BOOK III.
And now his cup with every blessing filled
Full to the brim, to overflowing full,
What more has life to give or heart to wish?
Stately in form, with every princely grace,
A very master of all manly arts,
His gentle manners making all his friends,
His young blood bounding on in healthful flow,
His broad domains rich in all earth can yield,
Guarded by nature and his people's love,
And now that deepest of all wants supplied,
The want of one to share each inmost thought,
Whose sympathy can soothe each inmost smart,
Whose presence, care and loving touch can make
The palace or the humblest cottage home,
His life seemed rounded, perfect, full, complete.
And they were happy as the days glide on,
And when at night, locked in each other's arms,
They sink to rest, heart beating close to heart,
Their thoughts all innocence and trust and love,
It almost seemed as if remorseless Time
Had backward rolled his tide, and brought again
The golden age, with all its peace and joy,
And our first parents, ere the tempter came,
Were taking sweet repose in paradise.
But as one night they slept, a troubled dream
Disturbed the prince. He dreamed he saw one come,
As young and fair as sweet Yasodhara,
But clad in widow's weeds, and in her arms
A lifeless child, crying: "Most mighty prince!
O bring me back my husband and my child!"
But he could only say "Alas! poor soul!"
And started out of sleep he cried "Alas!"
Which waked the sweet Yasodhara, who asked,
"What ails my love?" "Only a troubled dream,"
The prince replied, but still she felt him tremble,
And kissed and stroked his troubled brow,
And soothed him into quiet sleep again.
And then once more he dreamed—a pleasing dream.
He dreamed he heard strange music, soft and sweet;
He only caught its burden: "Peace, be still!"
And then he thought he saw far off a light,
And there a place where all was peace and rest,
And waking sighed to find it all a dream.
One day this happy couple, side by side,
Rode forth alone, Yasodhara unveiled—
"For why," said she, "should those whose thoughts are pure
Like guilty things hide from their fellow-men?"—
Rode through the crowded streets, their only guard
The people's love, strongest and best of guards;
For many arms would spring to their defense,
While some grim tyrant, at whose stern command
A million swords would from their scabbards leap,
Cringes in terror behind bolts and bars,
Starts at each sound, and fears some hidden mine
May into atoms blow his stately towers,
Or that some hand unseen may strike him down,
And thinks that poison lurks in every cup,
While thousands are in loathsome dungeons thrust
Or pine in exile for a look or word.
And as they pass along from street to street
A sea of happy faces lines their way,
Their joyful greetings answered by the prince.
No face once seen, no name once heard, forgot,
While sweet Yasodhara was wreathed in smiles,
The kind expression of her gentle heart,
When from a little cottage by the way,
The people making room for him to pass,
There came an aged man, so very old
That time had ceased to register his years;
His step was firm, his eye, though faded, mild,
And childhood's sweet expression on his face.
The prince stopped short before him, bending low,
And gently asked: "What would my father have?
Speak freely—what I can, I freely give."
"Most noble prince, I need no charity,
For my kind neighbors give me all unasked,
And my poor cottage where my fathers dwelt,
And where my children and their mother died,
Is kept as clean as when sweet Gunga lived;
And young and old cheer up my lonely hours,
And ask me much of other times and men.
For when your father's father was a child,
I was a man, as young and strong as you,
And my sweet Gunga your companion's age.
But O the mystery of life explain!
Why are we born to tread this little round,
To live, to love, to suffer, sorrow, die?
Why do the young like field-flowers bloom to fade?
Why are the strong like the mown grass cut down?
Why am I left as if by death forgot,
Left here alone, a leafless, fruitless trunk?
Is death the end, or what comes after death?
Often when deepest sleep shuts out the world,
The dead still seem to live, while life fades out;
And when I sit alone and long for light
The veil seems lifted, and I seem to see
A world of life and light and peace and rest,
No sickness, sin or sorrow, pain or death,
No helpless infancy or hopeless age.
But we poor Sudras cannot understand—
Yet from my earliest memory I've heard
That from this hill one day should burst a light,
Not for the Brahmans only, but for all.
And when you were a child I saw a sage
Bow down before you, calling you that light.
O noble, mighty prince! let your light shine,
That men no longer grope in dark despair!"
He spoke, and sank exhausted on the ground.
They gently raised him, but his life was fled.
The prince gave one a well-filled purse and said:
"Let his pile neither lack for sandal-wood
Or any emblem of a life well spent."
And when fit time had passed they bore him thence
And laid him on that couch where all sleep well,
Half hid in flowers by loving children brought,
A smile still lingering on his still, cold lips,
As if they just had tasted Gunga's kiss,
Soon to be kissed by eager whirling flames.
