how dull, how icy and how dead!"
But soon the soft-eyed antelopes and fawns
And fleet gazelles came near and licked her hands;
And birds of every rich and varied plume
Gathered around and filled the air with song;
And even timid pheasants brought their broods,
For her sweet loving life had here restored
The peace and harmony of paradise;
And as they shared her bounty she was soothed
By their mute confidence and perfect trust.

But though time seems to lag, yet still it moves,
Resistless as the ocean's swelling tide,
Bearing its mighty freight of human lives
With all their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Onward, forever onward, to life's goal.
At length the embassy is sent, and now,
Just as the last faint rays of rosy light
Fade from the topmost Himalayan peaks,
And tired nature sinks to quiet rest,
A horseman dashes through the silent streets
Bearing the waiting prince the welcome word
That one short journey of a single day
Divides him from the sweet Yasodhara;
And light-winged rumor spreads the joyful news,
And ere the dawn had danced from mountain-top
O'er hill and vale and plain to the sweet notes
Of nature's rich and varied orchestra,
And dried the pearly tears that night had wept,
The prince led forth his train to meet his bride,
Wondering that Kantaka, always so free,
So eager and so fleet, should seem to lag.
And in that fragrant garden's cooling shade,
Where they had parted, now again they meet,
And there we leave them reverently alone,
For art can never paint nor words describe
The peace and rest and rapture of that scene.

Meanwhile the city rings with busy stir.
The streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes,
And when the evening shades had veiled the earth,
And heaven's blue vault was set with myriad stars,
The promised signal from the watchtower sounds,
And myriad lamps shine from each house and tree,
And merry children strew their way with flowers,
And all come forth to greet Siddartha's bride,
And welcome her, their second Maya, home.
And at the palace gate the good old king
Receives her with such loving tenderness,
As fondest mother, sick with hope deferred,
Waiting and watching for an absent child,
At length receives him in her open arms.

[1]Sinhahamu was an ancestor, said to be the grandfather, of our prince, whose bow, like that of Ulysses, no one else could bend. See notes 24 and 35 to Book Second of Arnold's "Light of Asia."

[2]Any one who has read that remarkable work, "Ben Bur," and every one who has not should, will recognize my obligations to General Wallace.

[3]One may be satisfied with the antiquity of the dance, practically as we have it, from lines 187-8, Book VI. of the Odyssey:

"Joyful they see applauding princes gaze
When stately in the dance they swim the harmonious maze."

[4]I am aware I place Kapilavasta nearer the Vale of Cashmere than most, but as two such writers as Beal and Rhys Davids differ 30 yojanas, or 180 miles in its location, and as no remains have yet been identified at all corresponding to the grandeur of the ancient city as described by all Buddhist writers, I felt free to indulge my fancy. Perhaps these ruins may yet be found by some chance traveler in some unexplored jungle.