BOOK VII.
Alone on his great mission going forth,
Down Phalgu's valley he retraced his steps,
Down past the seat where subtle Mara sat,
And past the fountain where the siren sang,
And past the city, through the fruitful fields
And gardens he had traversed day by day
For six long years, led by a strong desire
To show his Brahman teachers his new light.
But ah! the change a little time had wrought!
A new-made stupa held their gathered dust,
While they had gone where all see eye to eye,
The darkness vanished and the river crossed.
Then turning sadly from this hallowed spot—
Hallowed by strivings for a higher life
More than by dust this little mound contained—
He sought beneath the spreading banyan-tree
His five companions, whom he lately left
Sad at his own departure from the way
The sacred Vedas and the fathers taught.
They too had gone, to Varanassi[1] gone,
High seat and centre of all sacred lore.
The day was well-nigh spent; his cave was near,
Where he had spent so many weary years,
And as he thither turned and upward climbed,
The shepherd's little child who watched the flock
His love had rescued from the bloody knife,
Upon a rock that rose above his path
Saw him pass by, and ran with eagerness
To bear the news. Joy filled that humble home.
They owed him all. The best they had they brought,
And offered it with loving gratitude.
The master ate, and as he ate he taught
These simple souls the great, the living truth
That love is more than costly sacrifice;
That daily duties done are highest praise;
That when life's duties end its sorrows end,
And higher joys await the pure in heart.
Their eager souls drank in his living words
As those who thirst drink in the living spring.
Then reverently they kissed his garment's hem,
And home returned, while he lay down to sleep.
And sweetly as a babe the master slept—
No doubts, no darkness, and no troubled dreams.
When rosy dawn next lit the eastern sky,
And morning's grateful coolness filled the air,
The master rose and his ablutions made.
With bowl and staff in hand he took his way
Toward Varanassi, hoping there to find
The five toward whom his earnest spirit yearned.
Ten days have passed, and now the rising sun.
That hangs above the distant mountain-peaks
Is mirrored back by countless rippling waves
That dance upon the Ganges' yellow stream,
Swollen by rains and melted mountain-snows,
And glorifies the thousand sacred fanes[2]
With gilded pinnacles and spires and domes
That rise in beauty on its farther bank,
While busy multitudes glide up and down
With lightly dipping oars and swelling sails.
And pilgrims countless as those shining waves,
From far and near, from mountain, hill and plain,
With dust and travel-stained, foot-sore, heart-sick,
Here came to bathe within the sacred stream,
Here came to die upon its sacred banks,
Seeking to wash the stains of guilt away,
Seeking to lay their galling burdens down.
Scoff not at these poor heavy-laden souls!
Blindly they seek, but that all-seeing Eye
That sees the tiny sparrow when it falls,
Is watching them, His angels hover near.
Who knows what visions meet their dying gaze?
Who knows what joys await those troubled hearts?
The ancient writings say that having naught
To pay the ferryman, the churl refused
To ferry him across the swollen stream,
When he was raised and wafted through the air.
What matter whether that all-powerful Love
Which moves the worlds, and bears with all our sins,
Sent him a chariot and steeds of fire,
Or moved the heart of some poor fisherman
To bear him over for a brother's sake?
All power is His, and men can never thwart
His all-embracing purposes of love.
Now past the stream and near the sacred grove
The deer-park called, the five saw him approach.
But grieved at his departure from the way
The ancient sages taught, said with themselves
They would not rise or do him reverence.
But as he nearer came, the tender love,
The holy calm that shone upon his face,
Made them at once forget their firm resolve.
They rose together, doing reverence,
And bringing water washed his way-soiled feet,
Gave him a mat, and said as with one voice:
"Master Gautama, welcome to our grove.
Here rest your weary limbs and share our shade.
Have you escaped from karma's fatal chains
And gained clear vision—found the living light?"
"Call me not master. Profitless to you
Six years have passed," the Buddha answered them,
"In doubt and darkness groping blindly on.
But now at last the day has surely dawned.
These eyes have seen Nirvana's sacred Sun,
And found the noble eightfold path that mounts
From life's low levels, mounts from death's dark shades
To changeless day, to never-ending rest."
Then with the prophet's newly kindled zeal,
Zeal for the truth his opened eyes had seen,
Zeal for the friends whose struggles he had shared,
Softened by sympathy and tender love,
He taught how selfishness was primal cause
Of every ill to which frail flesh is heir,
The poisoned fountain whence all sorrows flow,
The loathsome worm that coils about the root
And kills the germ of every springing joy,
The subtle foe that sows by night the tares
That quickly springing choke the goodly seed
Which left to grow would fill the daily life
With balmy fragrance and with precious fruit.
He showed that selfishness was life's sole bane
And love its great and sovereign antidote.
He showed how selfishness would change the child
From laughing innocence to greedy youth
And heartless manhood, cold and cruel age,
Which past the vale and stript of all disguise
Shrinks from the good, and eager slinks away
And seeks those dismal regions of the lost
His opened eyes with sinking heart had seen.
Then showed how love its guardian angel paints
Upon the cooing infant's smiling face,
Grows into gentle youth, and manhood rich
In works of helpfulness and brotherhood,
And ripens into mellow, sweet old age,
Childhood returned with all its gentleness,
Whose funeral-pile but lights the upward way
To those sweet fields his opened eyes had seen,
Those ever-widening mansions of delight.
Enwrapt the teacher taught the living truth;
Enwrapt the hearers heard his living words;
The night unheeded winged its rapid flight,
The morning found their souls from darkness free.
Six yellow robes Benares daily saw,
Six wooden alms-bowls held for daily food,
Six meeting sneers with smiles and hate with love,
Six watchers by the pilgrim's dying bed,
Six noble souls united in the work
Of giving light and hope and help to all.
A rich and noble youth, an only son,
Had seen Gautama passing through the streets,
A holy calm upon his noble face,
Had heard him tell the pilgrims by the stream,
Gasping for breath and breathing out their lives,
Of higher life and joys that never end;
And wearied, sated by the daily round
Of pleasure, luxury and empty show
That waste his days but fail to satisfy,
Yet fearing his companions' gibes and sneers,
He sought the master in the sacred grove
When the full moon was mirrored in the stream,
The sleeping city silvered by its light;
And there he lingered, drinking in his words,
Till night was passed and day was well-nigh spent.