Just then two stately Brahmans proudly passed—
Passed on the other side, gathering their robes
To shun pollution from the common touch,
And passing said: "The prince with Sudras talks
As friend to friend—but wisdom comes with years."
Silent and thoughtful then they homeward turned,
The prince deep musing on the old man's words;
"'The veil is lifted, and I seem to see
A world of life and light and peace and rest.'
O if that veil would only lift for me
The mystery of life would be explained."
As they passed on through unfrequented streets,
Seeking to shun the busy, thoughtless throng,
Those other words like duty's bugle-call
Still ringing in his ears: "Let your light shine,
That men no longer grope in dark despair"—
The old sad thoughts, long checked by passing joys,
Rolling and surging, swept his troubled soul—
As pent-up waters, having burst their dams,
Sweep down the valleys and o'erwhelm the plains.
Just then an aged, angry voice cried out:
"O help! they've stolen my jewels and my gold!"
And from a wretched hovel by the way
An old man came, hated and shunned by all,
Whose life was spent in hoarding unused gold,
Grinding the poor, devouring widows' homes;
Ill fed, ill clad, from eagerness to save,
His sunken eyes glittering with rage and greed.
And when the prince enquired what troubled him:
"Trouble enough," he said, "my sons have fled
Because I would not waste in dainty fare
And rich apparel all my life has saved,
And taken all my jewels, all my gold.
Would that they both lay dead before my face!
O precious jewels! O beloved gold!"
The prince, helpless to soothe, hopeless to cure
This rust and canker of the soul, passed on,
His heart with all-embracing pity filled.
"O deepening mystery of life!" he cried,
"Why do such souls in human bodies dwell—
Fitter for ravening wolves or greedy swine!
Just at death's door cursing his flesh and blood
For thievish greed inherited from him.
Is this old age, or swinish greed grown old?
O how unlike that other life just fled!
His youth's companions, wife and children, dead,
Yet filled with love for all, by all beloved,
With his whole heart yearning for others' good,
With his last breath bewailing others' woes."
"My best beloved," said sweet Yasodhara,
Her bright eyes filled with sympathetic tears,
Her whole soul yearning for his inward peace,
"Brood not too much on life's dark mystery—
Behind the darkest clouds the sun still shines."
"But," said the prince, "the many blindly grope
In sorrow, fear and ignorance profound,
While their proud teachers, with their heads erect,
Stalk boldly on, blind leaders of the blind.
Come care, come fasting, woe and pain for me,
And even exile from my own sweet home,
All would I welcome could I give them light."
"But would you leave your home, leave me, leave all,
And even leave our unborn pledge of love,
The living blending of our inmost souls,
That now within me stirs to bid you pause?"
"Only for love of you and him and all!
O hard necessity! O bitter cup!
But would you have me like a coward shun
The path of duty, though beset with thorns—
Thorns that must pierce your tender feet and mine?"
Piercing the question as the sharpest sword;
Their love, their joys, tempted to say him nay.
But soon she conquered all and calmly said:
"My love, my life, where duty plainly calls
I bid you go, though my poor heart must bleed,
And though my eyes weep bitter scalding tears."
Their hearts too full for words, too full for tears,
Gently he pressed her hand and they passed home;
And in the presence of this dark unknown
A deep and all-pervading tenderness
Guides every act and tempers every tone—
As in the chamber of the sick and loved
The step is light, the voice is soft and low.
But soon their days with varied duties filled,
Their nights with sweet repose, glide smoothly on,
Until this shadow seems to lift and fade—
As when the sun bursts through the passing storm,
Gilding the glittering raindrops as they fall,
And paints the bow of hope on passing clouds.
Yet still the old sad thoughts sometimes return,
The burden of a duty unperformed,
The earnest yearning for a clearer light.
The thought that hour by hour and day by day
The helpless multitudes grope blindly on,
Clouded his joys and often banished sleep.
One day in this sad mood he thought to see
His people as they are in daily life,
And not in holiday attire to meet their prince.
In merchant's dress, his charioteer his clerk,
The prince and Channa passed unknown, and saw
The crowded streets alive with busy hum,
Traders cross-legged, with their varied wares,
The wordy war to cheapen or enhance,
One rushing on to clear the streets for wains
With huge stone wheels, by slow strong oxen drawn;
Palanquin-bearers droning out "Hu, hu, ho, ho,"
While keeping step and praising him they bear;
The housewives from the fountain water bring
In balanced water-jars, their black-eyed babes
Athwart their hips, their busy tongues meanwhile
Engaged in gossip of the little things
That make the daily round of life to them;
The skillful weaver at his clumsy loom;
The miller at his millstones grinding meal;
The armorer, linking his shirts of mail;
The money-changer at his heartless trade;
The gaping, eager crowd gathered to watch
Snake-charmers, that can make their deadly charge
Dance harmless to the drone of beaded gourds;
Sword-players, keeping many knives in air;
Jugglers, and those that dance on ropes swung high:
And all this varied work and busy idleness
As in a panorama passing by.
