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.