"Aye," Publius said, "I see, a euphemism;
A needed euphemism, and well devised.
For who, not weary of life through long defeat,
Or through disease, old age, or loss of good,
Or else exhausted in the springs of joy
Within himself through waste of youth and health
In those excesses which bring on decay
Before its season—who not broken so,
Here and there one, not many in any time,
Would to that bait proffered without disguise,
Mere blank non-being, spring with appetite?
And those, the few who did, would they await
Nirvâna as the goal of long pursuit,
Not snatch it instant with rash suicide?
We Romans have a growing fashion of so
Precipitately rushing on our end.
I trow thou wouldst in vain strive to persuade
Us Romans to spend tedious years and years
In seeking not to live so as not to suffer;
We should be too impatient far for that."
"O Publius," Krishna said, "rash suicide
Is no escape from life. Life has its snare
Safe round thee still, and thou art born again
Into another form, another state,
Worse, and not better, than before. The Path,
That only, leads thee to the utter end:
So Buddha taught and so I have believed."
The Indian ceased thus with the air of one
Wavering where he had certain been before;
And Publius felt that he for Krishna spoke,
Scarce less than for himself, when he inquired:
"Aye, aye, how know we that the 'Path,' to name
Thus by thy word a thing to me unknown,
How know we that the Path, even that, indeed
Will lead one out of life to nothingness?
If so be Buddha's doctrine holds, and life
Slides on from form to form, from state to state,
Unhindered by the fact of suicide,
How know we that there ever comes an end?
Consider, he himself, the teacher, may,
Who knows?—this moment while we talk of him
Be fleeting forward on the endless flight
Fatal of that metempsychosis preached.
What surety have we that it is not so?
"And since so much we ask, let us ask more,
O Krishna. How know we the master died
After the manner that thou toldst us of?
That Kunda's kindly hospitable meal
Was followed by that sickness to his guest;
That his guest bore it with sweet fortitude,
Not intermitting his serene discourse
The while, yet weakening slowly till he died—
Thus much, I say, might be observed by those
Who stood about the master so bestead;
But who could tell that in his secret mind
The dying Buddha accomplished all that strange
Vicissitude and movement to and fro,
Which thou in honey-flowing speech describedst,
But which, pardon, I could not understand.
Himself, the Buddha, uttered not one word
Through all, made not a motion nor a sign.
How, pray, did those disciples round him pierce
The dark and silence of their master's mind,
To know what passed therein?" "Ah," Krishna said,
"The master had foretold those things would be
To him, and they believed, and therefore knew."
"Aye," Publius said, "they knew by faith, not proof;
But we, we of the West, are fond of proof.
Yet proof of Buddha's dying so as thou
Describedst, proof likewise that he, so dying,
Was cancelled quite from out the universe—
Proof of these things, conceded these things were,
Would, I can see, be no wise possible;
We may believe them, but we cannot prove.
Now if thy master had taught otherwise,
Contrariwise indeed, that life, not death—
Not death, but life victorious over death—
Was the chief good, and that this good the chief
Might be attained by us, and how attained,
That were a doctrine would have cheered one more,
And been besides more capable of proof.
At least good proof of it might be conceived.
Buddha, supposed extinguished utterly
Out of the world, he being nowhere at all,
Could not come hither back and testify,
'Behold me, I am non-existent now.'
But one who taught the opposite, who taught
That death was not the end of life, if he
Himself, having died, could conquer death and live,
Could living hither come and speak to us,
And say, 'I told you I would rise again!'
Why, Krishna, that were proof and 'Path' indeed,
Aye, path as solid as a Roman road.
"It seems from this our Hebrew lady's tale,
That Jesus, ere he suffered on the cross,
Promised again and yet again that he
Would rise the third day from the dead and live.
I doubt not thou thyself, with all of us,
Wouldst gladly farther hear from her at full
Whether and how this promise was fulfilled."
"That is a tale for a new day and dawn,"
Paul said; "the resurrection of the Lord
Was morning before morning when it came.
Mary, not waiting for daybreak, repaired
By twilight to His tomb and found it void.
A great while before day the Lord sometimes
Would rouse him and go forth apart to pray;
Perhaps a great while before day He now
Woke from the sleep of death, and left his tomb.
What morning then it was dawned on the world!"
"Well thought," said Publius; "let us at daybreak,
Some day not long hence when the weather smiles,
Meet out of doors and see sunrise, while we
Hear also of that sunrise on the world
Paul in his master's resurrection finds;
Whereof to hear at least, surely were sweet.
Spring hastens hither, with the punctual sun
Returning from his winter in the south.
There will not fail a weather warm enough,
Some select balmier morning by and by,
To make it pleasant for us, in a place
I know of on the sheltered ocean shore
Fronting full east, to meet and hear a tale
So well befitting spring and morning both
As a tale told of victory over death.
I will, if so it please all, undertake
To rally you in season when signs say, Now!"
Thereon the company broke up, with thanks
From each guest to the host for heartsome cheer
Provided; and with silent prayer from each
That God would bless him through their guestship there
More than he dreamed of needing to be blessed!