While they were passing through these varied scenes,
The prince, whose ears were tuned to life's sad notes,
Whose eyes were quick to catch its deepest shades,
Found sorrow, pain and want, disease and death,
Were woven in its very warp and woof.
A tiger, springing from a sheltering bush,
Had snatched a merchant's comrade from his side;
A deadly cobra, hidden by the path,
Had stung to death a widow's only son;
A breath of jungle-wind a youth's blood chilled,
Or filled a strong man's bones with piercing pain;
A household widowed by a careless step;
The quick cross-lightning from an angry cloud
Struck down a bridegroom bringing home his bride—
All this and more he heard, and much he saw:
A young man, stricken in life's early prime,
Shuffled along, dragging one palsied limb,
While one limp arm hung useless by his side;
A dwarf sold little knickknacks by the way,
His body scarcely in the human form,
To which long arms and legs seemed loosely hung,
His noble head thrust forward on his breast,
Whose pale, sad face as plainly told as words
That life had neither health nor hope for him;
An old man tottering from a hovel came,
Frail, haggard, palsied, leaning on a staff,
Whose eyes, dull, glazed and meaningless, proclaim
The body lingers when the mind has fled;
One seized with sudden hot distemper of the blood,
Writhing with anguish, by the wayside sunk.
The purple plague-spot on his pallid cheek,
Cold drops of perspiration on his brow,
With wildly rolling eyes and livid lips,
Gasping for breath and feebly asking help—
But ere the prince could aid, death gave relief.
At length they passed the city's outer gate
And down a stream, now spread in shining pools,
Now leaping in cascades, now dashing on,
A line of foam along its rocky bed,
Bordered by giant trees with densest shade.
Here, day by day, the city bring their dead;
Here, day by day, they build the funeral-piles;
Here lamentations daily fill the air;
Here hissing flames each day taste human flesh,
And friendly watchmen guard the smoldering pile
Till friends can cull the relics from the dust.
And here, just finished, rose a noble pile
By stately Brahmans for a Brahman built
Of fragrant woods, and drenched with fragrant oils,
Loading the air with every sweet perfume
That India's forests or her fields can yield;
Above, a couch of sacred cusa-grass,
On which no dreams disturb the sleeper's rest.
And now the sound of music reaches them,
Far off at first, solemn and sad and slow,
Rising and swelling as it nearer comes,
Until a long procession comes in view.
Four Brahmans first, bearing in bowls the fire
No more to burn on one deserted hearth,
Then stately Brahmans on their shoulders bore
A noble brother of their sacred caste,
In manhood's bloom and early prime cut down.
Then Brahman youth, bearing a little child
Half hid in flowers, and as in seeming sleep.
Then other Brahmans in a litter bore
One young and fair, in early womanhood,
Her youthful beauty joined with matron grace,
In bridal dress adorned with costly gems—
The very face the prince had dreaming seen,
The very child she carried in her arms.
Then many more, uncovered, four by four,
The aged first, then those in manhood's prime,
And then the young with many acolytes
Chanting in unison their sacred hymns,
Accompanied by many instruments,
Both wind and string, in solemn symphony;
And at respectful distance other castes,
Afraid to touch a Brahman's sacred robes
Or even mingle with his grief their tears.
And when they reached the fragrant funeral-pile,
Weeping they placed their dead on their last couch,
The child within its father's nerveless arms;
And when all funeral rites had been performed,
The widow circled thrice the funeral-pile,
Distributing her gifts with lavish hand,
Bidding her friends a long and last farewell—
Then stopped, and raised her tearless eyes and said:
"Farewell, a long farewell, to life and friends!
Farewell! O earth and air and sacred sun!
Nanda, my lord, Udra, my child, I come!"
Then pale but calm, with fixed ecstatic gaze
And steady steps she mounts the funeral-pile,
Crying, "They beckon me! I come! I come!"
Then sunk as if the silver cord were loosed
As still as death upon her silent dead.
Instant the flames from the four corners leaped,
Mingling in one devouring, eager blaze.
No groan, no cry, only the crackling flames,
The wailing notes of many instruments,
And solemn chant by many voices raised,
"Perfect is she who follows thus her lord."
O dark and cruel creeds, O perfect love,
Fitter for heaven than this sad world of ours!
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.