The Dawn and the Day Part 6

Perforce he stopped; and, roused from revery, Gazed on the dark and silent world below.

The moon had sunk from sight, the stars grew dim, And densest darkness veiled the sleeping world, When suddenly bright beams of rosy light Shot up the east; the highest mountain-top Glittered as if both land and sea had joined Their richest jewels and most costly gems To make its crown; from mountain-peak to peak The brightness spread, and darkness slunk away, Until between two giant mountain-tops Glittered a wedge of gold; the hills were tinged, And soon the sun flooded the world with light As when the darkness heard that first command: "Let there be light!" and light from chaos shone.

Raptured he gazed upon the glorious scene.

"And can it be," he said, "with floods of light Filling the blue and boundless vault above, Bathing in brightness mountain, hill and plain, Sending its rays to ocean's hidden depths, With light for bird and beast and creeping thing, Light for all eyes, oceans of light to spare, That man alone from outer darkness comes, Gropes blindly on his brief and restless round, And then in starless darkness disappears?

There must be light, fountains of living light, For which my thirsty spirit pining pants As pants the hunted hart for water-brooks-- Another sun, lighting a better world, Where weary souls may find a welcome rest.

Gladly I'd climb yon giddy mountain-heights, Or gladly take the morning's wings and fly To earth's remotest bounds, if light were there, Welcome to me the hermit's lonely cell, And welcome dangers, labors, fastings, pains-- All would be welcome could I bring the light To myriads now in hopeless darkness sunk.

Farewell to kingdom, comforts, home and friends!

All will I leave to seek this glorious light."

The die is cast, the victory is gained.

Though love of people, parent, wife and child, Half selfish, half divine, may bid him pause, A higher love, unselfish, all divine, For them and every soul, bade him go forth To seek for light, and seek till light be found.

Home he returned, now strong to say farewell.

Meanwhile the sweet Yasodhara still slept, And dreamed she saw Siddartha's empty couch.

She dreamed she saw him flying far away, And when she called to him he answered not, But only stopped his ears and faster flew Until he seemed a speck, and then was gone.

And then she heard a mighty voice cry out: "The time has come--his glory shall appear!"

Waked by that voice, she found his empty couch, Siddartha gone, and with him every joy; But not all joy, for there Rahula lay, With great wide-open eyes and cherub smile, Watching the lights that flickered on the wall.

Caught in her arms she pressed him to her heart To still its tumult and to ease its pain.

But now that step she knew so well is heard.

Siddartha comes, filled with unselfish love Until his face beamed with celestial light That like a holy halo crowned his head.

Gently he spoke: "My dearest and my best, The time has come--the time when we must part.

Let not your heart be troubled--it is best."

This said, a tender kiss spoke to her heart, In love's own language, of unchanging love.

When sweet Rahula stretched his little arms, And cooing asked his share of tenderness, Siddartha from her bosom took their boy, And though sore troubled, both together smiled, And with him playing, that sweet jargon spoke, Which, though no lexicon contains its words, Seems like the speech of angels, poorly learned, For every sound and syllable and word Was filled brimful of pure and perfect love.

At length grown calm, they tenderly communed Of all their past, of all their hopes and fears;

And when the time of separation came, His holy resolution gave her strength To give the last embrace and say farewell.

And forth he rode,[2] mounted on Kantaka, A prince, a loving father, husband, son, To exile driven by all-embracing love.

What wonder, as the ancient writings say, That nature to her inmost depths was stirred, And as he pa.s.sed the birds burst forth in song, Fearless of hawk or kite that hovered near?

What wonder that the beasts of field and wood, And all the jungle's savage denizens, Gathered in groups and gamboled fearlessly, Leopards with kids and wolves with skipping lambs?

For he who rode alone, bowed down and sad, Taught millions, crores[3] of millions, yet unborn To treat with kindness every living thing.

What wonder that the deepest h.e.l.ls were stirred?

What wonder that the heavens were filled with joy?

