LITMIR.BIZ

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flesh, till pain be grown the life he lives

      And death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purge

      Sin's dross away, and the soul, purified,

      Soar from the furnace of its sorrow, winged

      For glorious spheres and splendour past all thought."

      "Yon cloud which floats in heaven," the Prince replied,

      "Wreathed like gold cloth around your Indra's throne,

      Rose thither from the tempest-driven sea;

      But it must fall again in tearful drops,

      Trickling through rough and painful water-ways

      By cleft and nullah and the muddy flood,

      To Gunga and the sea, wherefrom it sprang.

      Know'st thou, my brother, if it be not thus,

      After their many pains, with saints in bliss?

      Since that which rises falls, and that which buys

      Is spent; and if ye buy heaven with your blood

      In hell's hard market, when the bargain's through

      The toil begins again!"

      "It may begin,"

      The hermit moaned. "Alas! we know not this,

      Nor surely anything; yet after night

      Day comes, and after turmoil peace, and we

      Hate this accursed flesh which clogs the soul

      That fain would rise; so, for the sake of soul,

      We stake brief agonies in game with Gods

      To gain the larger joys."

      "Yet if they last

      A myriad years," he said, "they fade at length,

      Those joys; or if not, is there then some life

      Below, above, beyond, so unlike life it will not change?

      Speak! do your Gods endure

      For ever, brothers?"

      "Nay," the Yogis said,

      "Only great Brahm endures: the Gods but live."

      Then spake Lord Buddha: "Will ye, being wise,

      As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones,

      Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans,

      For gains which may be dreams, and must have end?

      Will ye, for love of soul, so loathe your flesh,

      So scourge and maim it, that it shall not serve

      To bear the spirit on, searching for home,

      But founder on the track before nightfall,

      Like willing steed o'er-spurred? Will ye, sad sirs,

      Dismantle and dismember this fair house,

      Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts;

      Whose windows give us light—the little light

      Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn

      Will break, and whither winds the better road?"

      Then cried they, "We have chosen this for road

      And tread it, Rajaputra, till the close—

      Though all its stones were fire—in trust of death.

      Speak, if thou know'st a way more excellent;

      If not, peace go with thee!"

      Onward he passed,

      Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men

      Fear so to die they are afraid to fear,

      Lust so to live they dare not love their life,

      But plague it with fierce penances, belike

      To please the Gods who grudge pleasure to man;

      Belike to balk hell by self-kindled hells;

      Belike in holy madness, hoping soul

      May break the better through their wasted flesh.

      "Oh, flowerets of the field!" Siddartha said,

      "Who turn your tender faces to the sun—

      Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath

      Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned

      Silver and gold and purple—none of ye

      Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil

      Your happy beauty. O, ye palms, which rise

      Eager to pierce the sky and drink the wind

      Blown from Malaya and the cool blue seas,

      What secret know ye that ye grow content,

      From time of tender shoot to time of fruit,

      Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?

      Ye, too, who dwell so merry in the trees—

      Quick-darting parrots, bee-birds, bulbuls, doves—

      None of ye hate your life, none of ye deem

      To strain to better by foregoing needs!

      But man, who slays ye—being lord—is wise,

      And wisdom, nursed on blood, cometh thus forth

      In self-tormentings!"

      While the Master spake

      Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet,

      White goats and black sheep winding slow their way,

      With many a lingering nibble at the tufts,

      And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed

      Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed

      The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept

      The silly crowd still moving to the plain.

      A ewe with couplets in the flock there was.

      Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind

      Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped,

      And the vexed dam hither and thither ran,

      Fearful to lose this little one or that;

      Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly

      He took the limping lamb upon his neck,

      Saying: "Poor woolly mother, be at peace!

      Whither thou goest I will bear thy care;

      'T were all as good to ease one beast of grief

      As sit and watch the sorrows of the world

      In yonder caverns with the priests who pray."

      "But," spake he to the herdsmen, "wherefore, friends,

      Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon,

      Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep?"

      And answer gave the peasants: "We are sent

      To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score,

      And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King

      Slayeth this night in worship of his gods."

      Then said the Master, "I will also go."

      So paced he

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