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

by Henry Thayer Niles

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.