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.