LITMIR.BIZ

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seeing, Prince Siddartha took the bird

      Tenderly up, rested it in his lap

      Sitting with knees crossed, as Lord Buddha sits

      And, soothing with a touch the wild thing's fright,

      Composed its ruffled vans, calmed its quick heart,

      Caressed it into peace with light kind palms

      As soft as plantain-leaves an hour unrolled;

      And while the left hand held, the right hand drew

      The cruel steel forth from the wound and laid

      Cool leaves and healing honey on the smart.

      Yet all so little knew the boy of pain

      That curiously into his wrist he pressed

      The arrow's barb, and winced to feel it sting,

      And turned with tears to soothe his bird again.

      Then some one came who said, "My Prince hath shot

      A swan, which fell among the roses here,

      He bids me pray you send it. Will you send?"

      "Nay," quoth Siddartha, "if the bird were dead

      To send it to the slayer might be well,

      But the swan lives; my cousin hath but killed

      The god-like speed which throbbed in this white wing."

      And Devadatta answered, "The wild thing,

      Living or dead, is his who fetched it down;

      'T was no man's in the clouds, but fall'n 't is mine,

      Give me my prize, fair Cousin." Then our Lord

      Laid the swan's neck beside his own smooth cheek

      And gravely spake, "Say no! the bird is mine,

      The first of myriad things which shall be mine

      By right of mercy and love's lordliness.

      For now I know, by what within me stirs,

      That I shall teach compassion unto men

      And be a speechless world's interpreter,

      Abating this accursed flood of woe,

      Not man's alone; but, if the Prince disputes,

      Let him submit this matter to the wise

      And we will wait their word." So was it done;

      In full divan the business had debate,

      And many thought this thing and many that,

      Till there arose an unknown priest who said,

      "If life be aught, the saviour of a life

      Owns more the living thing than he can own

      Who sought to slay—the slayer spoils and wastes,

      The cherisher sustains, give him the bird:"

      Which judgment all found just; but when the King

      Sought out the sage for honour, he was gone;

      And some one saw a hooded snake glide forth,—

      The gods come ofttimes thus! So our Lord Buddh

      Began his works of mercy.

      Yet not more

      Knew he as yet of grief than that one bird's,

      Which, being healed, went joyous to its kind.

      But on another day the King said, "Come,

      Sweet son! and see the pleasaunce of the spring,

      And how the fruitful earth is wooed to yield

      Its riches to the reaper; how my realm—

      Which shall be thine when the pile flames for me—

      Feeds all its mouths and keeps the King's chest filled.

      Fair is the season with new leaves, bright blooms,

      Green grass, and cries of plough-time." So they rode

      Into a lane of wells and gardens, where,

      All up and down the rich red loam, the steers

      Strained their strong shoulders in the creaking yoke

      Dragging the ploughs; the fat soil rose and rolled

      In smooth dark waves back from the plough; who drove

      Planted both feet upon the leaping share

      To make the furrow deep; among the palms

      The tinkle of the rippling water rang,

      And where it ran the glad earth 'broidered it

      With balsams and the spears of lemon-grass.

      Elsewhere were sowers who went forth to sow;

      And all the jungle laughed with nesting-songs,

      And all the thickets rustled with small life

      Of lizard, bee, beetle, and creeping things

      Pleased at the spring-time. In the mango-sprays

      The sun-birds flashed; alone at his green forge

      Toiled the loud coppersmith; bee-eaters hawked

      Chasing the purple butterflies; beneath,

      Striped squirrels raced, the mynas perked and picked,

      The nine brown sisters chattered in the thorn,

      The pied fish-tiger hung above the pool,

      The egrets stalked among the buffaloes,

      The kites sailed circles in the golden air;

      About the painted temple peacocks flew,

      The blue doves cooed from every well, far off

      The village drums beat for some marriage-feast;

      All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince

      Saw and rejoiced. But, looking deep, he saw

      The thorns which grow upon this rose of life

      How the sweat peasant sweated for his wage,

      Toiling for leave to live; and how he urged

      The great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours,

      Goading their velvet flanks: then marked he, too,

      How lizard fed on ant, and snake on him,

      And kite on both; and how the fish-hawk robbed

      The fish-tiger of that which it had seized;

      The shrike chasing the bulbul, which did chase

      The jewelled butterflies; till everywhere

      Each slew a slayer and in turn was slain,

      Life living upon death. So the fair show

      Veiled one vast, savage, grim conspiracy

      Of mutual murder, from the worm to man,

      Who himself kills his fellow; seeing which—

      The hungry ploughman and his labouring kine,

      Their dewlaps blistered with the bitter yoke,

      The rage to live which makes all living strife—

      The Prince Siddartha sighed. "In this," he said,

      "That happy earth they brought me forth to see?

      How salt with sweat the peasant's bread! how hard

      The oxen's service! in the brake how fierce

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