LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      So meditating these that he forgot

      Ofttimes the hour of food, rising from thoughts

      Prolonged beyond the sunrise and the noon

      To see his bowl unfilled, and eat perforce

      Of wild fruit fallen from the boughs o'erhead,

      Shaken to earth by chattering ape or plucked

      By purple parokeet. Therefore his grace

      Faded; his body, worn by stress of soul,

      Lost day by day the marks, thirty and two,

      Which testify the Buddha. Scarce that leaf,

      Fluttering so dry and withered to his feet

      From off the sal-branch, bore less likeliness

      Of spring's soft greenery than he of him

      Who was the princely flower of all his land.

      And once at such a time the o'erwrought Prince

      Fell to the earth in deadly swoon, all spent,

      Even as one slain, who hath no longer breath

      Nor any stir of blood; so wan he was,

      So motionless. But there came by that way

      A shepherd-boy, who saw Siddartha lie

      With lids fast-closed, and lines of nameless pain

      Fixed on his lips—the fiery noonday sun

      Beating upon his head—who, plucking boughs

      From wild rose-apple trees, knitted them thick

      Into a bower to shade the sacred face.

      Also he poured upon the Master's lips

      Drops of warm milk, pressed from his she-goat's bag,

      Lest, being of low caste, he do wrong to one

      So high and holy seeming. But the books

      Tell how the jambu-branches, planted thus,

      Shot with quick life in wealth of leaf and flower

      And glowing fruitage interlaced and close,

      So that the bower grew like a tent of silk

      Pitched for a king at hunting, decked with studs

      Of silver-work and bosses of red gold.

      And the boy worshipped, deeming him some God;

      But our Lord, gaining breath, arose and asked

      Milk in the shepherd's lots. "Ah, my Lord,

      I cannot give thee," quoth the lad; "thou seest

      I am a Sudra, and my touch defiles!"

      Then the World-honoured spake: "Pity and need

      Make all flesh kin. There is no caste in blood,

      Which runneth of one hue, nor caste in tears,

      Which trickle salt with all; neither comes man

      To birth with tilka-mark stamped on the brow,

      Nor sacred thread on neck. Who doth right deeds

      Is twice-born, and who doeth ill deeds vile.

      Give me to drink, my brother; when I come

      Unto my quest it shall be good for thee."

      Thereat the peasant's heart was glad, and gave.

      And on another day there passed that road

      A band of tinselled, girls, the nautch-dancers

      Of Indra's temple in the town, with those

      Who made their music—one that beat a drum

      Set round with peacock-feathers, one that blew

      The piping bansuli, and one that twitched

      A three-string sitar. Lightly tripped they down

      From ledge to ledge and through the chequered paths

      To some gay festival, the silver bells

      Chiming soft peals about the small brown feet,

      Armlets and wrist-rings tattling answer shrill;

      While he that bore the sitar thrummed and twanged

      His threads of brass, and she beside him sang—

      "Fair goes the dancing when the sitar's tuned;

      Tune us the sitar neither low nor high,

      And we will dance away the hearts of men.

      "The string o'erstretched breaks, and the music flies,

      The string o'erslack is dumb, and music dies;

      Tune us the sitar neither low nor high."

      "So sang the nautch-girl to the pipe and wires,

      Fluttering like some vain, painted butterfly

      From glade to glade along the forest path,

      Nor dreamed her light words echoed on the ear

      Of him, that holy man, who sate so rapt

      Under the fig-tree by the path. But Buddh

      Lifted his great brow as the wantons passed,

      And spake: 'The foolish ofttimes teach the wise;

      I strain too much this string of life, belike,

      Meaning to make such music as shall save.

      Mine eyes are dim now that they see the truth,

      My strength is waned now that my need is most;

      Would that I had such help as man must have,

      For I shall die, whose life was all men's hope.'"

      Now, by that river dwelt a landholder

      Pious and rich, master of many herds,

      A goodly chief, the friend of all the poor;

      And from his house the village drew its name—

      "Senani." Pleasant and in peace he lived,

      Having for wife Sujata, loveliest

      Of all the dark-eyed daughters of the plain;

      Gentle and true, simple and kind was she,

      Noble of mien, with gracious speech to all

      And gladsome looks—a pearl of womanhood—

      Passing calm years of household happiness

      Beside her lord in that still Indian home,

      Save that no male child blessed their wedded love.

      Wherefore with many prayers she had besought

      Lukshmi, and many nights at full-moon gone

      Round the great Lingam, nine times nine, with gifts

      Of rice and jasmine wreaths and sandal oil,

      Praying a boy; also Sujata vowed—

      If this should be—an offering of food

      Unto the Wood-God, plenteous, delicate,

      Set in a bowl of gold under his tree,

      Such as the lips of Devs may taste and take.

      And this had been: for there was born to her

      A beauteous boy, now three months old, who lay

      Between Sujata's breasts, while she did pace

      With grateful footsteps to the

Скачать книгу