LITMIR.BIZ

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which of all the great and lesser gods

      Have power or pity? Who hath seen them—who?

      What have they wrought to help their worshippers?

      How hath it steaded man to pray, and pay

      Tithes of the corn and oil, to chant the charms,

      To slay the shrieking sacrifice, to rear

      The stately fane, to feed the priests, and call

      On Vishnu, Shiva, Surya, who save

      None—not the worthiest—from the griefs that teach

      Those litanies of flattery and fear

      Ascending day by day, like wasted smoke?

      Hath any of my brothers 'scaped thereby

      The aches of life, the stings of love and loss,

      The fiery fever and the ague-shake,

      The slow, dull sinking into withered age,

      The horrible dark death—and what beyond

      Waits—till the whirling wheel comes up again,

      And new lives bring new sorrows to be borne,

      New generations for the new desires

      Which have their end in the old mockeries?

      Hath any of my tender sisters found

      Fruit of the fast or harvest of the hymn,

      Or bought one pang the less at bearing-time

      For white curds offered and trim tulsi-leaves?

      Nay; it may be some of the gods are good

      And evil some, but all in action weak;

      Both pitiful and pitiless, and both

      As men are—bound upon this wheel of change,

      Knowing the former and the after lives.

      For so our scriptures truly seem to teach,

      That—once, and wheresoe'er, and whence begun—

      Life runs its rounds of living, climbing up

      From mote, and gnat, and worm, reptile, and fish,

      Bird and shagged beast, man, demon, Deva, God,

      To clod and mote again; so are we kin

      To all that is; and thus, if one might save

      Man from his curse, the whole wide world should share

      The lightened horror of this ignorance

      Whose shadow is chill fear, and cruelty

      Its bitter pastime. Yea, if one might save!

      And means must be! There must be refuge!"

      "Men

      Perished in winter-winds till one smote fire

      From flint-stones coldly hiding what they held,

      The red spark treasured from the kindling sun.

      They gorged on flesh like wolves, till one sowed corn,

      Which grew a weed, yet makes the life of man;

      They mowed and babbled till some tongue struck speech,

      And patient fingers framed the lettered sound.

      What good gift have my brothers but it came

      From search and strife and loving sacrifice?

      If one, then, being great and fortunate,

      Rich, dowered with health and ease, from birth designed

      To rule—if he would rule—a King of kings;

      If one, not tired with life's long day, but glad

      I' the freshness of its morning, one not cloyed

      With love's delicious feasts, but hungry still;

      If one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage,

      But joyous in the glory and the grace

      That mix with evils here, and free to choose

      Earth's loveliest at his will: one even as I,

      Who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefs

      Which are not mine, except as I am man;—

      If such a one, having so much to give,

      Gave all, laying it down for love of men.

      And thenceforth spent himself to search for truth,

      Wringing the secret of deliverance forth,

      Whether it lurk in hells or hide in heavens,

      Or hover, unrevealed, nigh unto all:

      Surely at last, far off, sometime, somewhere,

      The veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes,

      The road would open for his painful feet,

      That should be won for which he lost the world,

      And Death might find him conqueror of death.

      This will I do, who have a realm to lose,

      Because I love my realm, because my heart

      Beats with each throb of all the hearts that ache,

      Known and unknown, these that are mine and those

      Which shall be mine, a thousand million more

      Saved by this sacrifice I offer now.

      Oh, summoning stars! Oh, mournful earth

      For thee and thine I lay aside my youth,

      My throne, my joys, my golden days, my nights,

      My happy palace—and thine arms, sweet Queen!

      Harder to put aside than all the rest!

      Yet thee, too, I shall save, saving this earth;

      And that which stirs within thy tender womb,

      My child, the hidden blossom of our loves,

      Whom if I wait to bless my mind will fail.

      Wife! child! father! and people! ye must share

      A little while the anguish of this hour

      That light may break and all flesh learn the Law.

      Now am I fixed, and now I will depart,

      Never to come again till what I seek

      Be found—if fervent search and strife avail."

      So with his brow he touched her feet, and bent

      The farewell of fond eyes, unutterable,

      Upon her sleeping face, still wet with tears;

      And thrice around the bed in reverence,

      As though it were an altar, softly stepped

      With clasped hands laid upon his beating heart,

      "For never," spake he, "lie I there again!"

      And thrice he made to go, but thrice came back,

      So strong her beauty was, so large his love

      Then, o'er his head drawing his cloth, he turned

      And raised the purdah's edge.

      There drooped, close-hushed,

      In such sealed sleep as water-lilies know,

      The lovely garden of his Indian girls;

      Those twin dark-petalled lotus-buds of all—

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