For he, bowed down with sorrow, going forth, Shall come with joy and teach all men the way From earth's sad turmoil to Nirvana's rest.

[1]In the "Light of Asia" the prince is made to leave his young wife before the birth of their son, saying: "Whom, if I wait to bless, my heart will fail,"--a piece of cowardice hardly consistent with my conception of that brave and self-denying character.

[2]In the "Light of Asia," the prince, after leaving his young wife, is made to pa.s.s through a somewhat extensive harem _en deshabille_, which is described with voluptuous minuteness. Although there are some things in later Buddhistic literature that seem to justify it, I can but regard the introduction of an inst.i.tution so entirely alien to every age, form and degree of Aryan civilization and so inconsistent with the tender conjugal love which was the strongest tie to his beloved home, as a serious blot on that beautiful poem and as inconsistent with its whole theory, for no prophet ever came from a harem.

[3]A crore is ten millions.

BOOK IV.

Far from his kingdom, far from home and friends, The prince has gone, his flowing locks close shorn, His rings and soft apparel laid aside, All signs of rank and royalty cast off.

Clothed in a yellow robe, simple and coa.r.s.e, Through unknown streets from door to door he pa.s.sed, Holding an alms-bowl forth for willing gifts.

But when, won by his stateliness and grace, They brought their choicest stores, he gently said: "Not so, my friends, keep such for those who need-- The sick and old; give me but common food."

And when sufficient for the day was given, He took a way leading without the walls, And through rich gardens, through the fruitful fields, Under dark mangoes and the jujube trees, Eastward toward Sailagiri, hill of gems; And through an ancient grove, skirting its base, Where, soothed by every soft and tranquil sound, Full many saints were wearing out their days In meditation, earnest, deep, intent, Seeking to solve the mystery of life, Seeking, by leaving all its joys and cares, Seeking, by doubling all its woes and pains, To gain an entrance to eternal rest; And winding up its rugged sides, to where A shoulder of the mountain, sloping west, O'erhangs a cave with wild figs canopied.

This mountain cave was now his dwelling-place, A stone his pillow, and the earth his bed, His earthen alms-bowl holding all his stores Except the crystal waters, murmuring near.

A lonely path, rugged, and rough, and steep; A lonely cave, its stillness only stirred By eagle's scream, or raven's solemn croak, Or by the distant city's softened sounds, Save when a sudden tempest breaks above, And rolling thunders shake the trembling hills-- A path since worn by countless pilgrims' feet, Coming from far to view this hallowed spot, And bow in wors.h.i.+p on his hard, cold bed, And press his pillow with their loving lips.

For here, for six long years, the world-renowned, The tender lover of all living things, Fasted and watched and wrestled for the light, Less for himself than for a weeping world.

And here arrived, he ate his simple meal, And then in silent meditation sat The livelong day, heedless of noon's fierce heat That sent to covert birds and panting beasts, And from the parched and glowing plain sent up, As from a furnace, gusts of scorching air, Through which the city's walls, the rocks and trees.

All seemed to tremble, quiver, glow and shake, As if a palsy shook the trembling world; Heedless of loosened rocks that crashed so near, And dashed and thundered to the depths below, And of the shepherds, who with wondering awe Came near to gaze upon his n.o.ble form And gentle, loving but majestic face, And thought some G.o.d had deigned to visit men.

And thus he sat, still as the rock his seat, Seeking to pierce the void from whence man came, To look beyond the veil that shuts him in, To find a clue to life's dark labyrinth, Seeking to know why man is cast adrift Upon the bosom of a troubled sea, His boat so frail, his helm and compa.s.s lost, To sink at last in dull oblivion's depths; When nature seems so perfect and complete, Grand as a whole, and perfect all its parts, Which from the greatest to the least proclaims That Wisdom, Watchfulness, and Power and Love Which built the mountains, spread the earth abroad, And fixed the bounds that ocean cannot pa.s.s; Which taught the seasons their accustomed rounds, Lest seed-time and the happy harvests fail; Which guides the stars in their celestial course, And guides the pigeon's swift unerring flight O'er mountain, sea and plain and desert waste, Straight as an arrow to her distant home; Teaching the ant for winter to prepare; Clothing the lily in its princely pride; Watching the tiny sparrow when it falls; Nothing too great for His almighty arm; Nothing too small for His all-seeing eye; Nothing too mean for His paternal care.

