The Sacred Writings of the East - 5 Books in One Edition - Edwin Arnold

Скачать книгу

      So glad the World was—though it wist not why—

      That over desolate wastes went swooning songs

      Of mirth, the voice of bodiless Prets and Bhuts

      Foreseeing Buddh; and Devas in the air Cried,

      "It is finished, finished!" and the priests

      Stood with the wondering people in the streets

      Watching those golden splendours flood the sky

      And saying, "There hath happed some mighty thing."

      Also in Ran and jungle grew that day

      Friendship amongst the creatures: spotted deer

      Browsed fearless where the tigress fed her cubs,

      And cheetahs lapped the pool beside the bucks;

      Under the eagle's rock the brown hares scoured

      While his fierce beak but preened an idle wing;

      The snake sunned all his jewels in the beam

      With deadly fangs in sheath; the shrike let pass

      The nestling finch; the emerald halcyons

      Sate dreaming while the fishes played beneath,

      Nor hawked the merops, though the butterflies—

      Crimson and blue and amber-flitted thick

      Around his perch; the Spirit of our Lord

      Lay potent upon man and bird and beast,

      Even while he mused under that Bodhi-tree,

      Glorified with the Conquest gained for all

      And lightened by a Light greater than Day's.

      Then he arose—radiant, rejoicing, strong—

      Beneath the Tree, and lifting high his voice

      Spake this, in hearing of all Times and Worlds:

      Anekajatisangsarang

      Sandhawissang anibhisang

      Gahakarakangawesanto

      Dukkhajatipunappunang.

      Gahakarakadithosi;

      Punagehang nakahasi;

      Sabhatephasukhabhagga,

      Gahakutangwisang Khitang;

      Wisangkharagatang chittang,

      Janhanangknayamajhaga.

      Many a House of Life

      Held me—Seeking Ever Him Wrought

      These Prisons of the Senses, Sorrow-Fraught;

      Sore was My Ceaseless Strife!

      But Now,

      Thou Builder of this Tabernacle—Thou!

      I Know Thee! Never Shalt Thou Build Again

      These Walls of Pain,

      Nor Raise the Roof-Tree of Deceits, Nor Lay

      Fresh Rafters on the Clay:

      Broken Thy House is, and the Ridge-Pole Split!

      Delusion Fashioned it!

      Safe Pass I Thence—Deliverance to Obtain.

      Book The Seventh

       Table of Contents

      Sorrowful dwelt the King Suddhodana

      All those long years among the Sakya Lords

      Lacking the speech and presence of his Son;

      Sorrowful sate the sweet Yasodhara

      All those long years, knowing no joy of life,

      Widowed of him her living Liege and Prince.

      And ever, on the news of some recluse

      Seen far away by pasturing camel-men

      Or traders threading devious paths for gain,

      Messengers from the King had gone and come

      Bringing account of many a holy sage

      Lonely and lost to home; but nought of him

      The crown of white Kapilavastu's line,

      The glory of her monarch and his hope,

      The heart's content of sweet Yasodhara,

      Far-wandered now, forgetful, changed, or dead.

      But on a day in the Wasanta-time,

      When silver sprays swing on the mango-trees

      And all the earth is clad with garb of spring,

      The Princess sate by that bright garden-stream

      Whose gliding glass, bordered with lotus-cups,

      Mirrored so often in the bliss gone by

      Their clinging hands and meeting lips. Her lids

      Were wan with tears, her tender cheeks had thinned;

      Her lips' delicious curves were drawn with grief

      The lustrous glory of her hair was hid—

      Close-bound as widows use; no ornament

      She wore, nor any jewel clasped the cloth—

      Coarse, and of mourning-white—crossed on her breast.

      Slow moved and painfully those small fine feet

      Which had the roe's gait and the rose-leaf's fall

      In old years at the loving voice of him.

      Her eyes, those lamps of love,—which were as if

      Sunlight should shine from out the deepest dark,

      Illumining Night's peace with Daytime's glow—

      Unlighted now, and roving aimlessly,

      Scarce marked the clustering signs of coming Spring

      So the silk lashes drooped over their orbs.

      In one hand was a girdle thick with pearls,

      Siddartha's—treasured since that night he fled.

      (Ah, bitter Night! mother of weeping days!

      When was fond Love so pitiless to love

      Save that this scorned to limit love by life?)

      The other led her little son, a boy

      Divinely fair, the pledge Siddartha left—

      Named Rahula—now seven years old, who tripped

      Gladsome beside his mother, light of heart

      To see the spring-blooms burgeon o'er the world.

      So while they lingered by the lotus-pools

      And, lightly laughing, Rahula flung rice

      To feed the blue and purple fish, and she

      With sad eyes watched the swiftly-flying cranes,

      Sighing, "O creatures of the wandering wing,

      If ye shall light where my dear Lord is hid,

      Say that Yasodhara lives nigh to death

      For one word of his mouth, one touch of him."—

      So, as they played and sighed, mother and child,

      Came some

Скачать книгу