And thus he mused, seeking to find a light To guide men on their dark and weary way, And through the valley and the shades of death, Until the glories of the setting sun Called him to vespers and his evening meal.

Then roused from revery, ablutions made, Eight times he bowed, just as the setting sun, A fiery red, sunk slowly out of sight Beyond the western plains, gilded and tinged, Misty and vast, beneath a brilliant sky, Shaded from brightest gold to softest rose.

Then, after supper, back and forth he paced Upon the narrow rock before his cave, Seeking to ease his numbed and stiffened limbs; While evening's sombre shadows slowly crept From plain to hill and highest mountain-top, And solemn silence settled on the world, Save for the night-jar's cry and owl's complaint; While many lights from out the city gleam, And thickening stars spangle the azure vault, Until the moon, with soft and silvery light, Half veils and half reveals the sleeping world.

And then he slept--for weary souls must sleep, As well as bodies worn with daily toil; And as he lay stretched on his hard, cold bed, His youthful blood again bounds freely on, Repairing wastes the weary day had made.

And then he dreamed. Sometimes he dreamed of home, Of young Rahula, reaching out his arms, Of sweet Yasodhara with loving words Cheering him on, as love alone can cheer.

Sometimes he dreamed he saw that living light For which his earnest soul so long had yearned-- But over hills and mountains far away.

And then he seemed with labored steps to climb Down giddy cliffs, far harder than ascent, While yawning chasms threatened to devour, And beetling cliffs precluded all retreat; But still the way seemed opening step by step, Until he reached the valley's lowest depths, Where twilight reigned, and grim and ghastly forms, With flaming swords, obstruct his onward way, But his all-conquering love still urged him on, When with wild shrieks they vanished in thin air; And then he climbed, clinging to jutting cliffs, And stunted trees that from each crevice grew, Till weary, breathless, he regained the heights, To see that light nearer, but still so far.

And thus he slept, and thus sometimes he dreamed, But rose before the dawn had tinged the east, Before the jungle-c.o.c.k had made his call, When thoughts are clearest, and the world is still, Refreshed and strengthened for his daily search Into the seeds of sorrow, germs of pain, After a light to scatter doubts and fears.

But when the coming day silvered the east, And warmed that silver into softest gold, And faintest rose-tints tinged the pa.s.sing clouds, He, as the Vedas taught, each morning bathed In the clear stream that murmured near his cave, Then bowed in reverence to the rising sun, As from behind the glittering mountain-peaks It burst in glory on the waking world.

Then bowl and staff in hand, he took his way Along his mountain-path and through the grove, And through the gardens, through the fruitful fields, Down to the city, for his daily alms; While children his expected coming watch, And running cry: "The gracious Ris.h.i.+ comes."

All gladly gave, and soon his bowl was filled, For he repaid their gifts with gracious thanks, And his unbounded love, clearer than words, Spoke to their hearts as he pa.s.sed gently on.

Even stolid plowmen after him would look, Wondering that one so stately and so grand Should even for them have kind and gracious words, Sometimes while pa.s.sing through the sacred grove, He paused beneath an aged banyan-tree, Whose spreading branches drooping down took root To grow again in other giant trunks, An ever-widening, ever-deepening shade, Where five, like him in manhood's early prime, Each bound to life by all its tender ties, High born and rich, had left their happy homes, Their only food chance-gathered day by day, Their only roof this spreading banyan-tree; And there long time they earnestly communed, Seeking to aid each other in the search For higher life and for a clearer light.

And here, under a sacred peepul's shade, Two Brahmans, famed for sanct.i.ty, had dwelt For many years, all cares of life cast off, Who by long fastings sought to make the veil Of flesh translucent to the inner eye; Eyes fixed intently on the nose's tip, To lose all consciousness of outward things; By breath suppressed to still the outer pulse, So that the soul might wake to conscious life, And on unfolded wings unchecked might rise.

And in the purest auras freely soar, Above cross-currents that engender clouds Where thunders roll, and quick cross-lightnings play, To view the world of causes and of life, And bathe in light that knows no night, no change.

With eager questionings he sought to learn, While they with gentle answers gladly taught All that their self-denying search had learned.

And thus he pa.s.sed his days and months and years, In constant, patient, earnest search for light, With longer fastings and more earnest search, While day by day his body frailer grew, Until his soul, loosed from its earthly bonds, Sometimes escaped its narrow prison-house, And like the lark to heaven's gate it soared, To view the glories of the coming dawn.

But as he rose, the sad and sorrowing world, For which his soul with tender love had yearned, Seemed deeper in the nether darkness sunk, Beyond his reach, beyond his power to save, When sadly to his prison-house he turned, Wis.h.i.+ng no light that did not s.h.i.+ne for all.

Six years had pa.s.sed, six long and weary years, Since first he left the world to seek for light.

Knowledge he found, knowledge that soared aloft To giddy heights, and sounded hidden depths, Secrets of knowledge that the Brahmans taught The favored few, but far beyond the reach Of those who toil and weep and cry for help; A light that gilds the highest mountain-tops, But leaves the fields and valleys dark and cold; But not that living light for which he yearned, To light life's humble walks and common ways, And send its warmth to every heart and home, As spring-time sends a warm and genial glow To every hill and valley, grove and field, Clothing in softest verdure common gra.s.s, As well as sandal-trees and lofty palms.

One night, when hope seemed yielding to despair, Sleepless he lay upon the earth--his bed-- When suddenly a white and dazzling light Shone through the cave, and all was dark again.

Startled he rose, then prostrate in the dust, His inmost soul breathed forth an earnest prayer[1]

That he who made the light would make it s.h.i.+ne Clearer and clearer to that perfect day, When innocence, and peace, and righteousness Might fill the earth, and ignorance and fear, And cruelty and crime, might fly away, As birds of night and savage prowling beasts Fly from the glories of the rising sun.

Long time he lay, wrestling in earnest prayer, When from the eastern wall, one clothed in light, Beaming with love, and halo-crowned, appeared, And gently said: "Siddartha, rise! go forth!

Waste not your days in fasts, your nights in tears!

Give what you have; do what you find to do; With gentle admonitions check the strong; With loving counsels aid and guide the weak, And light will come, the day will surely dawn."

This said, the light grew dim, the form was gone, But hope revived, his heart was strong again.

Joyful he rose, and when the rising sun Had filled the earth's dark places full of light, With all his worldly wealth, his staff and bowl, Obedient to that voice he left his cave; When from a shepherd's cottage near his way, Whence he had often heard the busy hum Of industry, and childhood's merry laugh, There came the angry, stern command of one Clothed in a little brief authority, Mingled with earnest pleadings, and the wail Of women's voices, and above them all The plaintive treble of a little child.

Thither he turned, and when he reached the spot, The cause of all this sorrow was revealed: One from the king had seized their little all, Their goats and sheep, and e'en the child's pet lamb.

But when they saw him they had often watched With reverent awe, as if come down from heaven, Prostrate they fell, and kissed his garment's hem, While he so insolent, now stood abashed, And, self accused, he thus excused himself: "The Brahmans make this day a sacrifice, And they demand unblemished goats and lambs.

I but obey the king's express command To bring them to the temple ere high noon."

But Buddha stooped and raised the little child, Who nestled in his arms in perfect trust, And gently said: "Rise up, my friends, weep not!

The king must be obeyed--but kings have hearts.

I go along to be your advocate.

The king may spare what zealous priest would kill, Thinking the G.o.ds above delight in blood."